Date:         Mon, 7 Feb 1994 00:53:45 EST
 
 
A WOMAN'S WORK
 
by Susan M. Garrett
 
 
 
        Knowing that Nick wouldn't be off shift for another
twenty minutes, Natalie figured her timing to be perfect.
Entering the loft, she flicked on the lights and carried her
two brown paper bags into the kitchen.  Once her purse,
coat, and mittens had been draped over a chair, she
unpacked the bag of salad fixings and dinner--she'd brought
enough for two on the faint hope that she could con Nick
into eating <something>--placing all of the food in the
refrigerator and the cupboards.
        The second bag, however, contained nastier stuff.
She wrinkled her nose as she removed the cleanser, paper
towels, rubber gloves and other cleaning paraphernalia.
Nick had a habit of dumping his bottle dregs down the sink,
which played hell with the stainless steel.  Even if the stench
didn't seem to bother him, it was driving <her> nuts.  And
cleaning up dried blood was something she didn't particularly
feel comfortable doing with a full-fledged vampire around.
        She was about ten minutes into the job when she
heard the lift door open.  Pushing her hair back from her
face with a rubber gloved hand and leaving a trail of white
cleanser across her forehead, she stepped back from the
sink.  "I'm sorry, Nick, I didn't think you'd be home this--"
        He was tall, with blond hair that moved way past that
end of the spectrum, into the 'gleaming white' zone.  His
eyes were light and large, commanding.  And something
about his grin and his stance told her that he was anything
but mortal.
        "You're not Nick."
        "How astute."  He walked past her, then around her,
looking over the bags, the sink, and her, with a sweeping
gaze.  "And how domestic.  Nick's a lucky vampire.  I
assume I have the pleasure of addressing the lovely Dr.
Lambert?
        Natalie moved to cross her arms, then realized the
last thing she wanted was cleanser all over her tweed jacket--
she'd been stupid not to have taken it off with her coat.  She
met his smile with a frank stare.  "You must be LaCroix."
        "As I said, astute."  He backed up to the cabinets and
seated himself on the countertop, legs dangling.  "You know
who I am.  You must know why I'm here?"
        She shook her head sadly.  "From what Nick's told
me of your past history and how you've tormented him for
the last eight-hundred-odd years, my guess would be you're
here to torment him again."
        If possible, LaCroix's grin grew wider.  "Ah, his
taste's finally improved--lovely <and> intelligent.  I'm
impressed--you're a far cry from his usual doxy."
        "And you're in a bit of a rut.  Why don't you find
somebody else to torment?"
        "Actually," said LaCroix, inspecting the invisible dirt
beneath his fingernails, "I'm here to finish it.  You're right--
Nick's become rather a bore.  And after this last attempt to
do me in, you can't say I don't have a right to be . . . cross
with him?"
        Groaning, Natalie shook her head again,  Lifting the
cleanser can, she poured more into the sink and returned to
scrubbing, ignoring him.
        This didn't seem to sit well with LaCroix.  After a
moment, he leaned across the counter, almost nose-to-nose
with her.  "My news doesn't disturb you?"
        "What disturbs <me> is what blood does to stainless
steel."  Pausing again and glaring at a stubborn stain, she met
his eyes.  "Nick never was that observant when it came to
these things, but . . . did you ever have this problem with
porcelain?"
        LaCroix blinked, looking down at the stain, then
back at her.  "I can't say that I ever noticed, either."
        "Perfect memory my a--," muttered Natalie, beneath
her breath.  Attacking the stain with renewed vigor, she
added, "I suppose it's to be expected--it sounds like you're
not the type to clean up his own messes.  I'd ask Janette, but
she doesn't seem all that domestic."
        "And you are?" asked LaCroix.
        Deciding she wouldn't take the note of disbelief in
his tone as an insult, Natalie gave him a wan smile.  "No.
Not really.  The best I can manage is to keep things neat,
just to make life a little easier.  A family habit."
        "Then, you come from a family of domestic
servants?  Because I do have a dreadful tear in my jacket,
from my last encounter with Nicholas . . . ."
        <That> almost got under her skin.  Throwing the
scrubbing pad back into the sink, she glared at him.  "You
<are> evil, aren't you?"
        He smiled modestly, touching his hand to his chest in
a humble manner.  "Well, one <tries>, doesn't one?"
        Sighing again, she put her hands on her hips, tweed
coat be damned.  "I'll have you know I come from a long
line of medical professionals."
        LaCroix slipped from the countertop, facing her.
"It's nice to see you take such pride in your work.  And it
does my heart no end of good to know that your family has
admitted they posed a danger to the continuing health of
mortals.  You've finally found your niche in dealing with
patients you can't kill--they're already dead."
        "Oh, we're used to that."  Natalie sighed and turned
back to her bag of cleaning supplies.  "I suppose you'll be
going, now that Nick isn't here.  Don't let me keep you."
        "Ah, Dr. Lambert, that's so inhospitable.  Surely you
wouldn't send me away without offering me some
refreshment.  Coffee, tea . . . or thee?"
        She felt his hands slip around her neck, beneath her
hair.  He wasn't strangling her, just trying to frighten her.
Nick said LaCroix had always enjoyed playing with this
food.
        "I'd really hoped this wouldn't be necessary," Natalie
said sadly.
        "I'm afraid that it is.  But you'll like the night, I
promise you.  And you'll enjoy all the lovely little things I
can teach you--"
        His lips brushed against her throat.  There wasn't
time to talk or reason.  Natalie reached into the bag and
grabbed the bottle of chopped garlic, flipping open the cap
and tossing it directly into LaCroix's face.
        His hands left her throat and he roared, hissing and
sputtering.  Before he could get too far, she opened one of
the lower kitchen cabinet drawers and pulled out the meat
mallet and sharp wooden stake.  With a well placed lunge
and swing, she managed to drive the stake into him.
        Blinded, LaCroix didn't know what hit him.  He fell
backward, still wiping at the fragments of garlic that clung to
him, then stared with disbelief at the wooden stake that
protruded partially from his chest.
        Spitting on her hands, Natalie got a better grip on the
mallet and changed from a straight hammer move to a golf
swing, shifting the stake up through the space between his
ribs and into his heart.
        LaCroix's head struck the countertop as he fell.  His
amber eyes were still open as he hit the floor and he writhed,
nails clawing at the stake in his chest.  Natalie stood over
him, frowning.  "You're a tough bastard to kill, you know
that?  But my great-great granddad always said that the older
they are, the tougher they are."
        His lips mouthed a question she couldn't quite make
out.  Natalie gestured toward the mallet in her hands.  "Oh,
this?  Hey, I'm not stupid.  You spend any time with a guy,
you know he's gonna make a move on you sooner or later.
Always good to carry protection--never know when he
might be a little <too> carried-away-by-the-moment, if you
know what I mean."  Knowing enough to keep out of the
reach of his arms, she leaned back to deliver the coup de
grace, gaining momentum with her swing.  "Once a Van
Helsing, always a Van Helsing," she declared, as she struck
the stake head clean and square, just as she'd been taught as
a child.
        LaCroix shrieked--the endless, pitiful shriek that had
always brought a tear to her grandmother's eyes--then fell
limp.  But Natalie wasn't fooled.  She knew the drill.  And
she almost thought she saw a flicker of fear beneath those
phony closed eyelids as she raised the meat cleaver and
decapitated him.
        Sitting back on her haunches, she watched as he fell
into dust, then sighed.  At least there hadn't been <too>
much blood this time.  But she'd have to give the floor a
quick mop before she left . . . she'd have felt odd walking
through the kitchen and knowing there might be bits of
LaCroix still underfoot.  And Nick did have a tendency to
walk around in bare feet.
        Natalie grimaced at the thought, but at least it gave
her an idea.  By the time the elevator door opened and Nick
stepped into the loft, the blood was gone and she was on the
kitchen floor on her knees, sweeping up the rest of LaCroix
into a dustpan.
        Nick stopped when he saw her, then looked around
quickly.  "Nat--what happened?"
        "What?" she asked innocently, wiping back her hair
with a rubber gloved hand.
        It was a calculated move and it worked.  He smiled
at the domesticity of the gesture.  "I told you, you're not a
maid.  I don't want you cleaning up."
        "And I told <you>," she countered, as he placed a
hand on her arm and helped her rise to her feet, "that if I'm
going to be preparing food in this kitchen, for <me>, I want
to make damn sure I don't get ptomaine."  Slipping away
from him, she quickly dumped the remains from the dustpan
into the trash compactor, then turned on the tap to wash the
grit out of the sink.
        "What's this?" asked Nick, peeking into the paper
bag she'd left on the kitchen table.
        "That's your part of the job, if you don't mind?"
Natalie offered him a shy smile.  "There's ice an inch thick
on the front walk, near where I parked.  I nearly slipped on it
coming it.  It just needs something for traction, so I figured a
little ash wouldn't hurt."
        "As my lady commands," said Nick, holding the bag
to his chest and bowing gallantly.  He started out the door,
then took another look in the bag.  "Anyone I know?"
        "Could be."
        Chuckling under his breath, he headed for the
elevator doors.  And Natalie returned to her second
cleansing of the kitchen sink, mourning the loss of the garlic-
-there was nothing like it to thin blood.  Singing "You take
the high road and I'll take the low road," lightly to herself,
she consoled herself with the fact that she could scratch off
one more thing from her 'to do' list.
 
****