I'm posting this for Susan Garrett, because until her book is finished and accepted as finalized for publication, she is contractually prohibited from being on Fkfic-l. Please send comments directly to Susan. You can't do that by using reply, although I will forward if necessary. From: "Susan M. Garrett" Subject: Widows & Orphans (1/4) This is a post-"Last Knight" story. It is only one of my interpretations for what could have happened after LK. You have seen some, you may never see them all, but they are nearly as infinite as the color of Mr. Schrodinger's kitty in the closed kitty-carrier stuck somewhere in the belly of a grounded American Airlines jet. This has, oddly enough, been a difficult story for me to write. It has helped me to resolve some of the many problems I've had with what was done to Janette's character in "Human Factor." It is also, unfortunately, not a bright, bouncy story. May I suggest that those individuals currently taking medication for depression please avoid the following piece of fiction. Ditto if you have a low threshhold for Janette, or sad stories. I cannot help but let it be what it is. I always welcome critical commentary, praise, correction, or indifference in equal measure. How can we become better writers if we cannot be certain that our readers understand the intent of our words? ******* Widows and Orphans part 1 of 4 by Susan M. Garrett The cemetery was quiet, except for the occasional rustling of squirrels through the bushes and underbrush. It was spring, after all, and the results of the last mating season were scrabbling here and there for the bright green shoots and new plants. Janette hated squirrels--they reminded her of rats. Which reminded her of tenements and dead cities, the smell of plague victims being burned in pits, which reminded her of fire . . . which reminded her of Robert. He was buried in a different cemetery, in Montreal. Closing her eyes, she could see the site as if from a distance, and it been a distance when she'd last gone to visit his grave--they'd buried him amidst a section of crosses and in her newly-reborn vampire state she'd found her fear of them debilitating. So she'd sat on the edge of the high stone wall that surrounded the graveyard, held onto the wrought iron spikes meant to keep out vandals--which in past centuries had also been meant to keep the dead the property--and noted that the flowers she'd paid to be placed there were fresh. The red roses had shone brilliantly against the white of the snow and the sharp-edged gray of the chiseled headstone, even in the darkness. She'd known then that it would be some time before she'd return to the place, but what were centuries after all? The edges of the stones would be rounded by the elements, the deeply etched inscription worn away. After enough time passed, no one but she would be able to make sense of it . . . if only because she'd ordered the inscription and had seen to the stone's cutting and placement. And then . . . would it matter? Did it matter now? Opening her eyes, she stared down at the green grass at her feet and beneath her shoes. The renewal of the earth would not be denied--the shoots were already scattered across the weather-battered dirt that covered Nicholas' grave. A month, no more, and even the earth seemed to be ready to move on, to move along. Too late. She'd arrived too late. She'd sensed that something was wrong, but had brushed off the thought angrily and gone for a stroll through the streets of Quebec City, amusing herself by speaking only French and flirting with the handsomest of the young men who'd crossed her path, if they were with their girlfriends or lovers. They had not parted well the last time, she and Nicholas. She hadn't spoken to him since the night he'd brought her back across, returned her to the darkness. Now, she'd never speak with him again. Her heart was like a fist of ice inside her chest. She'd told him that she'd lived too long with a cold heart and now it had frozen solid. Her gaze slid to the next stone. Natalie Lambert's body rested beneath it. A tremor of fury raced through her and she clutched her fist to the light cloth of her blouse . . . but the fury could not last. Natalie had been a strong woman and Janette had always admired strength. How could she fault Natalie for falling to Nicholas' charm, as she herself had fallen prey to that saucy mortal smile, that wide-eyed, but amusing glance centuries before? It would never have ended for them, if he'd accepted the glory of the darkness he'd embraced at the beginning of this existence. She might have called Natalie sister, friend, lover . . . but now both of them were lost to her, lost because Nicholas sought mortality with the fervor of a knight on a grail quest. His goal had been unattainable and always self-destructive. A whisper of wind caught her attention and she took two steps back from the grave, her hand brushing her dark hair from her face--and masking the swift movement as she wiped the wetness away from the corners of her eyes. No tears. Not now. Not anymore. The appearance of Feliks Twist almost made her smile. He was dressed, as was his norm, in a double-breasted evening topcoat from a bygone era, and a large, floppy hat. His gloves were of the finest leather. Hand outstretched as he moved toward her, the brilliance might have blinded her had she not looked away. It was his expression, though, that did little to ease the lump within her chest. She had never tolerated sympathy well. At this moment, she could not abide it. "My dearest," he said, taking one of her hands in his, the leather gloves gripping her fingers with a firm but gentle squeeze before releasing her. Then, as if realizing where he was, he lifted his hat from his head and placed the brim of it flat against his chest. For a moment he stood silently contemplating the two gravestones, as if this were the first time he'd seen them. "You did well," she said, giving him due. For Feliks chosen well--fine marble, beautifully cut by a craftsman who'd been, no doubt, paid to excess. He nodded as if accepting her compliment, the movement reflected in the smooth face of the stone. "And yet I never believed it. Not until now, until seeing them here, the earth half-turned--it true, isn't it? He's gone from us?" "He's gone." A wave of grief washed over her, but it passed quickly enough, the force insufficient to dislodge that carefully constructed dam of ice around her heart. It was over. Done. What more to do than this? There were the proprieties to be observed. She'd learned those from LaCroix too many centuries before and as he had left nothing but a path of destruction in his wake, it was up to her to observe the formalities, to say what needed to be said, give thanks where thanks was due, tap down the earth and allow this to pass beyond memory for them all. Ah, if it were only so easy to forget . . . . Feliks shuddered once and bowed his head. Janette returned to his side, pressed her arm through his, and stood there in companionable silence because there was no other silence they could share at such a moment. He had been a friend to Nicholas, not to her, having let her know too many years before that he found her shallow, flippant, and callous. Perhaps he had been right. And perhaps she had been right to be so. She was not interred in the ground like Nicholas, was she? She had come close, perhaps, but that was due to her own run-in with mortality, her own failure to stop at the perimeter, to flirt with what they should never again know, a limited span filled with heartfelt sorrows and joys. It passed in a moment, as those feelings do, and Feliks withdrew his arm from hers--courteously, of course, because he was a gentleman of a gentler age. He faced her, taking a second to wrap his muffler more securely around the collar of his coat. "You should get out more," she told him, tilting her head and noting how sallow his complexion seemed in the moonlight. She raised her fingertips to his face, wondering if his skin was as cold as the alabaster of which it seemed to have been made. He flinched, edging back a step, unsmiling. "I've only come here for him." He gestured toward the grave. "On his behalf, not yours." "I know." Janette met his stare evenly. "I appreciate it. On his behalf." "Beastly--the outdoors." Another tug on his scarf caused her to smile and, for a moment, she thought he echoed it, his lips twitching slightly. "You're giving Aristotle fits." "He allows no room for flexibility." "He protects our identities. You're wanted by the police here--the charge is murder, I believe?" As she frowned and stalked away, he followed, at first on her heels and then beside her. "To pursue this is foolish. You endanger yourself and, in doing that, endanger us all--" Janette turned on him. "And who'll see the end to this? You? It pained you more than you'll ever admit to step outside your garden walls, to leave your cloister." She followed Feliks as he turned away from her, trying to hold his gaze with her own. "You came here for Nicholas. That's why I'm doing this, for . Because Nicholas would have wanted this done. Believe me, I have no intention of staying here longer than I must. I want nothing to do with them. of them." "Really?" Feliks paused for a moment, regarding her with a steady, searching gaze. "Yes. I believe you mean that. Now." It was her turn to be unnerved. Janette looked past him, at the newly leafed branches arching against the sky, the dark black highlighted by the grayest puffs of clouds. "You understand. That's why you keep to yourself. Away from them, away from , away from . . . everything." "Not ," corrected Feliks. He walked a step or two away, to a bush covered with small, periwinkle colored blossoms. The touch of his fingers among the blooms were delicate, as if he were caressing them. "They need water, nourishment, music, light . . . and me. We have each other, my flowers and I. They keep me company. They keep me amused; always something new and different to see." "You never feel the need for others of our kind?" asked Janette. She walked over to him, then gently placed her arm through his arm, her body pressing against the length of his coat. "You never need another presence? For companionship?" "Occasionally. But not often." His lips were twisted into an odd smile as he politely but firmly removed her arm from his, his body drawing back not in distaste, but with an air of propriety. "One needs to hear a voice now and again, other than one's own. A word, a conversation, a touch of humor." He lowered his head as he turned his back to her. "I shall miss Nicholas. I did not bear his presence--I enjoyed it. There will not be another like him . . . for a long time, if ever." "They took him away from us." The venom in her words startled even her, but she fixed her lips into a frown as Feliks glanced over his shoulder at her in surprise. "The mortal world--he was too fascinated by it, too much a part of it. I warned him of the danger. I warned him, but he wouldn't be content." "His soul would have been content--" "Soul?" She spat the word and met his gaze defiantly. "We have none; you know that as well as I. It's madness. It was madness from the start. It's the only way we can survive, to keep ourselves apart from their mortal world. We hide among them for protection, but we have to pretend they aren't there, so that when we leave or when they die--when they die . . . ." Robert was mortal. Robert had died. Nicholas had been a vampire. All gold and live and sweet and sorrowful, with true eyes and a wicked smile. And Nicholas had died as well. There was a wetness at the corner of her eyes again. She stalked up the grass-covered hill, the heels of her boots slipping on the occasional inset memorial stone or twig. Motion gave her fury release, focused it, expended it. When she reached the gate at the top of the incline, her emotion had been spent; once again Janette felt in control. It was so much harder now than it had been before, so much closer to the surface--as close as the memories of her heart beating evenly and quickly in her chest, the warmth of blood running in her veins, the sweet fragility of mortality in which she'd been clothed and how she'd wondered that she'd ever gotten used to the stale, cold, pale imitation of an existence she'd endured for so many centuries. And endured again. Feliks didn't know that, of course. Aristotle knew something of it, but was old and wise enough not to wish to know more. Even as she spotted Feliks, now waiting for her by the gate, letting her stamp and trudge her way out of her mood on her own, she saw the questions in his eyes. He saw the difference in her. Let him think it was due to the loss of Nicholas and nothing more. Let any of them think that. And let it be true. Because she could not bear it to be otherwise. There were papers in his hand, printed folders not unlike an airline brochure or ticket jacket. She reached for it as she approached, but Feliks pulled his hand away, forcing her to raise her eyes to his. "Are you certain you want to do this?" he asked, his voice containing a surprising amount of sympathy, considering that their prior relationship had never been anything more than politely cordial. "Are you certain that you do this?" She decided to take the latter comment as a challenge. Snatching the brochure from his gloved fingers, Janette met his look of surprise with a tight-lipped smile. "They're only mortals. An evening's work, at most. And it what Nicholas wanted, ?" "I suppose it is." Sounding less than convinced, Feliks nodded toward the papers. "They're both local addresses. Just leave the papers. Tell them to sign them and post them; the instructions are there." "Nicholas was right to leave his finances in your care," said Janette, unzipping her jacket and tucking the brochure inside. "You've handled this well." "And you will handle . . . this?" There was no challenge in his voice, just a note of concern that would have touched her, have touched her . . . but she couldn't allow that now. A cold heart, that's what she needed. "Of course." She let him take her hand, lift it to his lips in parting. " Feliks." The addition of another French phrase irritated him--his British sensibilities still smoldered with ancestral hatreds even after all of these centuries. But he was gallant, clicking his heels together and giving her the most gentlemanly of bows. She almost felt sorry for having taunted him. "Go back to your plants," she said quietly. "They need you." His eyes softened at that, perhaps too much and she looked away quickly, seeing the pity in them an instant before she took to her heels and marched briskly through the open cemetery gate and out onto the sidewalk beyond. She did not need his pity. She did not need anything. Nor was she needed, by anything or anyone. It was still only early evening, so she continued to walk--too large a risk of being seen in the air, a shadow against those low, gray-white clouds drifting through the sky. Besides, papers could be a problem when one flew. She dared not lose these papers. It had cost her too much to speak with Feliks, to speak with any of their kind recently. The fact that they'd never gotten along had made it bearable--there was a quality in their general dislike of one another that had made the task easier. The sorrow of Nicholas' passing was not lessened by their enmity, nor was it heightened, but rather made more acceptable to each of them, in their own way. At a streetlight she paused, using the light from the lamp to withdraw the folder from her pocket--two folders, now that she looked at them--and glanced at the addresses. The first was not that great a distance from where she was standing, a moment's flight or less than an hour's walk. First one, then the other, and it would be over. Done. There would only be one task left, one question more to be answered. That task would take her far from Toronto and would have nothing to do with mortals. She'd already paid her respects to the police captain Nicholas had served with, trusting Aristotle to have covered her sufficiently with her new identity as Nicholas' estranged sister. There was a question of danger, of him matching her face with the sketch of the woman wanted for murder, but she'd seen when she had arrived that she'd had little to fear--the police were overworked, as Nicholas had often said. It was alarming when one realized that the barely controlled chaos was what represented order for so many people. She'd suffered through the sympathy, made the proper and suitable responses, discovered that LaCroix's absence had been noted and deemed suspicious, and was left with the promise that whoever had murdered Nick Knight and Natalie Lambert be brought to justice. It was thought to be a double homicide--Natalie Lambert having been murdered in Nicholas' home by an unknown assailant, Nicholas coming upon the body while the murderer was still there and having been attacked and killed even as he leaned down to discover the coroner was dead . . . . Such a fanciful tale--or so she'd thought at the time. Thanking the man, she'd left with other business to attend to, taking care of all of the loose ends that had needed to be tied up here and there, aiding Aristotle in handling all of the public portions of Nicholas' life that had to be completed before that identity could be closed, the remnants of his existence being reduced to a few cartons of memories and an eclectic selection of furniture. The true story, of course, she'd only get from LaCroix. But that could wait until this was done. Distasteful as this business was, she would deal with the last of Nicholas' mortal life, the last of the mortal world, and then move on. Better to keep busy. If she was busy, it couldn't touch her. These two bequests, the disposal of the last of Nicholas' assets known to his mortal world, would finish the job. The thought that then there would be nothing left to do beyond facing LaCroix almost frightened her. But even fear was an emotion she could no longer afford. A cold heart, that's what was needed to survive. She remembered it well. Or, at least, that what she'd told herself. Continued in part 2 Win a script! http://www.fkfanfic.com/fkmisc/covers susang@vitinc.com -- http://www.vitinc.com/~susang EVER Faithful Ravenette. "Friends help you move. Real friends help you move bodies." From: "Susan M. Garrett" Subject: Widows & Orphans (2/4) Widows and Orphans part 2 of 4 by Susan M. Garrett The house was not impressive by itself--tasteful, far from elegant, acceptable in the suburban standards that seemed to be so much a part of the norm of this time and this place. Janette barely gave the exterior a thought, noting that the eaves needed painting, as did the window frames, small chores undone, small signs of neglect that one would only notice on closer examination. Withdrawing the proper envelope from her jacket, she steeled herself for yet another sympathetic interview, then gave the doorbell a short, sharp jab with her index finger. There was a commotion inside the house, a shifting of time and attention, a call in a feminine voice. The door was opened by a young woman on the verge of puberty, her face still holding that faint puffy softness of childhood, not entirely concealing the imminent emergence of fine features and large, luminous eyes. It seems those eyes ran in the blood line of the Lambert family. What a child there would have been, had Nicholas managed to achieve his goal and become a mortal, then wedded and bedded Natalie Lambert. The hair might have been gold at birth, perhaps changing to an auburn, an unruly mass of curls that never would have been untangled, a roundish face, and those eyes, his color or her own, like the fullness of the moon, seeing all, taking in the world with a large heart that filled and emptied and filled again-- "Can I help you?" asked the girl. Janette shook herself from her reverie and managed to cover the annoyance of her startlement with a swift, professional smile--of all the things that had returned to her from her previous existence, that protective, slightly deferential, slightly authoritative smile had been the first. She survive. "Is Mrs. Lambert at home?" The child hesitated--oh, those eyes!--then nodded slightly, falling prey to the strict, not-to-be-trifled-with tone in her voice. "Just a minute." The door closed again, the metallic clink of a chain in the lock causing Janette to smile softly to herself. An excellent precaution for these women. Not that it have done them any good against her, or any of her sort. They'd learned their lessons well in the years since Richard Lambert's death. Even in this modern world, women who had grown to trust in the protection of a man were so soon adrift when he passed from the world, or betrayed them, or left of his own accord. So many centuries and so little of what passed between men and women had changed. The details were a blur, her time as a mortal somehow wiping the days and weeks and decades from her mind like an eraser across a blackboard. The colors, she sometimes remembered. The sounds--the way Nicholas laughed. Or the sight of his smile, the impish curl of a lip that meant that he had ceased his habitual brooding about his cursed state and his inability to do anything about it, having accepted, if only for a moment, that he and she and their close proximity were really all that mattered. The leather scent of his jacket as he walked up behind her unannounced in the Raven, the clean smell of his skin. The touch of his hand upon her cheek, the whisper of his lips across the small, stilled pulse of her throat . . . . "Yes." Janette turned, her fingers paused at the base of her throat, her attention on the clouds still flitting quickly across the sky. Tomorrow evening the sky would be clear and the day between the darkness would be bright and sunny . . . . She still remembered the warmth of the sunshine. Her features gave no hint of her thoughts, composed into a blank mask when she finally faced Sarah Lambert. "Mrs. Lambert, forgive the intrusion--" The words left her suddenly. Janette realized then that she'd not thought this through enough. Only once or twice in the prior centuries had she been called upon to deliver a settlement or bequest to surviving mortals and those experiences no longer traveled with her. They'd been lost to her with the onset of mortality. She was, in this instance, hopelessly at sea, without even the memory of form and propriety to guide her. "Yes?" the woman pressed in the pause, slightly impatient. "It's about Nicholas--Nick Knight." She words fell from her lips in a tumble, like beads broken from a necklace, scattering across the floor and dazzling the eyes with their brilliant disorder. Janette licked her lips, her brow furrowing as she tried to regain control, tried to make sense of her words of the message she wanted to convey. "I'm his . . . sister." The impatience in Sarah Lambert's expression disappeared, melting into some unfathomable mixture of old, deep, but still weeping wounds, fresh hurt, and sympathy. She held the door open and stepped to one side, saying, "Please, come in. Can I take your coat?" "No, I can't stay. I'm in Toronto only for the evening--to settle his affairs. I have a plane to catch--" A lie, vampire to mortal. As it had been, as it was, as it ever would be. Kinder that way, after all. Not that they deserved the kindness. Mortals were such petty, brief things. The Devil was in the details--that thought struck Janette as she entered the house, passed within inches of the warm-blooded, living woman, and her predatory senses began to define the world into which she'd entered. The front door was the only visible exit, but there was surely a door in the back. The floor echoed softly underfoot indicating a dark, partially submerged basement that would be a safe haven during daylight hours. The woman was alert, but weary, ripe for even the slightest suggestion. And the heartbeat of the child, not so far away, perhaps even watching, made her fangs itch. "Can I get you something?" It took an effort not to smile, the presence of her fangs reminding her that what she needed was not being offered by this polite, mortal hostess. "No, thank you." Taking the chair Sarah Lambert indicated, Janette gave the furnishings a cursory glance--too homey for her taste, but nicely decorated, the woman showed sense in her choice of style and color. Even her clothing was well-chosen--a beige silk shirt and twill tan slacks--giving her the look of a woman in command of her life and her home. But Janette knew differently. She'd seen the pain in the woman's eyes, had heard the swift beat of the woman's heart. Living was difficult enough, but living beyond the death of another could only be compounded, year after year, as others fell around one. That was why a vampire learned to keep a cold heart. Better not to feel, better not to care, or your heart would be ravaged with each new passing away, each tear building upon the last so that after time your heart was nothing less than one great, painful ruin. Her eyes met the gaze of the woman across from her again and Janette allowed herself a small stab of pity and regret--her presence here could only cause this woman pain. She'd been arrogant and selfish to consider the effect of this act from her own side, needing this closure to move on. She'd forgotten that such a bequest might bring forth old memories, old anguish, old dreams. Those had stayed with her, even through her brief time in mortality . . . her old dreams. "I'm sorry." Janette began to rise to her feet. "I should never have come here--" "No, it's all right." Sarah Lambert reached across the edge of the chair where she'd seated herself and touched Janette's jacket sleeve lightly. Janette would not have borne the touch from any other mortal--not now. But this woman was a sister in pain. That made a difference, somehow. The simple sympathetic gesture was, oddly enough, not cloying or condescending, but gentle and compassionate. A cold heart. She could not bear this, could not manage this if she let herself feel. "You've seen the police? Captain--?" Janette licked her lips, then supplied the name the woman sought for--almost grateful for the obvious device to set her at ease. "Reese, wasn't it?" The small talk mortals wove around death was so trifling. And comforting, in its own way. "Captain Reese." Sarah Lambert managed a brief smile of appreciation, then sobered. "Has there been anything more? They said they would call, but I haven't heard . . . anything." Janette shook her head, knowing that the woman would never hear. LaCroix was involved in this, which meant this truth would not be for mortal ears. "Nothing." "They're running out of time. If they don't arrest someone within the first seventy-two hours, the chances of finding the killer drop--" Then Sarah Lambert stopped and looked away, clearing her throat. "My husband was a Crown Attorney. It was a way of life with us. I probably know more about the court system than anyone needs to." The pain was still at home in the woman's eyes--the few years since her husband's death had filtered some of it, but so little. Janette remembered the circumstances--Nicholas dithering over whether to bring the man across, to save him from his mortality. He'd been a good man, in Nicholas' eyes, which meant something. What a disaster that had been! Another vampire truth from which this woman had been shielded. "I understand that the . . . killer may never be caught," offered Janette solemnly, looking away. "The police will do what they can." "They say it's easier if they're caught. But it's not. It doesn't change anything. It won't bring them back. Nothing can bring them back. Except--" Janette met the woman's eyes, her vampire senses clicking in. She'd been a fool to come here. Pain raised all sorts of baggage from the mortal heart, sometimes even suppressed memories. She'd come here to end this thing for Nicholas. What if this woman began to remember, if she was endangered by her knowledge, if the Enforcers came . . . ? "Except . . . our memories." A sense of relief swept over her. Janette took the woman's offered hand and squeezed it gratefully at the release from responsibility in this matter. "Yes," she echoed. "Our memories." memories. Her memories of Nicholas, dimmed by her brief time as a mortal, some perhaps lost to her forever--both blessing and curse in that. They came back to her at odd moments, like wisps of smoke from some long extinguished cigarette. A snowy night in Prague, LaCroix standing beneath a lamppost, Nicholas beside him, awaiting her arrival. In dark evening dress, they'd looked so dashing and Nicholas had been in a good mood for a-- Janette stirred herself from her reverie and found her gaze moving to the small packet she'd dropped to the table. She lifted it and handed it to Sarah Lambert. "I wanted to deliver this in person. Nicholas left a bequest for . . . for Natalie Lambert. You, and your daughter, are the next of kin, or so his attorney tells me. They see no reason to keep the bequest from you. He would have liked you to have it." The woman opened the envelope trying to hide her curiosity. Her hands trembled slightly as she fumbled with the paper and Janette looked away. Still, she heard the double-quick beat of the woman's heart, the gasp of breath-- "There must be some mistake." "No mistake." Mortals could be so tiresome. "Our family comes from old money. Nicholas was . . . I suppose you could call him a rebel. He never touched the money because he felt it didn't belong to him. Most of it has been given to charities, but there were a few specific bequests. There are papers inside--if you sign and return them, the lawyers will take care of the rest." Sarah Lambert looked up, her eyes startled--yes, the child's eyes had come from her husband's side of the family. It was all too common really; the sight of all that wealth was too much for most mortal minds to bear. This woman didn't seem to have lived a life of poverty or denial even if, as Nicholas had indicated, her husband had been a modern Quixote, champion of the oppressed, protector of the innocent, defender of the common good. "He must have loved her very much." The statement startled Janette, the context throwing her for a moment until she realized the woman was talking about Natalie Lambert. That memory, a more recent memory, of those large, brilliant eyes looking over her, the hands that dealt only with dead flesh being so very careful with her shoulder wound, the constant checking to make certain she wasn't being pained more than necessary. And back a little farther--the eyes defiant in defense of Nicholas, worried for him, pained by his absence. "No less than she loved him," answered Janette, beginning to realize the truth of what she'd just said. It had been so easy to dismiss Natalie Lambert's affection for Nicholas--how could any woman not be confounded by his smile, his charm, his manner? But to feel enough for him to hurt for him, to have enough will to stand against his dark and self-destructive urges, to outlast his brooding, to shake him from himself and make him see the light he thought he was to be denied forever . . . yes, she must have loved him. Janette herself had not often endured so many of his varied moods as Natalie Lambert had seemed willing to experience and survive. "They were good for each other." Sarah Lambert's hands closed over the paper and she set it aside almost absently. A smile touched her lips as she turned her head, caught in memory. "I didn't see them together too often. A couple of the official functions, the dances. The first time I saw them together, I knew he was the one for her. One time--it was some dinner or something--Richard was talking to him and Nick realized that Natalie wasn't standing beside him, she'd slipped off. He wasn't rude or anything, but I knew he didn't hear a thing Richard was saying--that polite smile, but his mind was somewhere else. The instant he spotted her, his smile changed. When he found her, it wasn't just polite anymore, it was . Whenever Nick was alone with you, it was like he was at a distance, but when he was with Natalie, there was more of him there, like he wasn't afraid to be himself." Janette looked down at her hands, which she'd clasped in her lap. She'd never been threatened by Natalie's presence. Perhaps she'd allowed herself to indulge in the slightest hint of jealousy that Nicholas was spending so much time with this mortal woman, this who worked with dead things. But she'd admired the woman for herself, had seen in her such possibilities. Mortals pass into the distance over time and Nicholas would move on, as he always had, but this one might have been different. This one she might have chanced bringing across herself, if given the right circumstances, or have cajoled LaCroix into doing it. There was something in Natalie Lambert that brought joy to Nicholas, something not only centered on his hope for mortality, but her will and compassion augmented and strengthened his own. With her beside him, he might finally have been able to accept his existence. How had it gone so horribly, horribly wrong? The rattle of the paper as Sarah Lambert lifted it again from the table awakened her. "I don't know if I can accept this." "That's your decision." Janette rose to her feet in a single, graceful movement--ah, she could still do--and looked down at Sarah Lambert, trying to ignore the siren call of the warm blood flowing beneath the mortal skin. How much harder it was now. So many things to relearn, how to control the hunger, to cage the beast within her, to still her movements . . . . To let the banked embers in her heart grow cold and die. "Give it to charity, hold it in trust for your daughter--" Janette automatically looked up at the wall opposite, hearing the hidden heart beat quicken not so far away. "Whatever you think best. It was meant to be his gift to Natalie. It would please him to know it had stayed with her family." Sarah Lambert rose, then caught her arm, halting her. "Wait--there's something I have for you. If you have a minute--?" Again, she allowed the familiarity. Janette met the woman's eyes and managed a faint smile. "All right." She watched Sarah Lambert leave the entryway and disappear around a corner. There were distant sounds of movements, of drawers opening and closing somewhere. She would never see this woman again. She couldn't. Once her life and her identity changed, that would be over. This woman and her child were nothing, mortal dust. They were bound only by memories of common friendships. Caring for mortals, immersing himself in their world, binding himself with their limitations and their dreams . . . all of that had led to this, had led to the destruction of Nicholas. She had no wish to follow in his footsteps. A cold heart. Janette closed her eyes and turned toward the door, so tempted to slip away into the night and away from this place forever. This would be the most difficult thing to relearn, to distance herself from mortal thoughts and mortal ways. Her salvation lay in maintaining that distance, in finding that cold, silent place within her and shutting herself inside. It could be done. She'd done it before--lived for centuries on the ecstasy only of the moment, on the false warmth of stolen blood, on the brief scent of ancient perfume and the lingering remembrance of a touch that faded all too quickly. A cold heart was her goal, her aspiration. The problem was that she remembered precisely what a hollow and lonely existence that could be. Continued in part 3 Win a script! http://www.fkfanfic.com/fkmisc/covers susang@vitinc.com -- http://www.vitinc.com/~susang EVER Faithful Ravenette. "Friends help you move. Real friends help you move bodies." Widows and Orphans part 3 of 4 by Susan M. Garrett "I thought you might like to have this," said Sarah Lambert, from beside her. The sound of returning footsteps had been drowned by memory and temptation. Annoyance crept into her stiffening posture and Janette turned, a cut farewell on her lips--better to leave quickly. The sight of the photograph held toward her silenced the words before they could be spoken. Her hand trembled as she reached for it and it was all she could do not to snatch the paper from the woman's grasp. Nicholas and Natalie at one of the police functions she'd never attended--that had not been part of her world, after all. But it had been a part of the world of Natalie's brother and sister-in-law. The four of them were standing together, a posed portrait and all appearing uncomfortable. It was only the two figures on the end, however, that managed to catch her attention--Natalie, eyes slightly to one side, eyeing her brother as if something he'd said had managed to irritate or amuse her and Nicholas, his arm around her waist, lips partially open as if ready to speak, the corner of his mouth crinkled slightly as if in warning that the comment was probably something else of which Natalie would not completely approve. He been happy in his mortal world, if only even for this sliver of a moment, captured as unearthly stillness in the photograph. "I--can't take this--" "I have another copy. Please--I don't have anything else I can give you." Tears threatened--Janette felt them burning at the corners of her eyes. Vampire tears were so much harder to bear than mortal tears, so much more bitter because the traces burned their way into memory, into even the coldest, hardest heart. And then, in a moment of clarity, she realized that three of the people in the photograph were dead. Only Sarah Lambert remained to carry the memory. Only she was left. Janette lifted her gaze to meet the mortal woman's eyes. How much longer would she last? Thirty years, perhaps? How cruel a joke this was, mortality. How could they endure it? How had endured it, even for the brief time she'd learned to live again under the sun? How had she been so willing to let everything go, had begged Nicholas to let her die? "It's good to remember," said Sarah Lambert, in a very quiet voice. "That's the only way we get through it--if we remember what it was like." "Mom?" Sarah Lambert turned at the call, the line of her throat shifting against the collar of her blouse. Janette took a breath, her gaze centering on the thin line beneath the neck, the blood beneath the skin. Her nostrils flared. It would be so easy to take this woman, to have someone to share her sorrow-- There was the child, after all. That's how they endured, that's how they lived beneath the shadow of darkness until the end of their brief lives. It was the children who continued, the children who carried the memory. The woman turned back to her with an apologetic smile. "I'm sorry--I never got your name." "Janette." It was a gift . . . perhaps small, but still a gift to this mortal who had lost so much and still had more to lose. "Janette." Sarah Lambert took her free hand and squeezed the fingers lightly. "Thank you for coming with the papers. If you're in town again--" "I'll call." She found her smile echoed faintly--they both knew the lie when it was spoken aloud. Their lives--such different lives--intersected here. They would not meet again. "Mom?!" Sarah Lambert turned her head again, calling, "I'll be right--!" then glanced back at Janette. "It's the difficult years. Were we ever that loud?" "It was very long ago," answered Janette, carefully. "I should be going. Good-bye, Mrs. Lambert." "Sarah, please." "Sarah." She squeezed the warm hand still caught in her own, then released the fingers from her grasp almost reluctantly. Tucking the photograph inside her jacket, she stepped to one side as the woman opened the door for her, then Janette stepped into the night. She half-turned to wave, realizing that the door was still open behind her, then went on her way, walking down the sidewalk to the corner where several automobiles were parked. Janette didn't relax until she heard the sound of the door closing. In the distance, Sarah Lambert talked to her daughter, scolded her for having interrupted them. Despite the still early hour, Janette took to the air, her thoughts whirling with the wind around her. She wanted the crisp scent of the night to wipe her mind clean, to make her forget so that she could start anew. She should have left this to the attorneys. This was madness. This was . . . . This was the last of Nicholas, all that was left of him and of the life he'd built here. She found herself tempted to forget the other document in her pocket, to spend the night flying over the city she'd called home for so brief a time--as if they ever called anywhere 'home' any more--and then drop it back into Feliks' capable hands with some excuse. Perhaps he'd raise an eyebrow and make some slightly annoying comment, but he wouldn't pry. Feliks knew that she kept her secrets locked in her own heart. However empty a heart that might be. There were few things that Nicholas had ever entrusted to her care--not because he thought her incapable, but because there were few enough things that he entrust to her care. He was the one who tried to delay the inevitable, to put off unpleasant tasks and decisions and confrontations until faced with a situation in crisis . . . and then LaCroix would step in, more often than not, to do what must be done to preserve the lives of themselves and others of their kind. She'd helped upon occasion, doing what she could, but so often there had been little for her to do but wait and watch on the periphery, her instincts telling her to flee at the first sign of trouble, her curiosity forcing her to stay to see what the outcome might be, and her passions holding her within the realm of danger out of love and loyalty, until the last possible second. She could do this thing for Nicholas--this last thing for his sake--even if it cost her pain. And what should be a little more pain between them, when balanced with the joys and sorrows of the past? Janette allowed the wind to carry her to earth not far from her destination. Toronto seemed composed of endless neighborhoods, suburb upon suburb clustered around a central, relatively small metropolis at its core. In the time she'd spent here she'd seldom wandered from the gleam of the city lights into the softer glow of the neighborhood street lamps. There was little to draw her here, for hunting was inadvisable where victims would be ardently missed by family and friends and amusement of less sustaining sorts was not to be found. There were bicycles in the driveways, parked beside modest cars--few BMW's or expensive foreign models here. Over the fences she could spot the bright plastic colors of children's toys, or the breeze would bring her the creak of chains from a swingset, abandoned to the night and the elements. This was a place of families, of working people with working lives, less affluent than the place she'd just left, modest in means but not in hopes and expectations. These were the people who lived on dreams. This was the place that the family of Nick's ex-partner lived. Or the of his ex-partners, she amended, when she considered that the second had fared as badly. She'd never met the woman--Tracy, was that her name?--or had time to think more of her than a flash of blond hair, a thin body, a nose perhaps too small and pert to be imposing. Wholesome . . . that was the word she'd have used as a description. Not that it mattered, since Tracy, too, was dead. Nicholas had seemed to have dreadful luck in keeping the mortals around him alive for any period of time, but if truth be told that was something of a habit with him. It was his first partner in this existence that she'd met and known and . . . befriended, in an odd way, or befriended as much as she might have befriended such a coarse and common example of mortality. Thinking back, she allowed herself a grim smile in his memory--however uncouth he might have been, he was honest and true after a fashion. More importantly, he been a friend to Nicholas, a mortal friend when Nicholas could not bear the ties of the vampire community. It often amazed her that Nicholas could even dream of returning to mortality with such a living, breathing, belching example at hand through most of his waking hours. There were times, though, when she'd realized why Nicholas had been so drawn to the mortal with which he'd worked. They were partners, a bond that she and he had never shared in such a fashion, and there was a level of undisguised trust between them that astounded her. When she'd seen them together, she'd found herself envying that trust. And, if she was being honest, she also envied the way the man doggedly wandered through his life. She'd heard of his passing through accident--the funeral had long been over by the time she'd learned the circumstances of Donald Schanke's death. What was there to do then? Contacting the family was out of the question for many reasons, among which was that Nicholas might have heard of it and tried to find her. She'd desperately wanted to avoid him at that point, had been immersed in an attempt to discover whether there was a way to shake this yearning for mortality from her senses before it destroyed her. What she'd found had been Robert and a yearning for more than simple mortality. The address was not too far distant, only a street or two away. On impulse she listened as she walked, hearing the conversations of families--arguments and discussions, laughter, the clearing and cleaning of late supper dishes, the blare of televisions or stereos and the clatter and clack that signified the usage of computer keyboards. Very modern, normal family sounds. This could have been hers. Had Robert not been killed, she might have become mortal in time, might have had a son and a husband and perhaps other children with which to spend those all-too-brief mortal years. But she would have savored all of them, every second of every minute and when she had finally passed into death there would have been no regrets on turning her back on an eternity of blood and darkness. That mortal life was denied to her now. There was, as LaCroix would say, no profit in mortality. Closing her eyes, she paused, hoping that Nicholas had not discovered that at the end. She hoped, for his sake, that he had passed into the final darkness with love and hope foremost in his heart. After all of those centuries of misery--however much of it had been self-imposed--he had deserved some happiness at the end. It didn't stop her from wanting to hate him for having brought her back to this existence, for condemning her to this addiction to blood and eternity. How had Erika managed, how had Nicholas managed, if it came to that . . . and it might have. She still wasn't certain what had happened, but the instant when she had felt the pain of his loss would be forever etched in her memory. How dare he do this to her? How dare he her like this? A small, quiet cry--an infant's wail--startled her out of her angry reverie. Janette opened her eyes and forced the clenched fingers of her hands to relax as she listened. She turned in place, trying to locate the sound, and did so when the child cried again . . . a still-sleepy cry, a waking infant, surely. She walked toward the house, along the sidewalk, drawn by the sheer, simple humanity of that sound and found, much to her surprise, that she was at her destination. This was the house Donald Schanke had called home for himself and his family, until his life had been ended. Surprised, she continued toward the house, hearing other noises--a woman's voice and a young child's voice downstairs--the recitation of a list of words, some sort of spelling exercise. There was a serious note to it that amused and yet saddened her. She drew close to the window and watched, listening, thankful that the shades had not yet been drawn for the evening. The woman still carried the heaviness of recent childbirth about her features. That and the evidence of pain and sorrow were etched into her features, but there was pleasure there as well. She would speak a word and then her daughter--that must be the man's child, she had his eyes, soulful and yet joyous--would repeat the word and begin to spell it aloud. There was laughter during the few minutes she listened, but a firm, even tone that brooked no disappointment. She wonder, for a moment, if this had been the father's task, if Nick's partner had been the one to endure this chore before his untimely death. Not that it seemed to be a chore. Though the seemingly endless recitation should have bored her, she was fascinated by the pair--the mother smiling proudly and yet trying not to show too much of her pride as they passed from one word to the next, stumbling over some and returning to them a moment later. The child was serious, studious, intent, and then uneasy at each failure, her eyes relieved as they passed each error, then filled with dread with the word returned to plague her. Minutes passed and still Janette watched this model of domesticity, of mortal family life. If Robert had not died . . . . The child cried again. Janette watched to see what the mother might do, but the woman was too engrossed with her task--she didn't hear the baby. It was the matter of an instant to track the sound and to find the right window on the second floor, the minutest effort of will to fly to the ledge and then, when she found the window locked, to force it carefully. She seated herself on the edge of the window, her legs draped against the exterior wall of the house, listening for some movement downstairs, but there was no interruption to the careful spelling of words, except a quick burst of laughter. Pausing for a moment longer, she took in the decor of the room--pastel wallpaper decorated with small animals somewhat resembling bears and ducks, the furniture obviously reused from an earlier time, the repainting and refurbishing poorly done. There were stuffed animals, a changing table and, at the far end of the room, a crib. Another small sound from that direction--a sigh, if the sound had any form at all. Feeling unexpectedly awkward, her steps were small and slow as she crossed the room, afraid that she would startle the infant. When she reached the side of the crib, she found that she'd had no need for care; the baby was awake and staring at the mobile hanging above the crib, the brightly colored barnyard animals dancing in the breeze from the open window. And then the eyes shifted toward her, wide blue, infant eyes, innocent and lovely and pure. There was no fear in the child. It stared up at her, watching her with the serious expression of the newly born, or not so newly . . . she'd had little active experience with babies as a vampire. The child could be a month in age, or less, or slightly more and she wouldn't have known the difference. Then a chubby hand reached up, waving in her direction. It couldn't know what it was doing, but the movement grabbed hold of her heart. Janette placed one hand within the crib and ran her well-manicured and colored fingernail along the skin of the child's face. How soft it was! And warm . . . so warm that she could almost see the heat blazing from within, the blood flowing through it giving the skin a reddish-brown cast in her perfect night vision. She felt the pang of hunger at the proximity of such sweet, innocent blood. Janette clamped down on the feeling angrily--there was to be no chance of it taking hold. Even in the state in which she found herself, she would not succumb to that. Plump baby fingers clutched at the edge of her jacket sleeve and the child sighed again, still watching her with eager, intent eyes until another breeze stirred the animals to dance above it. The gaze moved to them and there was a smile, a soft and private curling of the lips. It met her eyes for a brief moment, as if wanting her to know the joy of what it saw, then the gaze returned to the animals. She couldn't help herself. Janette lifted the child into her arms, taking a blanket from the crib with it. The baby was an awkward weight and she struggled for a moment, finding that she had to support the infant's head, but then she settled the child against her. It tilted back its head, still looking at her with those perfectly blue eyes. Too young to be afraid. Here was mortality. She found herself pacing the length of the room, rocking the child lightly as she moved, some part of her remaining vigilant to the sounds downstairs, the squeaks and give of the floor and the carpet beneath her careful tread. She wanted to prolong this moment for eternity. The infant was warm and heavy in her arms, a delicate, living weight. Continued and ending in (thank God!) part 4 Win a script! http://www.fkfanfic.com/fkmisc/covers susang@vitinc.com -- http://www.vitinc.com/~susang EVER Faithful Ravenette. "Friends help you move. Real friends help you move bodies." Widows and Orphans part 4 of 4 by Susan M. Garrett A frame on the wall caught her attention and she walked toward it. There was a caption at the top--hand lettered--that read 'Our family.' There was a picture Donald Schanke, a slightly bewildered expression on his face, a small hand-lettered sign saying 'Daddy' beneath it. Beside that was a photo of the woman downstairs captioned 'Mommy' and a picture of the little girl that said, 'Jenny.' Beside that was a picture of an infant--undoubtedly the child in her arms--which read simply 'Donny.' Her eyes wandered to the picture of Donald Schanke again. Had the man even known he was to be a father? It couldn't have happened much before the accident, the timing of the child's birth indicated that much. And his wife--how dreadful to discover that she was first a widow and then that she was to be a mother. It was a wonder that she hadn't lost the baby in her grief. Or, perhaps, not such a wonder. Janette held the child against her. "At least you still have your mother," she whispered, pacing the floor again. "Better that than to be an orphan . . . ." Because that's what she was, wasn't she? When Nicholas had brought her back across, he'd renewed the ties between them, strengthened them as he'd become her father in blood just as when LaCroix had brought her into the darkness almost a millennia ago. She'd lost her lover, her brother, her husband, her father. How odd to be made both widow and orphan at a single stroke. A rough, raw chuckle at the absurdity of it escaped her and the child blinked and shuddered. Startled, it gave a low, unhappy cry and she shushed it, patting its back through the thin blanket and trying to quiet it--she did not want to leave yet. She did not want this to end. Still no response from downstairs. The child quieted almost instantly, the round, dark and fuzzy head nuzzling into her shoulder. The fists flailed as the infant found a comfortable spot and it sighed against her, still not quite beyond that sleepy realm from which it had half awakened. Janette walked back to the framed photos on the wall. "Your father was a good man," she said softly. "He was a good friend to my Nicholas. And my Nicholas was . . . my Nicholas was beautiful. Oh, how he would have loved to have held you! Would your mother have told him that you existed? It would have been kinder not to. He would have loved you, little one. He would have loved you very, very much. And that would not have been a good thing because it would have hurt you. We can't help it, you see. We can't help being what we are. When we come too close to you, when we care too much . . . I loved someone like you, once. Someone brave and strong and lovely--as lovely as Nicholas. He had warm blood. We can't help it." There was movement from downstairs, accompanied by the sound of a chair scraping across a wooden floor. The rhythm of the child's breathing was steady and even; the baby was asleep in her arms. Walking back to the crib, Janette hesitated. After a moment, she lowered the child carefully into the crib. It stirred and for an instant she thought it might waken. The fist waved and the fingernails brushed past the nose, then it sighed again in slumber. The chest moved slightly beneath the white and blue patterned sleeping shirt and the eyes shifted behind closed lids. Baby dreams. Would it remember her, then, in some dim place in its memory? Would she be forgotten with the details of the brightly colored animals that hovered over its crib and the pattern of the wallpaper? Forgotten sooner, more likely. She was a nightmare, after all, not a comforting staple of the child's existence. She'd been right--better that it forget that she'd ever been here, that forget that she'd ever been here. It would only bring grief. It was as she turned to leave that Janette remembered the brochure in her jacket. She removed it and held it in her hand, listening to the movements of the mother and daughter downstairs. Her presence only bring grief. She would leave it on the infant's changing table, where it would be discovered. The sudden appearance of the document could be explained away easily enough--forgotten in a moment of hurry. How easily mortals could make their world seem sensible, how quick they were to accept the most outlandish possibilities so long as they rational. She dropped the brochure to the changing table and her sleeve brushed something to the floor. Janette bent to pick it up, not quite understanding what it might be. The name of the hospital on the back and the size of the plastic loop led her to assume it was the baby's identification bracelet from the hospital. On the side was written the child's name in block, black letters. Donald Nicholas Schanke. She didn't recognize the soft sound as having come from her lips and looked up with a start--no, she hadn't been discovered. Another lump rose in her throat and she swallowed past it, her fingers clutching the plastic band so tightly that she might have snapped it in two if she hadn't come to her senses in time. She turned, gazing over at the crib. Yes, might be forgotten . . . but not Nicholas. Here, at least, he would be remembered as his father's friend and partner, his name living on in mortal flesh even if he himself did not. For an instant she was tempted to take the bracelet with her, but forced herself to return it to the changing table. It would not do for LaCroix to find it; he might decide to see this remnant of Nicholas' life among mortals for himself. Let the child and the mother and her daughter have their own lives. The monetary bequest Nicholas had left was not formidable enough to be a burden, but would insure a better than modest income for the family and provide both of the children with an education. In time, perhaps, she might check back . . . . It would only bring grief. They could not dabble in mortal affairs. They dared not. But, oh, how she tempted. Janette walked slowly back to the crib, then bent low over the edge and kissed the forehead of the child. It stirred at her cold touch and she didn't stay to see if it would waken. If she stared into those blue eyes again she would be lost, just as she'd been lost the first time she'd stared into Nicholas' eyes. She hurried to the window, swung her legs over the sill, and then shut the window behind her, falling away to the ground before the glass had completely settled into place. Once outside, she walked away, forcing her back to the house and what it contained. Janette would never return. She could never return. It was not the mortals or his fascination with them that had destroyed Nicholas. No, it was Nicholas' fascination with mortality that had destroyed so many of mortal lives he had touched. She would not allow that to happen again. Better to finish the story, to find the truth about Nicholas' death and have an end to it. And then-- Then she would have the rest of eternity to nurse a cold, hard heart, alone. But however cold and hard it might become, she knew that there would always be a soft spot within, that held close the memory of the scent and warmth of a sleeping, mortal infant. ***** It's over. You can go home now. All questions, comments, and biographies of magnificent groundhogs may be forwarded to susang@vitinc.com. (Who, by the way, has finally purchased a box of magnetic poetry as her 'they paid me for the book' present from me to me. The first words I added to the box were 'Nick," "Natalie," "Janette," "LaCroix," and "Forever Knight." Ran out of 'a' before I could add Schanke. Plan to get another add-on box.) Win a script! http://www.fkfanfic.com/fkmisc/covers susang@vitinc.com -- http://www.vitinc.com/~susang EVER Faithful Ravenette. "Friends help you move. Real friends help you move bodies."