Peerless Pressure



by Susan M. Garrett



Nick stared into the bottle.  Even the green glass couldn't

affect the color of it, the pure power of it.  As his eyes

focused, the hunger ran through him like a brush fire, so out of

control that he had lifted the open bottle to his lips and tilted

back his head for a swallow before he even realized what he was

doing.



Control, that was the problem.  He'd lost--was <losing>--control.



That small correction made all the difference, giving him enough

of an edge to put the bottle down on the table, to stand up and

walk away.  He paced for a moment or two, bare feet against wood,

against concrete, against carpet . . . concentrate!



Just as he'd been concentrating at the station, paying strict

attention to Natalie's comments about the file open on his desk. 

She'd been leaning over his shoulder, pointing out her suspicions

about a recent drowning victim when a detective had walked by

with a suspect.



An ordinary suspect.  Average height.  Blond.  Blue halter top,

cut-off jeans, sandals.  Nice build.  <Very> nice build.  And a

sly smile as he met her eyes for an instant, a 'come-hither, I

know you're a cop but you want just what every other man wants,

don't you sweetie' kind of look that would have set Schanke's

blood boiling.



That was the problem--blood.  The pencil in his hand had snapped

in two.  He'd closed his eyes and tucked his chin down against

his chest; his fangs had fallen into place and his eyes had gone

golden with hunger.  The pencil might have been the girl's neck

for all it mattered, for all that his body, his instinct,

commanded him.  He'd held the line . . . but barely.



And Natalie had seen it.



No one else had, thank God.  Her hand had gripped his shoulder

tightly and she'd managed a hesitant, "Nick?"



"It's all right," he'd muttered, around his fangs, his voice

thick with lust .. . . blood-lust.  He'd held the snapped pieces

of the pencil tightly, focused on the splinters digging into his

flesh, tiny slivers of pain, tiny crosses to bear and reflect

upon as he'd fought back the hunger that had risen from nowhere.



It hadn't left that quickly.  Natalie's presence, her closeness,

her <pity>, had only made it worse.  And so he'd stumbled to his

feet, muttered something about being sick, and raced for the

door.



She'd followed.  Or, at least, she'd tried.  The Caddie door was

open before he'd realized that she <wasn't> going to give up and

let this slide.  So he'd waited for her, his head resting on the

cool metal of the interior door frame.



It had rained not too long before, driving away some of the heat

of the day.  He could hear the sound of her shoes against the wet

concrete.  The scent of her perfume complimented the clean smell

of the rain-washed streets.  He liked the way she smelled.  In

fact, he was beginning to think he liked it too much . . . .



"Nick?"  Natalie hesitated, still standing on the sidewalk.  "Are

you all right?"



"Now?  Yeah."  He'd raised his head, met her eyes and managed a

weak smile--blue eyes, no fangs.  Just to let her know that it

was safe.  That <he> was safe.



She'd walked to the other side of the car door and placed her

hands over his.  "What just happened back there?"



"Wasn't it obvious?"  He tilted back his head and glanced around,

thankful for the security of the darkness.  "Well, not <that>

obvious.  Or IA'd have me in cuffs right now and there'd be a

body on the floor."  Before she could answer, could press him

further--God, that look of pity and hurt in her eyes <still>

stung--he'd managed another weak smile.  "I've just gotta get

home, Nat.  I'll be fine.  Really.  I've just gotta . . . ."



He'd let his voice trail off, not able to put it into words.  But

Natalie had known.  She'd understood.  Hadn't approved, of

course, but understood, even as he'd pulled his hands from

beneath hers, even as he'd slipped behind the wheel of the Caddie

and closed the door.



"I'll call you," she'd promised, backing away as he'd started the

engine.



"Yeah.  <Call,>" he'd agreed, emphasizing the word.  "Don't come

by.  Nat--not tonight.  I need to be alone.  I need . . . ."



Again, that mixture of hurt and pity, as he'd gunned the engine

and headed home.  The drive, the time it took to park the car and

lock it, to ride up in the elevator, to throw his keys on the

table--it had all been a matter of self-restraint, of trying to

regain the control that had slipped for only a second.



That second had scared the hell out of him.



So he'd denied himself for a minute more, staring at the

refrigerator, then forcing himself past it and up the stairs. 

Strip down.  Take a shower.  Towel off.  Slip into his pajamas. 

Go back downstairs.



The blood had been waiting for him.  Just as it waited for him,

now.



Nick turned and stalked back to the bottle, then picked it up

again and swallowed.  He didn't try to fight it.  This time he

drank until he couldn't drink any longer, then cradled the

bottle, holding it tightly against his chest as he staggered up

the stairs.  Once in the bedroom, he fell back onto the bed and

absently pushed the pillow up so he could rest against the

headboard.  Again he took a long pull from the bottle, then

stared at the green glass with a mixture of self-pity and

disgust.



He'd tried so hard to keep to Natalie's regimen, to stay off the

blood.  And yet he'd still slipped, had still failed.  How long

would it take before his control would be absolute?  How long

would it take before he'd no longer feel the urge to kill and

rend and maim?



And . . . was it worth it?  How many more times would he slip and

fall, the next time very possibly taking some mortal down with

him?  Where would it get him, this self-denial and imperfect

control?  What if it never led anywhere?  Was he prepared to

spend eternity like this?



Nick rubbed the back of his hand along his eyes and closed them,

trying to find some consolation or answer in a darkness blacker

than his mood or his soul.



***



He started, fingers gripping the bottle more urgently as it was

being pulled from his grasp.  Nick awoke and fell back against

the headboard, not quite remembering where he was.



LaCroix stood by the bed, hand on the neck of the bottle. 

Meeting Nick's eyes, he tightened his grip and pulled the bottle

from Nick's hand, saying, "You don't need that."



In answer, Nick reached over and snatched the bottle from

LaCroix, his momentum pulling him off the bed and half-way across

the room.  He staggered a step or two, clutching the bottle

tightly.  "How would you know what I need?"



"You'd be surprised."



Still half-asleep, Nick reached the dresser and stared into the

mirror, wiping his eyes and then running a hand through his hair. 

"What do you want?"



"Your guests were getting impatient.  I thought I might see what

was keeping you."  LaCroix stood behind him, arms folded--Nick

saw the reflection's lips curl into a sneer.  "I should have know

it would be self-pity."

A retort sprung to his lips, but LaCroix's first comment finally

stirred his still-sluggish gray cells.  Nick raised his head,

listening.  "Guests?"



There were sounds downstairs--voices, movement.  He looked over

at LaCroix with a raised eyebrow.  In response, LaCroix picked up

his dressing gown and tossed it at him.  "Make yourself

presentable," was all he said as he left the room.



Nick slipped his arms into the dressing gown and tied it around

his waist.  On a whim, he picked up the bottle and followed

LaCroix out onto the second story landing.



"Our sleeping beauty has finally awakened," announced LaCroix. 

He stepped to one side and gestured toward the lower level.



There were people in his apartment.  Or, rather, <vampires.> 

Slightly more than a dozen and he knew them all, some for a good

many years, or decades, or centuries.  They'd looked up at

LaCroix's pronouncement and Nick found himself met with glances

of recognition, a few smiles, at least one alluring look over a

pair of sunglasses, and several stares of outright annoyance,

ambivalence, or disgust.



He wasn't happy to see any of them.  Still, with LaCroix behind

him, a firm hand on his shoulder compelling him to move down the

stairs, he had no other choice.  Nick self-consciously adjusted

the belt of his dressing gown, tucked the bottle beneath one arm,

and descended.



Janette was waiting for him as he reached the bottom.  Smoothly

taking the bottle from beneath his arm, she leaned forward to

plant a kiss on either cheek.  "I thought you would sleep

forever," she said lightly.  "Did you dream of me?"



Nick caught her wrist as she went to move away and pulled her

closer.  Turning his back on the assembled group, he hissed, "Is

this some sort of joke?"



Assuming a wounded air, Janette pouted--but his sharp eyes caught

the glimpse of fear she directed toward LaCroix.  "Nicola, how

can you be so <gauche>?  It's a partpart y, of sorts, in your

honor."



He wanted more from her, but then LaCroix leaned down from the

stair above, the hand tightening on his shoulder as he whispered

in Nick's ear, "Or, more properly, an intervention."



Janette was released and forgotten as he turned and stared up at

LaCroix.

"An intervention?"



"Ummm.  They're all the rage."  LaCroix lightly pushed him aside

and continued down the steps, his attention on the other vampires

gathered there.  "They're your friends, Nicholas.  They want to

save you from this foolishness."



"An intervention," said Nick, slowly and very carefully, "is when

an addict is in denial and needs to be faced with the truth, for

his or her own safety and the safety of those around him."  The

words were cold, hard . . . and easily memorized from one of the

police papers on social programs.  "I'm not addicted to--"



"You're addicted to the idea of mortality."  LaCroix's lips

curled slightly as he said the word, removing his hand from

Nick's shoulder and finally meeting his gaze.  "Your friends are

concerned about you, Nicholas.  Concerned enough to come here, of

their own will, to try to help you find your way out of this

madness."



"My . . . friends."  A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed

that much--he'd count many in the room worthy of friendship. 

He'd helped them and they'd helped him time and again over the

centuries.  He'd shared blood with some, broken bodies with

others, saved a number from sunlight or mobs of villagers or lone

hunters or loneliness . . . .



His face set into a mask as he turned back to LaCroix.  "Thanks,

but no thanks.  Tell them to go.  I don't want their help.  And I

certainly don't want <yours>--"



Nick turned to walk up the stairs, but LaCroix grabbed his arm,

drawing him closer.  "You can't be foolish enough to believe that

your 'escapades' haven't gone unnoticed," he answered, in a very

quiet but threatening tone of voice.  "Not all of us view your

flirtation with mortality and the mortal world as a 'charming

affectation.'  Some would consider it dangerous.  For you.  For

us."



His back straightened at LaCroix's words and he glanced over his

shoulder again at his 'friends.'  "You didn't arrange this?"



"No."  When Nick looked back at him, LaCroix's lips were drawn

together in a tight frown.  "Let's just say that it was

'suggested' as an alternative."



"Alternative . . . to what?"



"Not even you can be <that> naive."



Again, he looked at the group scattered about his living room. 

Was it possible that one of them was an agent for the Enforcers? 

For someone in some position of authority over the vampire

community?  "Who?" he asked, his words no more than the barest

whisper of the wind, yet loud enough for only LaCroix to hear.



"That would be telling."



There was a slight quirk to LaCroix's smile, making Nick believe

that even he might not know.  Not that he'd ever admit it . . . .



The hunger was beginning to burn within him, but Nick took a

breath, forcing it back.  He met LaCroix's gaze evenly, knowing

that he was in a tight spot.  "What do they want?"



"I would think that would be obvious--for once, they'd like to

see you be true to your nature."  When Nick continued to stare at

him, LaCroix rolled his eyes.  "<Be> a vampire.  <Act> like a

vampire.  Drink blood, <human> blood," he added quickly, before

Nick could protest.  "Nothing less would be acceptable."



"No."  With the barest shake of his head, Nick dismissed the

idea.  "Not for you.  Not for <them>.  I'm not a pet, LaCroix.  I

don't perform on command."



There was a flicker of amusement in those ancient eyes, but he

merely said, "You should attend to your guests, Nicholas," before

releasing him and slipping away.



Nick remained frozen in place, unable to decide on what course of

action to take.  Then again, there <was> no choice.  He'd have to

face them, at least until the sun set and he could throw them

out.  If he was careful, he might even discover which of his

so-called friends had ties to the Enforcers, who was pressing the

issue.  But he <would> have to face them.  Just as he had to face

the hunger that grew within him, red and raw and terrible.



His fists clenched of their own accord and he closed his eyes

when his vision went gold.  Not now.  He couldn't deal with this

right now.  Not after he'd lost his control today.  It was too

much, too soon.  Too much pressure on him--



He started as a hand touched his shoulder, nearly whirled and

struck out, but stopped just in time, forcing his clenched fists

down to his side and pasting a false smile on his lips.  The

smile turned genuine when he recognized Feliks.



"Didn't mean to startle you, Nicholas."  Feliks lifted a glass of

blood to his lips and sipped at it, then gestured toward the

others.  "I haven't seen some of them in absolutely ages.  Did

you know Adam flew in from Paraguay yesterday?"



"Did he?"  Nick glanced over at the crowd, pretending interest,

then looked back at Feliks.  "I'm surprised to see you here.  Who

has custody of your plants?  Or did you hire a sitter?"



"Ah. Yes."  Feliks grinned almost sheepishly.  "It's good for

both of us if I get out now and again.  I tend to worry them too

much--it makes their leaves curl.  And they really are the

answer, Nicholas."



"For you."

Feliks' smile faded and he reached out to catch Nick's arm. 

"There's no profit in this, Nick, and I'm speaking as more than

your financial advisor.  You look like hell."



"I didn't ask--"



"That's why I'm here."  He tilted his head toward the rest of the

room, under guise of adjusting his ascot.  "You won't listen when

LaCroix scolds you and I can well understand why.  But us--we're

your friends, Nick.  We only want to see you safe.  And well."



"And . . . happy?"  Nick raised an eyebrow and met Feliks' gaze,

until the other vampire looked away.  "If I accept what you want

me to accept--I might as well walk into the sun."



Feliks' head shot up at the words, his eyes blazing golden as he

dropped Nick's arm.  "Don't even joke about it."



"I'm sorry."  Nick patted Feliks lightly on the shoulder, his

grin apologetic.  "Believe me, at the first sign of a tan, I'll

call you."



"You, Nicholas, are <rude>.  Charming, but rude."



Nick swallowed as the scent of human blood reached him from

Feliks' glass.  It took an effort to keep his smile in place, to

murmur a few words of parting before he could stagger away.  His

control was slipping again.  Just the proximity to the blood had

almost sent his eyes gold.  He could feel his fangs tingling.



It only got worse as the morning drew into afternoon.  Each old

friend seemed armed with words of warning or caution or support,

their attitudes ranging from caring, to careful, to contemptuous. 

All of them were drinking human blood.  It was on their lips, on

their breaths as they drew him close, or talked, or yawned, or

scolded.  Their words he could endure, but the blood-- 



The scent and sight if it made him dizzy.  It made his mouth

water and his fangs itch--just as their condescension and their

embarrassment made him angry.  He soon forgot about asking

leading questions, gave up trying to discover who it was who had

placed him in this perilous position, becoming absorbed with the

task of fighting back the hunger that threatened to engulf him. 

Nick realized that his replies were soon reduced to

monosyllables, his responses evasive.  He was unable to meet

their eyes, to watch the glasses from which they drank.  But

wherever he looked, wherever he turned, there was always someone

else with another glass of blood and more criticism.



It was as he turned to flee upstairs that he bumped into Larry

Merlin, who, like the others, was armed with a glass of human

blood.  Nick back-pedaled a step, but caught himself.  He barely

managed to mutter any sort of greeting in the face of Merlin's

obvious unease and flushed demeanor--it was evident that there

was no limit on consumption today.



"Look," said Merlin, "I understand that it's your choice.  But--" 

He barely met Nick's gaze before glancing away again, "get a hold

of yourself.  Do you know what they're saying about you in the

Community?  You're a laughingstock."



"I don't care," answered Nick.  He turned to walk away, but

Merlin grabbed his arm and spun him back.



"Well, we <do>, dammit!  Contrary to what you think, we're your

friends.  You used to be <respected>."



"And you would know what I <used> to be?"



It was a nasty dig--Merlin glanced over his shoulder, his sore

spot having been hit as he was the youngest vampire present. 

Almost immediately, Nick cleared his throat and added, "Larry,

look--I'm sorry.  I didn't mean--"



"Forget it.  Just--just take a look at what you're doing to

yourself.  Where's it getting you?"



"Past that stuff for one thing."  Steeling himself, Nick took the

glass from Merlin's hand, sniffed at it, then handed it back to

his friend.  It was as much a test for himself as it was an

attempt to show off--and his control held . . . barely.  "I've

eaten.  Solid food."



Merlin stiffened, his fingers curling around the stem of the

glass tightly as he took a step closer.  "What?"



"French fries."



Merlin's eyes widened, then he nodded slightly.  "I remember . .

. french fries."  Then he shook his head, as if banishing the

memory.  "Couldn't have tasted that good."



It was Nick's turn to shrug.  "It's <something>."



"It's nothing," said LaCroix, appearing at his elbow.  He held

two glasses of blood in his hand and offered one to Nick.  "An

aberration.  The blood brought you back.  The blood will <always>

bring you back."



Nick ignored the glass and turned his attention to Merlin, who

looked distinctly uneasy.  "And crosses.  I've been in a church. 

I can hold a cross, now."



"Ah, yes.  <That> I remember," countered LaCroix.



Nick still refused to look at him and placed his hand against the

back of a chair in what he hoped was an easy manner--the blood

was making him weak in the knees.  "They don't burn me," he

boasted, a little more loudly than he should.



"Much."



Something inside him snapped and he turned on LaCroix angrily. 

"I was <cured>!" 



"You were <deluded>."  LaCroix's voice was little more than a

whisper, yet as unyielding as cold steel as he placed the glasses

of blood on an end table. 



Conversation died and the room fell to silence.  Nick turned

toward the assembled vampires.  "I was <cured>," he repeated.  "I

walked in daylight!"



"Temporarily."  LaCroix picked up the remote and pointed it

toward the windows.  "Why don't we test it now, hmmmn?"



There was a collective gasp as the shades on one of the windows

began to rise.  It couldn't have been much after noon, but light

streamed in through the glass, warming a spot on the floor just

near the piano.  The other vampires backed away and there were

low protests and exclamations of fear at even the sight of the

light.  Many turned away, their hands shielding their faces.



Without warning, LaCroix grasped Nick's shoulder, pulling him to

face him.  The remote fell from his hand as he glared at Nick. 

"Why don't we test it?" he asked again, his eyes gold and the

edges of his fangs showing.



It didn't take much, just the barest effort on LaCroix's part and

Nick found himself hurtling toward the patch of light.  Instinct

kicked in and he dropped into a ball, rolling through it, but

even that brief moment in the bright sunshine left a dark,

burning welt across his back, through his dressing gown.  Dazed,

Nick huddled in the shadow of the piano, trying to pull himself

together, but LaCroix was there again, lifting him to his feet.



"Enough!" cried Janette, running forward.  Somehow, she pried

LaCroix's grasp from him and placed herself between them, tucking

her slim shoulder beneath Nick's left arm, supporting him.



The shutters were closing--Merlin had the remote control.  He

walked over to LaCroix, his own eyes gold.  "You're mad!  The

pair of you are out of your minds!  I'm leaving."



Merlin threw the control bar to a chair, but when he turned again

LaCroix was standing before him.  "You can't leave.  That's the

point of this--"



Nick took a step forward and nearly fell.  Janette eased him back

to the piano bench and placed a firm hand on his shoulder. 

"You've done enough!"  she hissed angrily.

"I've got to stop this."



"You <started> it."



The hunger was gnawing at his gut.  He could smell his own

charred flesh, the fresh blood on her lips, the scent of her

perfume mingling enticingly with the promise of the blood beneath

the skin.  Nick caught her hand in his and lifted the inside of

her wrist to his lips.  "Don't tell me you've forsaken me as

well--"



Janette snatched back her hand quickly and took a step away,

glaring at him.  "Forsaken you?  And why not, after you

<insulted> me?  Offered me mortality?"  The arch of her eyebrow

was so sharp, it could have cut him.  "Really, Nicola!"



He placed his hand on the piano and levered himself to his feet,

holding her gaze.  She would be enough for him.  Let them all go

to hell, but Janette would be enough.  If he drank from her, not

so large a concession . . . . "I didn't mean--"



"Yes.  I know.  You never <mean>."  Her chin held high, Janette

looked away from him.  "If the road to hell <were> paved with

good intentions, Nicola, you've have constructed a super highway

by now."



"They're called interstates--"



Janette let out an infuriated groan and walked past him, slapping

her fist against his chest as she passed and knocking him back to

his place at the piano.  For a moment, Nick rested his head in

his hands, trying to regain control, shutting out the noise and

shouts and arguments that surrounded him.



There were cool fingers massaging his neck.  He straightened, the

perfume and touch immediately unfamiliar, yet tantalizing his

memory.



Sunglasses in place, she smiled at him--Dorothea.  She continued

to massage the tense muscles in his shoulders, slipping her hands

beneath his dressing gown and pajama top.  "Nick, ease up.  Kick

back, sweetie.  I think you need some R and R."



"What I need is for all of these people to--"



"Ssssh--"  She slipped beside him onto the stool, blonde hair

pulled back in a kerchief, crimson lipstick bright and alluring. 

Her arm moved under his dressing gown and around his waist. 

"Yeah, they're a real bore, aren't they?  All here to tell you

what you're missing?  Ten minutes with me, baby, and I can show

you <exactly> what you're missing."



He hadn't seen her in thirty years, at least.  Chicago?  Which

time? 

It didn't really matter.  He remembered her kiss.  And he

pointedly ignored the low hiss he heard from Janette across the

room, even as he disentangled himself from Dorothea's embrace.



Dorothea simply smiled at him, then touched her fingers to his

lips, as if wiping away the lipstick traces she'd left.  "You

know," she said softly, "there's a big difference between us. 

Janette's old world.  I'm new.  And we new dogs know some tricks

the old dogs will <never> learn."



"Thanks but . . . no thanks."  Nick's voice was barely a

whisper--it was all he could do not to sink his fangs into her

neck, to drink her soul.  <That> he remembered, too.



"Aw, com'on, babycakes."  Dorothea sidled close to him, even as

Nick moved away, until there was no more bench left.  "Let's have

some fun, like the old days."



He pulled her hand out from under his pajama top and clasped her

fingers in his own tightly, fighting the urge to open her wrist

with his teeth.  "The old days . . . are old.  And so, Dorothea,

are you."



She smacked him hard across the face with her free hand, her

large diamond ring tearing a length of skin on his cheek.  Nick

tried to center on the pain of his torn flesh as she stalked

away, then closed his eyes when the scent of blood hit him--his

own blood.



The noise, the presences, the arguments, the blood--it was

suddenly too much for him.  With a roar, he rose to his feet,

calling, "That's it!  No more."



It would have been more effective if he hadn't been forced to

grab the piano to keep himself upright.  The hunger burned

through him like a fire, but he let his anger feed from it.  Nick

knew what he looked like when he was angry and counted on his

golden eyes and fangs to make them think twice as he walked

directly to LaCroix.  "No more," he repeated, his voice little

more than a growl.



LaCroix simply smiled--that most irritating and annoying smirk he

saved just to torment Nick, or so Nick had come to believe. 

"That's better.  <Much> better.  You see, you <haven't> forgotten

after all."



"I don't care how high the sun is, they're leaving.  You're <all>

leaving."  Nick turned toward the crowd.  "I don't want any part

of this.  Get out--"



He felt the knife the second after it entered his body, then

turned his head, struck dumb at the momentary shock of it.  As

LaCroix pulled the blade from his shoulder, he took a step, then

began to fall.

Someone caught him.  Nick closed his eyes, the pain burning

hotter and brighter than even the hunger--



There was a shriek, a scream, and raised voices again, someone

crying, "You said there'd be no violence--!"



And LaCroix's voice, cool and clear as a mountain stream,

answering, "Violence?  What violence?  What harm has it done? 

He's not <dead>."



The world was hazed with red around the edges as Nick opened his

eyes, heaviness flooding through him.  He wanted to sleep.  He

<needed> to feed . .. . .



LaCroix grasped him by the neck of his pajamas, hauling him away

from the friendly hands that had supported him and holding him

upright.  "Look at what you are," he snarled.  "<Look> at

yourself.  You're one of us.  One of <us>.  Immortal.  Eternal. 

A <predator>."



Somehow, he wrenched himself away from LaCroix's grasp and swayed

unsteadily on his feet.  Nick barely noted the presence of

Janette, or the others, or even LaCroix--the hunger was too

strong, the scent from their blood-filled glasses over-powering.



Closing his eyes, he swallowed.  No.  He wouldn't give in.  Not

now.  Not to this.  He had to maintain control.



But the hunger--



Nick flailed out, pushing them aside, hearing the crash of

something to the floor as he brushed away any obstacles in his

path.  There were bottles in the refrigerator.  If they wanted to

see him drink blood, fine!  It wouldn't be human blood, but blood

just the same.  They'd win.  He'd win.  They'd go .. . . .



And he'd be able to rest.



He almost laughed as he opened the door to the refrigerator.  The

perfect solution.  It was neat.  It was simple.  It was . . .



Empty.



The bottles were gone.  Staring at the empty open space inside

the refrigerator didn't help--he couldn't conjure bottles from

air.  Nick slammed the door, his vision coated with red, the

hunger ripping and raging inside of him as he stalked back to

LaCroix, one hesitant step after another.  "What have you done?"

he whispered.  "What have you done?"



LaCroix raised his hands to Nick's cheeks.  "Sssssh!" he said

softly.  "Listen!"



Nick's mouth opened, then closed as he heard a low, steady beat

breaking through the sudden silence.  Unlike the other sounds,

irregular and intermittent, there was a 'thrum-thrum' that

reverberated in his inner ear, that coursed through him like

electricity, setting his nerves and senses alight.  It captivated

him, enthralled him.



"--Risky--," whispered Merlin's voice, from not too far distant. 

"--Frowned upon--"



"In for a penny--"   That was Feliks.



And among all the others to which he wasn't listening, the

murmurs and comments and hushed reverence of the moment, was

LaCroix, "Extreme measures are required in extreme situations. 

Wouldn't you agree--?"



Nick heard no assent or answer, barely noted the comment in

passing.  All that he was or would ever be was wound around that

one, steady, subtle sound .. . . the beating of a mortal heart. 

The other vampires had moved closer to him, surrounded him, yet

he didn't really notice their presence, only the coldness of

their bodies and the scent of blood on their breaths and from the

glasses they held.  Human blood.



Janette was beside him, pressed against him.  Her hands wrapped

around his good forearm, which she pressed close to her chest, as

she whispered, "Can you hear her heartbeat, Nicola?  Do you

remember what it was like?  Do you remember the taste of it?  The

heat of it--?"



They vampires parted before him and he saw the woman. 

Hypnotized, mesmerized beyond knowing where she was or what was

happening, she stared blankly ahead.  One of his friends--was

that Adam?  Had he changed so much in Paraguay?--held the woman

on her feet from behind, arms wrapped around her mid-section as

if he were dancing with her, while he whispered soft words in her

ears.



The woman herself was unremarkable--neither too young nor too

old.  She wore a blouse over a T-shirt, and jeans and sneakers. 

A jogger.  A shopper.  A student.  A teacher.  Or any of those

things; she was a mystery and yet entirely known to him.  She

could have been the woman who'd honked at him as he'd passed on

his way home this evening, when he'd drifted off and hesitated a

bit too long when the light changed from red to green.  She could

have been the mother arranging a class trip to the police station

that he'd run past as he'd tried to hide his eyes and fangs from

the mortal world.  She could have been the suspect who'd been

long and lithe and had somehow made him lose control, drop all of

his defenses, caused the beast to appear in a place and time that

would have meant disaster . . . .



She was anyone.  She was no one.

"No one," whispered Janette, as he took a step forward.  "She'll

never be missed.  It's our present to you, Nicola.  All of us.  A

gift."



There was a trickle of blood on the woman's neck.  Nick's eyes

widened at the sight of it, his nostrils flared at the scent, and

his fangs ached.  He wanted to rip into her flesh to taste the

blood beneath, to hold the body in his arms and drain the life

from her.



He tried to step back, to turn away.  "Don't--" he managed,

clenching his teeth and barely squeezing out the plea, not daring

to say more, not knowing if he could.



It was too late.  They were around him, surrounded him.  Gently,

he was prodded forward.  The hunger acquiesced to that demand to

move, swallowing his pride and determination.  His good

intentions, his sworn word, both drowned unnoticed in the desire

that consumed his soul.



"You <remember>," whispered Janette, her fingers slipping from

his arm as he lurched forward, unaided.  "You <do> remember."



It was if they spoke from the past or the future, from a time and

place other than now.  Their voices were distant, beyond him.



"How could he forget?" asked LaCroix, with a note of pride. 

"It's part of him.  It's what he <is>, no matter how vehemently

he tries to deny it."



The hunger seared his soul, blasted all conscious thought from

him--and yet, LaCroix's observation still reached through the

fire, dispelling  some of the veil his bloodlust had thrown over

his rational self.  Nick halted and moaned, "No--," began to

turn--



His arms were caught and held tightly, almost causing him to

fall.  He was pulled to his feet again and the woman was brought

closer.  Through the red haze that enveloped him he could see

little but the blood against her pale skin, hear nothing but the

thrum of her heart.



They were held together, nose to nose, almost touching and not

quite.  Her body radiated such heat he thought he would be

consumed by it, if the flames that flickered inside him didn't

incinerate him first.  When she was released, he found his arms

freed and he caught her before she could hit the floor.  She slid

against the silk of his pajamas and he struggled to hold her, his

hands grasping for purchase and finding nothing but heat and

softness, even through her clothing.



There was a groan--he wasn't certain if he'd made the sound or if

it had come from someone else.  His knees gave way and he sunk to

the floor, the woman still clasped in his arms, pressed tightly

against him.  Even as he fell to his knees he tried to push her

back . . . but it was no use.  In holding her, his lips brushed

the light spot of blood at the base of her throat, the smallest

of cuts, already starting to congeal.



He was lost.  With one fist he grabbed the slim gold chain from

her neck, wrapped his fingers around it, and yanked it from her

throat.  He pressed his lips against her skin, the arch of her

neck, tasting her sweat and her fear--for the fear was there no

matter how deeply she slept and it was the most intoxicating of

drugs.  Fingers threaded through her hair, he pulled her head to

one side and plunged his fangs into the skin of her throat.



Bliss.  An instant of clarity, of horror at what he was doing and

what he'd been forced to do, was swiftly swallowed and discarded

as the blood filled his mouth.  He drank deeply, his hunger

having been pushed to a depth he had seldom known in his

eight-hundred years.  In consequence, the blood raised him to

such heights--he was dizzy.



And yet he continued to drink, eyes closed, feeling the press of

fingers grasping his shoulders, hearing the sound of voices, of

applause, of laughter . . . and yet not making sense of any of

it.  There was only the blood and the heart that beat like

thunder in his ears, but which slowed, hesitated, skittered ....



And then stopped.



***



"Nick?"



The voice reached him through the darkness.  Natalie.



Nick raised his head from the bed, nearly jumping as an empty

glass bottle rolled away from him, bounced on the carpet, then

clattered across the hard wood of the floor.  Almost immediately

he let his head fall back to the pillow, his temples throbbing. 

He raised an arm and shielded his eyes, wanting to avoid dealing

with the pounding in his head, to sink back into the darkness . .

. .



He shot up from the bed in an instant, kicking the bottle as he

staggered over to the dresser and stared into the mirror.  The

glass skidded and rattled behind him, but he didn't much care.



There was nothing different about him.  If anything, his skin was

ruddier than usual--but then he'd had a lot to drink that

morning.  His reflection told him nothing.



Nick raised his hand to his shoulder--there was no knife wound. 

His pajamas weren't torn or cut.  And his robe?



He walked over to the bed and picked it up, then checked the

shoulder area.  His robe was fine.  He lifted it and sniffed at

it, but found no lingering traces of perfume.  If there was a

scent of blood to it . . . well, he <had> been drinking.



Cow.  He'd been drinking cow.  He closed his eyes and grimaced,

recognizing the horrid aftertaste in his mouth.



"Nick?"



Closer this time--from the stairs.  "Just a minute," he called,

opening his eyes and looking around the bedroom.



Had LaCroix been there?  And the others?



It was dark outside--well past sunset.  How long had he slept? 

Had he been dreaming?



"If you're going in tonight, you're gonna be late--"



"Damn."  He hurriedly slipped off his pajama top and threw it

onto the bed, then ran to the closet and pulled out a clean

shirt, suitcoat and slacks.  A quick listen told him that Natalie

had returned downstairs, so he dashed into the bathroom,

undressing and re-dressing as he moved, settling for a spit clean

and little else.



The one thing he couldn't avoid was brushing his teeth--the taste

of cow was making him sick to his stomach.  Nick held the

toothbrush between his teeth as he hurried down the stairs,

fingers tying his necktie, then continued brushing.  Natalie

turned, a concerned look on her face, which became a smile as she

saw the toothbrush.



His mouth full of toothpaste, Nick merely widened his eyes and

nodded slightly in greeting, running for the kitchen sink--damn,

but that stuff burned!  And, he decided too late and after the

fact, it wasn't all that much better than the cow blood.



"Oh, <that's> pretty," commented Natalie as he spit into the

sink.



He grabbed a glass and filled it with water to rinse away the

taste and the remaining suds, then spit again.  "Good evening to

you, too."  His hand rose to the knot in his tie and he adjusted

it as he turned to face her.  "Got a late start."



"You look like road kill.  Although--"  She walked over to the

couch and picked up three empty bottles.  "You should look a hell

of a lot worse.  Tie one on, did we?"



Nick headed for the table behind the couch, picked up his watch

and began to fasten it to his wrist.  He started to open his

mouth, prepared to tell her exactly how lousy he felt, but

stopped himself when he realized that the headache he'd had upon

awakening was gone.  In fact, he felt better than he'd felt for

days, maybe weeks.



One look at Natalie's stern expression warned him that he might

not want to mention that.  She swept by him and headed into the

kitchen, holding the empty bottles like juggling clubs. 

"Nat--about what happened last night, at the station . . . ."



The words left him.  Nick found himself fussing with his watch

band, unable to fit the clasp into the proper hole or to continue

his train of thought.  Returning from disposing of the

bottles--which had gone into the garbage bin with a slight clack

and clatter, Natalie paused a few feet away from him.



"I've been thinking about that."



"Have you?"  He kept his eyes on the watch band, but still

couldn't quite get it to fall into place--



"It's only natural."



"Natural?"  The word stunned him and he looked up at her, staring

in disbelief.  "The desire to rip a woman's throat out is

<natural>?"  Disgusted with the watch band, he tossed it to the

table and stalked to the refrigerator.  Opening the door, he

looked inside, reached for a bottle, then paused.



It was full.  Hadn't it been empty?  No--that had been the dream. 

But he'd had at least four bottles last night and there'd been

seven to begin with.  Now there were <eight> . . . .



"No."  Natalie picked up the watch from the table and walked over

to him.  Grabbing his wrist, she proceeded to fix the strap for

him.  "But it's natural to be tempted.  It's not like you acted

on it, right?"



With his free hand, Nick picked up one of the bottles from the

refrigerator and grimaced.  "Unless you count--"



Natalie finished fixing his watch, but slipped her hand into his,

her eyes serious.  "It's going to happen again.  An alcoholic is

going to want a drink.  A smoker wants a cigarette."



"I get the picture."  Swallowing, he replaced the bottle in the

refrigerator, closed the door and leaned back against it.  Taking

Natalie's hand between his own, he looked down.  He remembered

thinking that last night.  What if the cure didn't take?  What if

they found nothing?  Could he spend eternity like this, starving

himself?



"It's never going to get easier," he said, his resigned tone

tinged with self-pity.



"You don't know that."  He looked up quickly at the scolding tone

of her voice and found Natalie frowning at him.  "And you'll

never know differently unless you make the effort.  You have to

believe it's worth it."



"I do."  He forced a smile and carried her hand to his lips,

kissing it lightly.  "But even if I didn't--you believe enough

for the both of us."



There was an awkward moment--her hand was warm in his, her eyes

wide and honest and filled with . . . something neither one of

them could deal with right now.  So he dropped her hand and she

stepped back, turning away.



"I also believe in the tooth fairy," she countered.  "Speaking of

which, I have to check the dental records on that John Doe.  It

<was> murder.  And you owe Schanke dinner."



"A burrito."



She grinned over her shoulder at him, as she headed toward the

door.  "Try a taco.  It could do wonders for you."



"They've done a lot for Schanke."



She shook her head and wrinkled her nose at him.  "Coward."



Nick followed her.  "You can say that, you haven't been trapped

in a car with him after he's eaten--"  Something on the floor

caught his eye.  Nick walked back to the kitchen and knelt down. 

"Nat, did you drop . . . something."



"No."  She stood at the elevator, one hand holding the door open. 

"Why?"



It was a broken gold chain and a small cross.  Nothing ornate.  A

dimestore piece of costume jewelry that couldn't have cost more

than a dollar.  Nick picked up the chain carefully and flipped

the cross into his hand.  He looked at Nat and forced a smile as

his fingers closed over it.  "Nothing.  I'll see ya later, okay. 

There's something . . . something I've gotta check on."



For a moment, he didn't think she was going to leave.  She looked

into the elevator, then back at him again, biting the very tip of

her tongue as if she were going to say something.  Nick didn't

know if his silent plea made it to his eyes and expression, but

Natalie relented after a moment.  "Okay."  Then she gave him a

half-smile.  "What about the taco?"



He grimaced, half from the thought of trying to choke down the

food and half from the pain in his hand as he knelt on the floor. 

"I'll <try>."



"That's all I can ask."

The door thumped shut behind her, but it wasn't until he heard

the mechanism for the elevator start to turn that Nick rocked

back on his knees and opened his fist.  The skin on his palm was

black, blistered, red in spots and weeping blood . . . around the

cross.



The shine and sparkle of it dazzled him, sending a tremor of fear

through his chest.  He lifted his hand and threw the thing away,

then cradled his wounded palm to his chest.  The small metal

cross dinged as it struck the window and fell to the floor.



They'd been good.  They'd been <very> good.  They'd repaired what

needed repair, cleaned him up, cleaned up his loft . . . he might

never have known. Oh, they'd made mistakes--like the bottles of

blood.  If he looked carefully enough, he decided he'd probably

find some very careful and clever stitching on his laundered

dressing gown.  His pajamas, obviously, were yet another of the

several pair he kept on hand.



What had they given that woman, that had knocked him out so

quickly?  Part of it had been the hunger, the desperate state to

which they'd driven him, but there must have been something in

her blood, some drug that had kept her compliant and docile,

oblivious to the very end.  That's what had caused his headache

when he'd awakened.



Of course, <she'd> never feel it, or anything else, again . . . .



Nick stared down at his hand and watched the blackened skin begin

to flake away as healthy skin formed.  He'd heal swiftly,

especially now that he'd had his fill of human blood.  The bitter

taste in his mouth had little to do with the toothpaste of the

lingering remains of the cow blood.  They'd taken away his one,

solid victory.  They'd taken the cross from him.



What made it worse, he even understood why they'd done it--out of

some misplaced sense of loyalty.  There were questions being

asked and they'd done what they thought was best.  He now had

more than a dozen witnesses who'd seen him kill, had seen him

drink human blood.



Then they'd done everything they could to hide their perfidy, to

make it easier for him to accept, no doubt for the day when he

finally came to his senses and returned to the fold.  His

'friends' had tried to save him from himself, in spite of

himself.  And it had almost worked.  He'd almost bought it.  If

not for the cross . . . .



Nick closed his fist again, reveling in the pain.  He'd fight his

way back.  He'd hold a cross again if he had to starve himself

into unconsciousness.  He wouldn't give LaCroix the satisfaction. 

As for the others--he <could> understand, but he wasn't about to

forgive . . . now that he knew it hadn't been a dream.



It had been a nightmare.



Rising to his feet, he straightened his vest and coat, then

headed for the stairs to put a dressing on the wound.  If he

waited another hour before seeing Natalie, it would be completely

gone.  He could be thankful for that, at least.  Better that she

not know what had happened to him.  She'd put his edginess down

to what had happened yesterday.



But he knew the truth.  He'd always know the truth.  Just as he

knew he'd spend the night waiting for a call that would lead them

to the corpse of a very ordinary, very average woman . . . who'd

been completely drained of blood.



********************

FINIS



Comments and crits to susang@vitinc.com