Darkness of the Soul - Part 4

     Natalie turned a little paler, hurt at what he was saying. She
felt as if a knife had been driven through her heart--and then
turned. Something inside her seemed to break. Time stood still for a
long, long time. Then she looked at Nick, and time lurched forward
again.
     "How far did it go?" she asked finally.
     "Far enough," Nick said, not meeting her eyes. He sighed and
looked at her. "Nat, I can't live halfway in-between. If I go there,
I . . . want it, or at least the vampire wants it. For me, it has to
be one way or the other, and yesterday . . . it was the other. I
screwed up."
     Natalie stared at him, knowing there was a lot he wasn't saying,
and sure of what it was. She'd suspected that he'd shared blood with
Janette, and it hadn't stopped at the neckline. If he had shared blood
with someone else--he probably hadn't stopped at the neck this time,
either. Somehow, Natalie suspected he couldn't stop. Whether that was
true of other vampires, she didn't know. She only knew it was true of
Nick. He was right about that. He was just that way--emotion and
feeling. Thinking it through happened a lot later, if it happened at
all.
     "Oh," Natalie said. It was all she could seem to say.
     Nick winced at the ghostly sound of her voice.
     She stared at the wall over his head. "So what do you want to do
about it? Do you want to keep trying?" There was absolutely no
emotion in her voice or face.
     Nick took her hands gently in his. "Yes," he said as he leaned
his head against hers. "I want to try. I *have* to try. I hate this
life, Natalie. I hate the hunger that pulls at me and is *never*
satisfied. It's all blood and death, and an endless downward spiral.
If I don't keep trying . . ."
     Natalie waited, but Nick didn't finish the sentence. She could
guess, though. Nick was a lot nearer walking into the sun than he had
been two years ago. His despair was more desperate, and his hope more
fragile. She wished Schanke were here. And she wished LaCroix had
never come back. Nick had been so much happier then, so much
stronger.
     But LaCroix had come back, and Schanke had died--and that was
that.
     "All right, Nick. We'll start again. Maybe this had to happen to
get you re-balanced. Ever since you were shot, you just haven't had
any control--so maybe this will help. Let's just start from where we
are."
     Nick kissed Natalie's temple, fervently, feeling as if he'd been
given a second chance to start again.
     Natalie got up and went to the door. "Get some sleep, Nick. I'll
talk to you tonight." She hesitated a moment and then looked back at
him.
     "I don't like what you've told me, because I can guess what you
didn't tell me . . . No, don't say anything," Natalie said at Nick's
look, her voice breaking slightly. "I just don't know if I can keep
going on, Nick, if you do this again. I can't just be your friend,
Nick, so don't ask me to do this if you're going to . . ."
     Natalie bit her lip.
     Nick stared at her, pain rippling across his face.
     Natalie looked at him. "Maybe it wasn't such a good idea to come
see you today, Nick. Why don't we give this a few days to settle, and
then we'll start again, okay?"
     Nick closed his eyes for a moment. Then he slid out of bed and
joined her in the doorway. "Nat, I'll get it right. I promise. I'll
work this out, and resolve it, and then, I promise, I'll do anything
you tell me to do."
     Natalie looked up into his face. He believed it. Trouble was,
she didn't.
     "We'll see," she said.
     Nick caught her hand and held it tightly. Slowly, he drew her
close to him and kissed her cheek.
     Natalie leaned against him for a moment. Despite everything he
did that hurt her, that he'd probably spent the day with a
vampire--no, make that another woman--she still loved him. As foolish
as that was, she still loved him, and it hurt more than she could
bear.
     She looked up into his eyes. "Good night, Nick," she whispered
and left.
     Nick stood on the balcony and watched her descend the stairs,
cross the room, and leave by the elevator. She didn't look back.
     He stood there wondering how it was he could manage to ruin his
life twice in one day.

                                 ###

     Tracy unlocked the door of her apartment and slipped inside. It
had been a long night, and by the time she'd gotten through putting
in all the paperwork for the day shift, she'd managed to make it a
couple of hours longer.
     But it had been worth it. She suspected they would have some
good solid information by night. Whatever Nick's failings were, he
had a definite ability to smell a suspect. And this particular
suspect was looking more and more--suspicious.
     She wandered into her wisp of a kitchen and opened the fridge.
There wasn't really anything in there she wanted. She needed food,
but she had absolutely no desire to cook anything. Working nights
really made a mess of her eating habits.
     "Why don't you order something in?" a soft, crackly voice asked
in her ear.
     "Ahhwwwk!" Tracy screamed.
     Vachon caught her with a laugh.
     Tracy turned, her heart pumping, and hit him on the shoulder.
"Why do you *do* that?"
     Vachon smiled wickedly. "Because you make it so much fun?" he
teased with a laugh.
     Tracy rubbed her hand across her brow and shoved her hair out of
her face. "Fun for who?"
     "Isn't that whom?" Vachon quipped, shoving his hands in his
pockets as he watched Tracy.
     Tracy shook her head to clear it. Her heart was almost back to
normal, but she felt jittery from the adrenaline still flooding her
system.
     "What are you doing here, Vachon?" Tracy asked.
     "Actually, I was wondering if you were ever coming home, or
whether I was going to have to spend the day by myself. I would have
to resort to watching cable, Tracy, and let's face it, there just
isn't that much on cable these days."
     Tracy grinned in spite of herself. "Well, I'll tell you what you
are going to do, since you're here. You just became the chef. You're
cooking breakfast."
     Vachon blinked. "Oh, no. I haven't cooked anything since 1531,
Trace, and then it was over an open fire. You *really* don't want to
do this."
     Tracy glared at him. "If you are going to come over here and
scare me to death, and threaten to watch *my* cable, and generally
make yourself at home, you can cook. We're making pancakes, and
that's final!"
     Vachon held his hands up in surrender. "Whatever you say, Trace,
but you'll be sorry."
     "I'm sorry already," Tracy said, laughing, "but you are making
breakfast." She took him by the arm and dragged him towards the
fridge. "You find two eggs and the milk."
     Vachon peered into her fridge and began a systematic search
while Tracy pulled out her cookbook.
     "So how's the detection business?" he asked, his voice muffled.
     "Oh, it's okay," Tracy said, putting on an apron. She suddenly
felt a lot more energetic--thanks to Vachon's scare tactics--and
cooking seemed like a fine idea.
     "Just okay?" Vachon asked as he gingerly placed two eggs on the
counter.
     "Milk, Vachon, milk," Tracy ordered, and he went back to the
fridge. "Actually, we are getting close to solving a murder. And I'll
be glad when we are done with it. Everybody is absolutely pond-scum
material. We've dug up more dirt in two days than a backhoe could."
     Vachon plunked the milk carton down and leaned against the
counter.
     "Here," Tracy commanded, "crack those eggs into the bowl."
     Vachon looked at her. Tracy looked back. Vachon picked up an egg
and carefully cracked it open. He grinned at Tracy. She pointed to
the other egg. He cracked it open and dumped it in the bowl with its
fellow egg.
     Tracy poured in milk and oil. "Now, stir that," she ordered
handing him a spoon.
     "You're a hard woman," Vachon said to her back, as he started
stirring. "How long do I stir this for?"
     " 'Til I say stop," Tracy said as she measured flour and sugar.
     "So why is everybody pond-scum?" Vachon asked as he stirred in
an erratic fashion.
     "They just are. Everybody is involved in some kind of kinky sex,
or else they're blackmailing each other and making threats. It's like
watching a soap opera."
     "Is this stirred enough?" Vachon asked staring into the bowl.
There were little bits of yellow yolk fighting with oily globs. He
thought it looked absolutely disgusting.
     Tracy peered over his shoulder. "Close enough," she said and
dumped the flour mixture in. "Now mix that in."
     Vachon looked at her. "What, doesn't this ever end?"
     "Oh, don't be such a baby. Just stir it until it's slightly
lumpy."
     Vachon applied himself to the task. "So, how'd you figure out
who did it?"
     "Well, we haven't for sure, yet. But Nick found a lead tonight
that looks really good."
     "How is Nick?" Vachon asked casually, not feeling casual at all.
     Tracy shrugged. "Okay, I guess, for Nick. He's rather moody. He
didn't sleep well yesterday, but it didn't stop him from finding our
suspect. When I don't sleep well, I can't put two and two together."
     "That bad at math, huh?" Vachon asked, while he digested what
Tracy had so thoughtfully provided about Nick. It looked more and
more like Urs had been talking about Nick.
     Tracy elbowed him and smiled. "Okay, stop stirring, that looks
good."
     Vachon stopped. "Are we done, yet?"
     "No, we're not done yet," Tracy said with a grin, "now you put
it on the griddle."
     "How?" Vachon asked.
     "Oh, just put a big spoonful on," Tracy commanded.
     Vachon gingerly dumped a spoonful on, it landed in a satisfying,
sizzling plop.
     "Now, put three more on around it," Tracy added.
     Vachon, starting to enjoy this cooking thing, complied with a
grin.
     "Feel like eating a pancake or two?" Tracy asked with a wicked
grin.
     Vachon made a face. "No, thanks, I'll just watch you gorge
yourself."
     "I do not gorge, Vachon," Tracy said indignantly.
     He merely grinned.
     "By the way, why are you here, Vachon?" Tracy asked. "You never
said."
     Vachon shrugged. "I just felt like dropping by. Nothing was
going on at the church."
     "Nothing's ever going on at the church, Vachon. It's condemned."
     "I like condemned," Vachon said cheerfully.
     "Oooh, quick, let me turn those, before they burn," Tracy said,
elbowing Vachon out of the way. He watched as she flipped them
expertly.
     "You can do that for me, anytime," he murmured.
     Tracy laughed. "I'm glad you came by. I feel *much* better now.
I guess I did need to get the adrenaline flowing."

                                 ###

     When the alarm went off, Nick quietly reached up and turned it
off. He hadn't slept much. Most of the day he had lain there trying
to figure out what to do. He felt weary to the very core of his soul.
     His thoughts had chased themselves around until everything was a
blur. It was a relief to get up and do something as mundane as find a
murderer.
     Like a sleepwalker, he went through the routine of showering,
dressing and feeding. It was only when the cold air hit his face as
he walked out into the night, that he discovered there was a spark of
life in his soul.
     He drove to work on auto-pilot, listening to LaCroix's words of
hypocritical wisdom.
     "To thine own self be true," LaCroix said softly, "it seems so
simple, so easy, does it not, to be true to yourself? *If*, that is,
you know yourself. But do you know who you really are? Do you? . . .
I think not. You hide behind facades, and play out roles. But they
are not who you really are, but what you *think* you want to be.
Isn't that true, *mes amis?*" LaCroix asked with a slight sneer.
     "Truth is illusive, it hides . . . and you seek. Or so you
believe. While you seek to be that which you are not, all you find is
lies and disappointment, but not the truth. Life is an agony. It is a
song strangely out of tune, for the inner man can find no harmony
with the outward facade. Only when you shed your illusions of what
you believe you want, and accept what you really are, can you be
true, indeed, to yourself."
     There was a pause, and then LaCroix, with a mocking laugh,
added, "Agree or disagree, shall we discuss . . ."
     Nick turned the radio off.
     They'd had the conversation--about six-hundred years ago, and
every few decades since. He didn't feel the need for a refresher
course.

                                 ###

     Tracy was already at work when Nick sat down in his chair and
stared unseeingly at his desk. For a brief moment he couldn't seem to
focus on what had happened last night--or what was on the agenda for
tonight.
     "Nick?" Tracy asked, concerned. She'd never seen Nick staring
blankly at his desk before. "Are you okay?"
     Nick looked up at her and blinked. The blank stillness
disappeared. "Yeah. I'm just not sleeping." He took a deep breath.
"So, where are we?"
     Surprise crossed Tracy's face. This was a first, indeed. Nick
was always on top of things. "Well, I got the reports from the day
shift on Quinn. I think you're right, Nick. It looks like he's making
a lot of cash purchases."
     Nick seemed to perk up a bit, and he took the papers Tracy held
out to him. He glanced through them, and felt his brain kick into
gear. She was right. Quinn was spending more than he had from his
income, and it had to be coming from somewhere.
     He looked up and smiled. "Do you think maybe we should visit Mr.
Quinn and see what he has to say for himself?"
     "Well, based on this, I'd say he deserves an interview."
     "I agree," Nick said, rising. "Let's go."
     "Maybe I should drive the Caddy," Tracy said, trying to wake
Nick up with this not-so-subtle suggestion. Besides, she'd always
wanted to drive the boat, just to see what it felt like.
     Nick looked at her. "Why?" 
	Tracy thought she saw a flicker of fear in his eyes.  "Well,
you do look awfully tired, Nick. Maybe you need the break," she said
innocently.
     "I'll drive," he said briefly.
     "Why? Are you afraid I can't keep her between the lines?"
     Nick grinned. "Something like that."
     "Chicken," Tracy said good-naturedly, glad to see her partner
slipping back into his normal, intractable self.

                                 ###

     Mick Quinn was surprised when his doorbell rang. He wasn't
expecting anyone, and frankly wasn't in the mood. He opened the door
impatiently and stared in surprise.
     "Mr. Quinn," Nick said formally, "I'm Detective Knight, and this
is my partner, Detective Vetter. We met at Bryce Collier's office
last night. May we come in?"
     "Uh . . . yeah," Quinn managed to stutter out.
     Nick smiled inwardly. Quinn's heart rate had leaped like a
rabbit's and gone into double-time.
     Quinn opened the door and ushered Tracy and Nick into his sleek,
chrome-and-glass apartment. He gestured them towards some elegant
tubular and black-leather slung chairs. Tracy looked at the chair
oddly before sitting down. Her face was a symphony of surprise. The
chair hadn't looked comfortable, but it was--surprisingly so.
     Nick smiled and seated himself in the chair next to Tracy. It
was, if he remembered correctly, one of the nicer outcomes of the
Bahaus movement. Yes, it was very nice, and very expensive.
     Quinn flung himself into a leather chair, and scratched his
upper lip for a moment. "What can I do for you?"
     Tracy exchanged looks with Nick, and took the lead. "We're
investigating the murder of Liz Margulies, as you know, and in the
process of examining her personal papers, we discovered that you used
to be her financial advisor."
     Quinn nodded. "Yeah, that's true. I was."
     "Could you tell us why you aren't her advisor anymore?" Tracy
pursued, wondering when and if Nick would kick in.
     Nick, for his part, was monitoring Quinn's physiological
responses very closely. His heart was leaping erratically at her
questions. Nick was more convinced than ever that Quinn was the
murderer, or at the very least, an accessory.
     Quinn shrugged and restlessly ran a hand through his hair.
     "Liz decided my financial style was too liberal for her, so she
fired me--oh, nine or ten months ago. It was okay by me, because our
investment styles were incompatible."
     Tracy thought that over for a moment. *Yeah*, she thought, *like
she wanted to keep her ill-gotten money, and you wanted to take it*.
"What do you mean, incompatible?" she asked.
     Mick frowned, thinking it over. "I guess you could say I was
encouraging her to spend more in long-term investments, and she was
more interested in short-term gains."
     Nick almost laughed at Mick's description of their relationship.
"Mr. Quinn," he interjected, "how did you become her advisor in the
first place?"
     "Um, Troy Wilson. He's been my client for several years. In
fact, he's been a great referral for me. I've gotten a lot of my
clients through him."
     "And he introduced you to Liz," Nick stated.
     "Well, yeah. I guess so. As I recall, he recommended me to Liz."
Quinn's face puckered up. "Why?"
     Nick crossed his legs and leaned back comfortably in the chair.
Briefly he considered buying some for the loft. It was about time for
a change. "We're trying to resolve some inconsistencies in the Caring
Hands finances," Nick said smoothly.
     "Yeah, but I didn't have anything to do with the Foundation,"
Quinn said, strain making his voice go up a notch.
     Tracy glanced at Nick, waiting for him to start. They'd
discussed their strategy on the way over, and Nick was supposed to
apply the pressure and see if Quinn wouldn't crack. Tracy would have
liked to have tried, but she knew she didn't yet have the finesse to
do it, and Nick--Nick did. She loved watching his interrogation
techniques.
     Nick leaned forward. "Mr. Quinn, I don't think that is entirely
true. We know you were involved with the fund-raisers for Troy
Wilson, and as a result, had some interaction with Caring Hands."
     "Yeah, but it was unofficial stuff. Just making sure all the
donations were handled properly for the fund-raiser," Quinn
protested.
     "Did you become aware at any time that Liz Margulies was
embezzling from her foundation?" Nick asked bluntly.
     "Wha . . .?" Mick said, startled. He couldn't believed they'd
figured out Liz had been embezzling. "Uh . . . no. I didn't. I didn't
have that much to do with Caring Hands, I told you."
     "Then why were you blackmailing Liz, Mr. Quinn?" Nick asked
rather baldly, knowing Quinn was already off-balance at their quick
and sudden attack.
     "What!" Quinn yelped, jumping up. "You think I was black . . .
You think I killed her? You're nuts!"
     Nick looked at him mildly and said with deceptive calm, "No one
said anything about murder, Mr. Quinn."
     Quinn pointed a shaking hand at Nick. "Oh, but you're thinking
it. You just . . . just get out. I won't have you accusing me of this
stuff."
     "We know that you're paying for a lot of expensive items with
cash," Tracy pointed out quietly, coming in to play the counterpoint
with facts. "We have determined that you are spending a great deal
more than your records say you are making. Certainly a lot more than
you declared on your taxes."
     "And we know," Nick added, "that you were in a prime position to
discover that Liz was blackmailing your clients. Bryce Collier and
Troy Wilson were both being blackmailed. I think you know that."
     Quinn stared at Nick with narrowed angry eyes. "I think you're
crazy. Get out of my house!"
     "Actually, Mr. Quinn, we'd like you to come down to the precinct
for questioning," Tracy said, coming in for the low blow.
     "No way," Quinn said angrily. "I'm not a suspect in this case!"
     "That wasn't an invitation," Nick said. "And we'll make the
decision about who is and isn't a suspect."
     Quinn had been pacing the room, and he stopped abruptly at this
and fell back into the bookshelf behind him, surprise and shock
apparently making him lose his balance. He gripped the shelf tightly,
his face pale with shock and anger. But when he pushed himself away
from the bookshelf, he was holding a gun, and pointed it at them.
     "I'm not going anywhere," Quinn said angrily. "And you are going
to do just what I say . . ."
     Nick tried to make a direct connection with Quinn, but he was
looking at Tracy. Quinn moved to where Tracy sat in two quick paces,
and grabbed her by the arm, jerking her roughly out of her chair.
     Nick stood up abruptly, and they faced each other, with Tracy
caught in between. Quinn snaked his arm around her, pulling her tight
against him, and with his other hand, he pressed the gun to her head.
     Tracy licked her lips as she looked at Nick.
     "You don't want to do this, Quinn," Nick said softly, quietly,
not moving, but still trying to get Quinn to look at him.
     Quinn, his eyes flickering between Nick and the door, laughed.
"The hell I don't. You're gonna take me down and blame Liz's murder
on me."
     "If you didn't kill her," Nick said, his voice dropping lower,
"you have nothing to fear."
     Quinn finally looked at Nick, meeting his gaze with an angry
stare. "Yeah, I'll bet that's what you tell everybody. Well, I'm
going to walk out with your little blonde, here, and you're going to
help me get away. D'you hear me!"
     Nick took a step forward, and Quinn pushed the gun harder
against Tracy's temple. She didn't say anything, but Nick could see
the cords on her neck standing out as she strained to move away. Her
eyes watched him, waiting expectantly for Nick to get her out of
this, to give her an opening.
     "Quinn," Nick said softly. Focusing intently, pushing past his
exhaustion, his lack of sleep, and his sudden hunger, he caught Quinn
in his gaze.
     Quinn's face seemed to slacken ever so slightly. "Let her go,"
Nick whispered. "You don't want to hurt her." He took a step closer,
as Quinn struggled with the sudden thickness in his head.
     All Quinn could hear was a pounding so loud he couldn't think,
or even move. And all he could see were Nick's eyes, boring into his
with a painful, sharp intensity. Slowly, he lowered the gun an inch,
then two inches from Tracy's head.
     She watched out of the corner of her eye, and felt Quinn's hold
relax ever so slightly. Nick shook his head, stopping her for the
moment from doing anything.
     "Let her go, Quinn," Nick said again, "and put the gun down."
     Quinn, after a moment, dropped his arm from around Tracy, and
instantly she leaped away, as Nick tackled him in a dive.
     They went down in a pile, and the gun exploded, filling the room
with the sound of the report. The bullet plowed into the soft leather
chair Quinn had been sitting in. Filling poofed out of the hole and
sprayed little foam droplets everywhere. Quinn struggled viciously to
free himself from Nick. He threw punches randomly in his frenzy. Nick
caught Quinn under the chin with his arm and half-throttled him,
until Quinn quit and lay gasping for air.
     Tracy, her ears ringing, handed Nick her handcuffs. Nick rolled
off Quinn and turned him over, pulled his hands together and
handcuffed him. They stared at each other as reaction set in.
     "I guess," Tracy said, "I'd better call it in."
     Nick merely nodded in relief. If he hadn't been so tired, he
might have realized what was happening and stopped this before it
started. As it was . . . He'd gotten off lucky, for his ability to
hypnotize anybody was pretty well shot tonight. He'd been lucky, very
lucky. No, they'd been lucky, lucky as hell.
     Quinn began to sob and curse as he found his will was once more
his own. "Damn you," he whispered with venom. "Damn you,
damnyoudamnyou . . . It's all that bitch's fault. If she'd just done
like she was supposed to. I deserved the money. I deserved it, for
all I put up with, for not telling on her. I deserved it."
     "Quinn," Nick said grimly, "you have the right to remain
silent . . ."
     Quinn cursed him and shut up.
     Tracy clicked her phone off and looked at Nick. "They're on
their way." She stared at Quinn, who had closed his eyes, and lay
with his head pressed against the carpet, as if trying to disappear,
and felt only disgust for all the dark and ugly souls they had
encountered on this murder. She was glad it was over.

                                 ###

     It was only when they were driving back to the precinct to fill
in the paperwork and start the official interviews that Tracy broke
the silence between them.
     "Thanks, Nick."
     Nick glanced at her briefly. "You're welcome, but it shouldn't
have happened. I'm sorry."
     "It's okay. I don't think either one of us had any idea that he
would go berserk like that."
     She stared out the window and traced patterns on the glass. Nick
resigned himself to the fact that he'd have to clean the Caddy's
window--again.
     "Why do people think they have the right to do that to other
people?" Tracy wondered finally. "Liz used people, walked over them,
took their money as if they owed it to her--and Quinn seemed to be
the same. He seemed to think she owed him--that the world owed him.
And when she didn't pay him, he killed her--just because she wouldn't
give him what he wanted. How do people get that way?"
     "I don't know, Tracy," Nick said, glancing at her. He looked
back at the road. "I don't know . . ."
     His thoughts were in turmoil, knowing how easy it was to be that
way . . . 

                                 ###

*New York, 1960*
     Nick stood in the shadows, silent, impassive. A shadow within
the shadows--waiting. He had time, and he was patient. Cars whispered
by, water spraying behind them in the steady rain. Nick, pressed
against the wall, barely noticed the soft, persistent rain.
     His mind was focused on the events of the last twenty-four
hours. Everything had spun out of control in just a few tiny,
insignificant hours.
     Allen sat behind bars down at the local precinct, probably
suffering from the worst hangover in his life, because Nick hadn't
been there to stop his rash impulsive actions during the daylight
hours.
     Nick had taken Allen home, and seemingly talked some sense into
him. Allen had finally, towards dawn, fallen into a stupor of sleep,
and Nick had left to go to ground for the day.
     By nightfall, when he was once again free to move about, Allen
was in jail for attempted murder. When Nick had gone to check on him,
he'd been gone, his apartment in disarray, empty bottles littering
the floor. Nick cursed silently, knowing he should have stayed with
Allen. But it was always dangerous to spend so much time with a
mortal. The possibility of discovery was too high, and Nick had left.
He'd gone in search of Allen, fearful of what might have occurred.
     It had been Michael who had been able to tell Nick what
happened. Allen had tracked Jake Farley into the bistro, murder in
his heart and a gun in his pocket. Oddly enough, Jake had apparently
been looking for Allen--and their paths had crossed at the bistro.
     Allen had attempted to shoot Jake and missed, due to his state
of inebriety. Jake, however, completely enraged, had pressed charges,
and seemed intent (according to Michael) on seeing that Allen paid.
Allen had screamed curses at Jake from underneath the bouncer, who
had sat on him to keep him from doing any further damage until the
police arrived. Jake had called Allen a crazy idiot and paced the
room in a frenzy, demanding Allen be put away for life.
     Nick's lips compressed into a thin line. It would seem that
Allen was already paying. He was paying for being a nice guy and
trying to accommodate Jake. And Jake had taken advantage of him every
way he could. Now, it seemed he was taking advantage to get Allen out
of the way--possibly to keep him from talking about Jake's theft.
     Just once, Nick thought, it would be nice to see the good guy
win. And he was just the one to help it along.
     Jake was a user, but tonight, with Nick's help, he was going to
be used.
     A cab stopped across the street, and Nick focused his attention.
He watched as Farley paid the cabby and strode into the apartment
building.
     Silently, Nick flitted across the street, and followed Jake into
his apartment. He whispered past Jake as he opened the door. Jake,
feeling a breeze, had looked around in surprise, but there was
nothing there.
     He walked in whistling, smiling as he dumped his briefcase and
found a glass of wine. Nick watched from the shadows, only the golden
glitter of his eyes visible.
     As Jake relaxed, Nick made his move, appearing in a
scintillating shaft of air before Jake.
     With a yelp, Jake dropped his glass, spilling wine across the
floor.
     "What the hell!" Jake said shakily. "How'd you get in?"
     Nick merely smiled. He looked like a predator, his eyes a cold,
icy blue, and Jake instinctively backed up into the couch, going down
into it with a soft plop.
     "Why," Nick asked in a hiss, "did you steal Allen Fitzgerald's
story?"
     Jake stared at him, not taking it in. He was mesmerized by the
odd yellow glitter that suddenly appeared in Nick's eyes.
     "Why," Nick repeated intensely, "did you steal Allen
Fitzgerald's story?"
     Jake shook his head, but found he couldn't seem to move. He was
pinned in the hot glare of Nick's gaze, and held by the deadly
hypnotic spell Nick was weaving. His heart lurched and began to beat
heavily. The sound of his heart boomed inside his head.
     "I needed it. I needed an edge . . ." Jake said slowly. "His
story gave me one."
     "And that gave you the right . . . ?" Nick asked incredulously.
     Jake sneered, despite the spell leaning heavily on him.
     "Strength is what matters. Who cares about rights? If you've got
the advantage, take it. He's an idiot, I'm not. It was obvious he was
working on something--something good. The fool left it where it could
be found, so I found it."
     "You found it, and made it your own," Nick stated coldly.
     "Yeah . . . and it puts me one step closer to being in charge of
my own newspaper."
     "And what about Allen?"
     "What about him? He's a fool. He tried to kill me. He deserves
what he got."
     "He deserves," Nick hissed, "to see his work published under his
name--not stolen."
     Jake stared at him, uncomprehending.
     "And you're going to see he gets it," Nick finished.
     He reached out, grabbed Farley by this shirt and pulled him up,
dragged him close until their faces were almost nose to nose.
     Farley struggled in his grip for a brief second and then went
limp as Nick leaned into his mind, and took his will away.
     "You will confess publicly what you have done, that you stole
his work and published it as your own. You *will* see that the editor
of the newspaper knows what you've done. And your father--that he
knows what kind of man stands in line to inherit his paper.
     "And," Nick said in deep angry tones, "you will see that the
charges against Allen are dropped. And then you'll never do anything
like this again. If you take by force what belongs to another ever
again, I will find you, and I will kill you. That, Jake, is what it
means to take by force. It means you will die. It's that simple. If
you take *anything* from somebody else, I'll take your life from
you."
     Jake stared into Nick's eyes, frozen in fear, for as Nick spoke,
his eyes turned a brilliant, angry gold, and his fangs dropped. The
last words were hissed out between his elongated canines.
     Jack swallowed, and his heart stuttered in his chest.
     Nick's eyes slid to red.
     "I trust you understand exactly what you have to do, and that it
will be done within the next twenty-four hours. It will, won't
it . . . Jake?"
     Jake nodded and Nick let go of his shirt. Jake fell onto the
couch and stared up in fear, unable to move.
     Nick smiled wickedly. "I will enjoy killing you, just like you
enjoyed using people. Don't you just love the justice of it? I
do . . ."
     And he was gone.

                                 ###

     Nick came back to the present as the light turned red. He
brought the Caddy to a stop, and glanced over at Tracy. She was still
drawing circles on his window.
     Jake had been just like Liz, just like Mick, Harold, Troy,
Bryce, and Carol. So many people loved power, loved taking, loved
hurting. They loved to take, to abuse, to trample, and they had no
comprehension of what it did to others--until it happened to them--if
they weren't sociopaths.
     Nick closed his eyes. He had been like that. He'd gloried in
taking, spilling life to feed the vampire, trampling others to
satisfy his desires, forcing others to do his will. He didn't do it
much anymore, but it had taken centuries to recognize his behavior
for what it was, and then learn to control it. Even now, the desire
to take and to use wasn't all that far from the surface. It was
always there, just waiting, hoping, and wanting to be free. It was so
easy to do. He'd let it run wild with Jake Farley, and it had felt
good. So damn good. Even now, he still used it. He'd used his powers
to force Carol Weitz into confession. He'd used it on Quinn. He liked
to think he used it for good, but . . . 
     He knew what they felt, and why they did it, all too well . . . 





Chapter 9

     Vachon stared up at the moon and watched the clouds slip by. He
shifted uneasily, unsure that he should even be here, and uncertain
of what exactly he ought to say.
     He'd spent most of the night at the Raven, covertly watching
Urs. She *seemed* okay, but the subtle vibrations slipping through
their link bothered him. He didn't want to see her lose the ground
she had so painstakingly gained. But Vachon couldn't figure out what
he should do about it.
     He was pretty sure something had happened between Urs and Nick.
Tracy had dropped a couple of hints during their pancake-making
adventure. Adding that information to the feelings and images leaking
down his link from Urs made it fairly concrete.
     Trouble was, Knight scared him. He was, after all, a hell of a
lot older and more powerful than Vachon. And Vachon had already had a
taste or two of his temper. How was he supposed to go and tell him to
lay off Urs--or at least treat her right?
     Of course, Knight could be interesting and receptive to stuff,
but you had to hit him at the right time. If he was having problems
with LaCroix, then all bets were off. Vachon really hoped that they
weren't having one of their off decades. Of course, there was a down
side to them being on good terms, too. He was sure LaCroix wasn't the
kind to let his golden-haired favorite get himself beaten to a pulp
(unless LaCroix was doing the beating), and Vachon was willing to bet
anything he would back Nick up in a pinch.
     Then there was the whole thing that Knight had with mortals. It
was like walking through a minefield to deal with him. Vachon didn't
know if he really wanted to think about that right now. It might be
contagious.
     Vachon picked his fingernails as he mulled it over. He leaned
casually against the Caddy as he waited. Knight ought to be getting
off soon, and as long as Vachon stayed out of sight so Tracy didn't
see him, he figured this would be his best opportunity to have a
little chat about Urs.
     He hoped he would survive the experience.
     Vachon looked up as the doors opened once more, and then seeing
that Nick and Tracy were leaving together, he whisked himself down
the street to a convenient alley, and waited for Tracy to clear the
area.
     Tracy pushed through the door, with Nick a step behind her,
grateful to call it a day. Tracy couldn't remember feeling this tired
in a long time. When they booked Quinn, they'd discovered he was
carrying deep scratches on his left arm. The scratches matched up
with Natalie's speculation that Liz had scratched her attacker. A DNA
test was bound to convict him. Realizing he was well and truly
caught, he'd finally broken down and told them everything. The
interrogation of Mick Quinn had taken hours, but netted them with a
solid confession for Liz Margulies murder.
     "Well, I don't know about you," Tracy said as they took the
stairs down to the parking lot, "but I'm really glad that we have the
next couple of days off. It'll give me a chance to put my view of
people back into perspective."
     Nick laughed at that. It was true, Liz and her circle of
"friends" did tend to make him think everyone was black and blacker. 
     "Yeah," Nick agreed. "It'll be good to take a breather. See you
on Tuesday."
     "See you," Tracy said with a wave, and headed for her car.
     Nick watched her go, making sure she made it safely. He knew she
would beat him about the shoulders if she thought he was being
protective, but he couldn't help it. It was just the way he was.
     "I'm a cop, Nick!" she'd say, protesting. "I don't need
protection."
     But Nick wasn't so sure. Everybody needed somebody to watch over
them. At least in his book. He watched her get in her car, and then
headed for the Caddy. As he unlocked the door, he felt a sudden
vibration, and turned to find Vachon leaning against Reese's Taurus.
     Nick raised his eyebrows slightly.
     "Hi," Vachon said casually. "Mind giving me a lift?"
     A smile quirked the corner of Nick's mouth. "No, but I'm going
home."
     "S'okay. I just have a craving to spend some quality time with
some fins," Vachon quipped.
     Nick grinned and got into the Caddy. He doubted Vachon was
having fin withdrawal. In fact, he was willing to bet from Vachon's
slight nervousness that he was here to talk about Urs. He guessed it
was only fair. Since he'd read Vachon the riot act about Tracy, it
made sense that Vachon would do the same for Urs.
     Vachon slid into the passenger seat, and Nick pulled the Caddy
out of the parking lot and headed home.
     Vachon looked with interest at the circles drawn on the window.
"Nice art work," he commented.
     Nick glanced over at the window and grimaced. "Yeah, Tracy likes
to draw when she thinks."
     "No kidding?" Vachon said and looked closer. "Weird. I would
have thought she was the kind to just talk a blue streak. That's what
she does when she comes to see me. Talk."
     "Well, everyone has their hidden talents," Nick said dryly.
     "Yeah . . ." Vachon said. "I guess." He glanced nervously at
Nick, unsure how to continue. He decided on the direct approach.
     "I hear you spent a little . . . time with Urs," Vachon said
softly.
     Nick glanced at him briefly, but said nothing. He concentrated
on driving.
     "I know it's not exactly the same thing as Trace, after all Urs
isn't a mortal, but . . . she's easily hurt. I just don't want to see
her hurt, is all."
     "I don't either," Nick said, not elaborating.
     Vachon let a tiny frown of annoyance cross his face. Knight was
*not* helping.
     "Look, I don't know what happened, but I can guess. I know Urs.
She kind of starts things--and then things get out of hand. I'm not
asking you to avoid her or anything--just let her down easy," Vachon
pleaded. He hated begging, but he'd rather do that than get into a
fight he didn't think he could win.
     Nick pulled the car over to the curb abruptly and killed the
ignition. He stared out the window for a moment and then looked at
Vachon. "I don't know what happened, exactly," he said softly. "One
moment we were talking and then . . ."
     "Yeah, I know," Vachon agreed. "Urs is highly flammable. Look,
Knight, I know you didn't start it, it isn't your style."
     Nick looked at him, his face unreadable, then he looked away.
     "I won't hurt her, Vachon. Don't worry. I'm not sure what to do
about it, but I won't hurt her."
     "That's all I ask. I'd like to see her celebrate her second
century. Maybe by then, she'll know what she wants, and finally find
some happiness."
     Nick just stared at him. He wondered how Vachon could be so
casual about Urs's pain. And then Vachon met his eyes, and he knew he
wasn't casual--not at all. Vachon truly wanted her to be happy.
     Nick nodded, and started the Caddy. "You still riding?" he
asked.
     Vachon smiled and shook his head. "Nah, I think I'll wait until
you put the hood down. It's so much more fun that way. Sexy, you
know." With that, Vachon left in a small whoosh of air.
     Nick looked up in the direction he'd gone and rubbed his chin
thoughtfully. He'd never taken Vachon for the protective kind. It
only went to show you couldn't judge a vampire by his exterior or his
living quarters.
     Nick put the Caddy in gear and headed home. His thoughts slowly
roiled around in his head as he drove. His life was always
complicated, but right now, he felt like he'd achieved a new high--or
low, depending on how you looked at it.
     Natalie was angry at him, with good cause, and Nick had no idea
when she would decide to let him back into her good graces. His only
contact with her during the shift could be called decidedly chilly.
Tracy had given them both a questioning look at the clipped tones and
abrupt manner Natalie had used on Nick. Nick had taken it in complete
silence, deciding that silence--in this case--was the better part of
valor. Tracy, for once deciding that ignorance might just be bliss,
had not pursued it.
     And to top it off, Urs had really created a storm of emotions
inside him. Nick was, without a doubt, attracted to her. She had her
own special beauty, almost ethereal to Nick's way of thinking. Her
blood had given him unexpected respite from the storm that had raged
almost unceasingly since he'd been possessed. For that alone, Nick
knew he was interested. But that wasn't enough to see her on a
continuing basis.
     Nick loved Natalie, and that stood between him and any kind of
liaison with Urs, no matter what kind of balance Urs could give him.
Besides which, Urs was looking for a niche in his life, for reasons
that Nick couldn't quite fathom. He knew it had to do with her past
experiences with men, but he didn't see why she thought he was any
different. He would use her to calm the beast, given the opportunity.
And Nick didn't like that. He didn't like that at all, because he was
still tempted.
     And now, Vachon was giving him the parental lecture, and LaCroix
was stirring the mix with his own special blend of irony. Nick was
sure LaCroix was waiting for the fireworks so he could show up to say
"I told you so."
     The only good thing that had happened was the arrest of Mick
Quinn. It would give him and Tracy a chance to dig their way out of
the muck and mire of the depths of the human soul's perversions.
Tracy would find it a relief, Nick was sure, since she was generally
optimistic about her fellow man anyway. Nick was glad, because it
allowed him to try and forget just what his own soul, assuming he had
one, was like.
     Luckily, he had two days off before he had to see Natalie again.
Two days in which to figure out what to do--for Natalie, for Urs, and
for himself.
     On that note, he pulled the Caddy into the garage and took the
stairs to the loft just as the first hint of dawn turned the horizon
a lighter blue, hoping that a day or two of solitude would help him
figure it all out.
     He wasn't going to get it.
     Nick felt her presence before he saw her. He slowed and took the
last turn and set of stairs with reluctance.
     Urs sat on the top stair, holding her kitten in her arms,
watching him with some degree of nervousness.
     "I didn't think you were going to come home before the sun came
up," she said, stroking Snarl's back.
     "I cut it close a lot," Nick said slowly. "The job keeps me out
late."
     "Oh," Urs said, standing up.
     Nick unlocked the door and opened it, silently gesturing Urs to
enter.
     "I'm sorry," she said. "I know you probably aren't happy to see
me, but I wanted to see you. I guess I needed to say some things, and
I didn't think you would come by my place again. I didn't know I
would be here for the day."
     Nick merely nodded, his thoughts in turmoil. His reaction to
seeing her were ambivalent. "Would you like something?" he asked to
cover up his feelings.
     "If that's okay?" Urs asked in a small voice.
     Nick instantly felt churlish, and smiled at her. "It's okay,
Urs," he said, sorry to hurt her feelings.
     He headed for the fridge, glad he was still stocking something
she wouldn't mind drinking.
     Urs looked around at Nick's place for the first time and was
impressed. After all the years of Vachon's idea of comfortable
living, this looked like a palace. She glanced over at Nick
nervously. "I hope you don't mind that I brought Snarl. But I
couldn't leave him alone when I didn't know how long I would be
gone."
     "No," Nick said as he found glasses, and poured drinks for them
both. He'd pulled out the best he had for the occasion. "But I don't
know what we'll do for a litter box."
     Urs laughed. "That's okay, I've got something in my purse."
     Nick turned and looked, and for the first time noticed the
suitcase of a purse she was hauling.
     Urs saw his look and grinned. "I don't normally carry anything,
but with Snarl, I decided to bring everything."
     "How is he doing, by the way?" Nick asked, bringing drinks to
the living area.
     Urs put Snarl down on Nick's leather sofa, where he seemed to be
content to stay, and took the glass from Nick. He settled in a chair
and Urs sat down beside Snarl.
     "He's doing better. The head wound is healing nicely, and the
doctor says the tape on his ribs can come off on Friday. And the
splint, well, maybe in a week. I guess kittens heal really fast.
They're like babies, I guess. They bounce back from traumatic events
very quickly," Urs said proudly.
     "He seems to like you," Nick commented as he watched Snarl lick
Urs hand.
     "Yes," Urs agreed. "It's amazing. He seems to have adjusted to
me really quickly. I was afraid we'd end up hissing at each other to
see whose fangs were bigger. But he likes me."
     Nick knelt by the couch and put his finger out. Snarl stilled
for a moment and sniffed him, then he batted his finger with the
claws on his good foreleg. Nick smiled and scratched under Snarl's
chin. Snarl purred, and stretched his neck so Nick could get better
access.
     "He seems to like you, too," Urs said happily.
     "Yeah," Nick agreed, enjoying the feel of the silky fur under
his fingers. "I wonder why?"
     "I think it's because he's so young, and he's just adapted. But
I don't know."
     Nick scratched at Snarl's ear and then moved back to his chair.
He took his drink and drank it down in a single swallow. He knew he
was going to need it.
     "So what can I do for you, Urs?" he asked quietly.
     Urs bit her lip. Trust Nick to be direct. She'd hoped to ease
into this, but that didn't seem to be an option.
     "I just wanted to say . . . I'm sorry about the other night. I
don't want you to have to feel obligated or anything. And I don't
want you to feel like you have to avoid the Raven because I'm there."
Urs idly ran her hands through Snarl's fur as she spoke, never
meeting Nick's eyes. "And I just wanted to see if you were okay."
     Nick stared at her, startled. Certainly he hadn't expected Urs
to be checking up on his emotional state.
     Urs finally met his gaze, and wished she hadn't. This was harder
than she expected, but she wanted to have this relationship in a
friendly state. She didn't know why it mattered so much, but it did.
And meeting his eyes, she realized that she still wanted him, foolish
as that was, given the circumstances.
     "Urs," Nick began, rubbing his eyebrow, "you don't have to
apologize. It's not your fault. It just happened."
     Urs shook her head. "Maybe, but I've had a lot of relationships
that started that way. I'm attracted, I . . . go for it." She smiled
suddenly. "Maybe we're more alike than you think. I don't think,
either."
     Nick suddenly felt a warmth flood through him at her words. He
felt oddly as if he had found somebody who really understood.
     Impulsively, he leaned across the empty space and placed his
hand over hers--the one resting on Snarl. He felt tiny pinpricks
where Snarl attached himself, and looked down to find Snarl making a
serious attempt to gnaw on his thumb.
     Urs followed his look and smiled, too.
     "Thanks, Urs," Nick said softly. "That means a lot. I can't say
I've met many people who understand."
     "I know," Urs said.
     They stared at each other, unsure of what to do. Urs found
herself staring at Nick's lips again, and looked away. She didn't
think it would be too smart to go after him again.
     Nick, for his part, felt a desire well up inside his wasted,
empty heart to hug her--but he resisted.
     Urs looked around, and noticed the canvasses stacked against the
wall. "Oh," she said, diverted, "you paint!" She got up and made her
way over to his studio area. She looked critically at the painting
resting on his easel. It was a large painting in the impressionist
style of an early morning sunrise.
     "Wow," she said, "it's beautiful. You sure know your colors,
don't you?"
     "What do you mean?" Nick asked, joining her.
     Urs looked up at him. "I'm taking this painting class. Vachon
talked me into it, to make up for the one I didn't get to take in
Paris in the sixties. Anyway, I've been trying to paint a rose, and
it keeps getting all muddy. Jim keeps telling me it's my values. He
says I need to do indirect painting for a while, and learn to mix
color values. I don't know, though. I just want to get it done. It's
a lot harder than I thought."
     "Ah," Nick said, "indirect painting, in the classical style.
He's right. It does help. I learned that from Raphael. Of course back
then, indirect painting was all there was. Anyway, LaCroix got really
tired of my 'pathetic, drab-brown nudes' I believe he called them.
So, he arranged for me to study with Raphael. I spent a year with
him. It was worth it."
     Urs nudged him with her elbow. "It still sounds hard."
     Nick didn't answer, caught in thought. He scratched his chin.
"Maybe I ought to paint this in the classical manner. That might help
me figure out what's wrong. I'll do a study!"
     Urs blinked at the sudden change in Nick. "I didn't know you
were such a serious painter. Actually, I didn't know you painted."
     Nick grinned. "I'm serious about it every third decade or so. It
comes in waves."
     "Can I look at the rest?" she asked.
     "Sure," Nick said, feeling even more comfortable with her. Urs
liked painting, too.
     She pulled canvasses aside and studied them. There were
paintings in every style from classical to post-modern art. Urs was
astounded at them, and at the feelings they invoked. It was when she
found a small painting of Janette in a pool of moonlight that she
stopped. "This is wonderful," Urs whispered. "It captures her,
perfectly. She's so beautiful."
     Nick, looking down at her, spoke without thinking. "You're
beautiful, too."
     Urs looked up at him from her kneeling position, her eyes wide,
full of a gamin charm. The room unexpectedly crackled with tension.
     Neither spoke as they stared at each other, then Nick held out
his hand to her. Urs took it, and he pulled her slowly to her feet,
and then into his arms. "You're very beautiful," Nick said huskily,
and kissed her.
     Urs slid her arms around him, pulling him close to her, and
feverishly kissed him back. Janette's portrait watched them with
knowing eyes, as Urs pulled Nick's shirt from his trousers and slid
her hands up his back.
     Nick's fangs tangled briefly with Urs's fangs as his lips clung
fiercely to hers. Urs giggled at that, and Nick, drawing back just
slightly, laughed with her.
     "Urs . . ." he whispered, with a thread of laughter. "Urs . . ."
and then his mouth found hers once again.
     Urs pushed Nick back against the column as she kissed him with
mounting passion. She pricked his lip with her fang and with her
tongue tasted his blood once again. And then Nick literally ripped
her blouse off and his hands slid over her, caressing her as he found
her neck with his lips, and licked it, tasting her.
     Sliding her arms around him, Urs reveled in the feel of him, in
the power of his muscles. Her head fell back, exposing the long
graceful porcelain column of her neck as she wrapped her arms around
his neck and brought his face closer. With a growl, he picked her up
and pulling her close, buried his face between her breasts.
     He rose in the air, heading for the bedroom.
     "Nick," Urs whispered, her fangs teasing his ear, "what about
Snarl?"
     "What about him?" Nick asked, hovering in mid-air.
     "He might pee on your couch . . ."
     "If he does, I'll buy a new one. It's about time I got some new
furniture. He'll be finemmpffff . . ."
     "You suremmmm . . . ?"
     "Yes . . ."
     And then they tumbled into his bed, and it was all an explosion
of light and dark, tumbled in silk, and filled with a liquid fountain
of fire and blood.

                                 ###

     Urs woke, alone in the tumbled sheets of Nick's bed, disoriented
for a moment, and then she lay back, pulled his pillow over her face,
and inhaled his fragrance. She loved the smell of him, his sheer
masculinity. She rolled over and looked around his room, memorizing
it, because she knew she would not be here again. At least, not for a
long time.
     It was clearer to her now. They were alike, so very alike.
Confused lost souls trying to find their way through the night--and
when you meet yourself, it was bound to be an explosion, and it had
been. It had been wonderful, delicious, and everything she had ever
wanted. But Nick needed to work out his life here and now with
Natalie, and Urs, well, she had her own problems to resolve. She
needed to find out who she was, and learn to love herself.
     Nick needed her, and she needed him. It could be a dangerous
addiction. Urs would love it, but she didn't want addiction, she
wanted more, a hell of a lot more. And that would take time and
patience. Smiling, feeling sure of herself, she suddenly knew what
she had to do.
     After a moment, she rose. Finding his pajama shirt lying on the
floor, she put it on and wandered onto the balcony.
     Nick sat by the couch, leaning against it, playing with Snarl.
Sensing Urs's presence, he looked up and smiled. In the false
darkness of the loft, his chest gleamed an alabaster white, and his
hair glowed silver.
     Urs took the stairs at a leisurely pace, and Nick watched her
legs with appreciation. She sat on the floor next to him, and he
leaned over and kissed the tip of her nose.
     Urs smiled, and her hand slid through the satiny fur of Snarl's
torso to twine with Nick's.
     "Sorry about that," she murmured.
     "Which?" Nick asked.
     "For ripping your shirt . . . and well, for all of it. I didn't
mean for it to happen. I just wanted to be your friend."
     "You are my friend, Urs," Nick said quietly, leaning his
forehead against hers. "You are. And I think I ripped your blouse
first."
     He watched the smile curve her lips. "I know, but you're right."
     "About?"
     "About us, about now."
     Nick pulled away and looked at her. "What do you mean?"
     "I mean, you still love Natalie, and I still love being needed.
It's clearer to me now that we are alike. We're so alike, Nick."
     "I know," Nick said softly, in a low voice. "I know."
     "It's not a bad thing," Urs said teasingly. "In fact, there's
this show I listen to on the radio on Sunday mornings just before I go
to bed, and they talked once about how the best marriages were made by
people who had similar interests, backgrounds and religions--of course
they would say that, since it was a ministry program.  Anyway, I think
you and I could be a good match. But just not now."
     Nick watched her, fascinated at how well she seemed to
understand, how in tune she was. And incredibly, he knew she wasn't
just saying it to give him a graceful way out. He knew, because they
were still connected. They were still one.
     Urs pulled her hair back from her face impatiently. It sprang
back and curled around her face in random curls that Nick thought
were adorable.
     He slowly caressed her face with a finger as she talked.
     "I could love you, Nick. You know that. And you could love me.
But I need to find me before I can really love someone else the way
they ought to be. I don't know why I didn't understand that before,
but I didn't. Maybe it's something in your blood, some of your
experiences that are rubbing off." Urs shrugged.
     "And I need to love Natalie," Nick said quietly.
     "Yes. You do," Urs said emphatically, nodding her head. "You
need to resolve your life, too. I know what you want. And oddly
enough, I understand. I never wanted to live forever, either.
Immortality has a price, Nick. It's one that neither of us really
wants to pay."
     "No," Nick agreed, his hand sliding down her neck, caressing
her. Urs leaned into it, and closed her eyes, enjoying the moment.
     "I feel better now," Urs started, and was startled by Nick's
sudden laughter.
     "I should hope so," Nick whispered against her forehead.
     Urs hit him in the shoulder. "I didn't *mean* that!"
     Nick raised an eyebrow.
     "Okay, maybe I did. But I meant mostly that I felt better about
us now--a lot better than I did the other night. I can live with
this, Nick. I can go on. And so can you."
     Nick nodded, sober now, at her words.
     Urs reached up and put her hand on his check. She smiled at him
and shook her head slowly. Then she kissed him gently. Nick kissed
her back, unwilling to let her go just yet.
     Urs leaned back and relaxed into the sofa. She looked at Snarl,
still happy on the sofa.
     "There's a wet spot in the corner," Urs said with a giggle, "and
it looks like he scratched the leather to cover it."
     "Yeah, I know," Nick said calmly. "It's okay."
     Urs looked back at Nick, feeling incredibly happy and calm.
"Thanks, Nick," she said. "The sun's going down soon. Do you mind if
I take a shower before I leave?"
     "No," Nick said with a smile. "Make yourself at home."
     Urs looked at his finely muscled torso, and slapped him on the
knee. "I think I am. After all, between us, we're wearing only one
set of pajamas."
     Nick laughed. "You're right about that."
     Urs got up and headed back up the stairs. She knew Nick was
watching every step she took, and it made her feel good.
     "Do you mind feeding Snarl?" Urs asked as she got to the top.
"There's a can of cat food in my purse . . ." And she disappeared
into his bedroom.
     Nick looked at Snarl. Snarl stared back, unblinkingly.
     "Want something to eat?" Nick asked.

                                 ###

     Urs returned just as the sun set, dressed, looking happy and
relaxed. She quietly gathered up her things as Nick watched from the
kitchen table, a drink in front of him.
     "Want one?" he asked.
     Urs shook her head. "No, I'll get something at the Raven. I'm
going to be late and it's another shipping night. Stuff in, stuff
out, and you know LaCroix . . ."
     Nick nodded. He knew LaCroix.
     Urs came over and ruffled his hair and kissed him. "Thanks,
Nick. Thanks for everything."
     Nick kissed her back, but said nothing.
     Urs picked up Snarl and walked to the door. She turned and
looked back at Nick, and smiled at him. "When you need help, Nick,
when nothing else will do, come to me . . . and let me help."
     The door had snicked shut behind her before Nick could think of
a response.

                                 ###

     The moon rose, sending silver, soft as powder, to light the
loft. Nick stood at the window and watched, bathing in its radiant
light. His thoughts were mixed, caught between the possibilities. Urs
had given him balance, and she had also given him peace about what
had happened between them. The door had opened, and now it was
closed, but Nick was grateful for the journey, however short.
     He leaned against the window and watched the night flow by. Urs
was right. It was time to love Natalie. What little time there was,
he owed her. He felt a sense of urgency as if it was growing short.
He had hurt her, and hurt her badly. It didn't matter if he had never
said the words, it was there. She loved him, and as much as he could,
Nick loved her.
     He sighed, and fell to brooding. He hoped that she would forgive
him, but he knew it would take time. But with his renewed vigor and
freedom from the constant craving, perhaps he could find ways to
please her, to meet some of the longings of her empty heart.
     It couldn't be much fun for Natalie, loving him. There was
no . . . culmination or consummation--for either of them. He mulled
it over. There couldn't be anything like that between them, not as
things were. Consummation. Nick thought of many other words that went
along with it: Resolution. Fulfillment. Commitment. Happiness.
     If he was committed, he ought to be able to give Natalie some of
the sweet things she deserved--some happiness. Sweet things like
those he had received in his brief encounter with Urs. Natalie
deserved that. If only she would let him back into her life.
     If only . . . 





Epilogue

     Urs stood under the brilliant moon, looking up at it. She hugged
herself and laughed, feeling an innocence she hadn't felt in over a
century. Not since she was a child.
     Behind her the raucous music of the Raven bled out into the
street. And with it came Vachon.
     "Hello, Jav," Urs said without turning.
     Vachon put his arms around her and leaned his head against hers.
"Happy?" he asked.
     Urs pulled his arms closer and smiled. "Yes. Happy."
     Urs turned her head and looked at Vachon. "Do you remember our
conversation after Jacqueline threw herself off of the building?"
     Vachon nodded.
     "I thought so," Urs said. And suddenly it played out in her mind
as if they were having it again . . . 

     *"Somehow she knew. In so many ways we were the same," Urs said,
looking up at Vachon. "My father abandoned my family when I was
twelve. But we told ourselves we wouldn't let it destroy us. Growing
up, I thought I'd forgotten him. And then something Jacqueline said
made me remember. And I realized I've spent my life searching for my
father in every man I've met. Someone to approve of me, to tell me I
was a good girl, and maybe even love me. And I did whatever it took.
But I don't know if just knowing that is enough."
     "To change?" Vachon asked.
     "Uh-huh."
     "I can't say," Vachon admitted, wishing he knew.
     "When I met you, more than anything else in the world, I wanted
to die," Urs said softly.
     "I know. I haven't had a chance to say I'm sorry for what I
did."
     "You don't have to. It's done."
     "So, now . . . do you still want to die, Urs?" he asked
hesitantly.
     Urs looked at him earnestly. "I understand more than I did
yesterday, but has it changed my mind? Hmmm." Shaking her head she
walked away, leaving Vachon aching for the pain he'd caused her.*

     "I think I know the answer, now," Urs said.
     "And?"
     "I don't think I do, at least not today. In fact, today I don't
mind being alive at all."
     Vachon tightened his grip for a moment. "I'm glad."
     "Javier," Urs said laughing, as she moved out of his embrace. "I
didn't know you liked riding in the Caddy. I didn't know you had a
thing for fins . . ."
     She walked away, leaving him staring. He shook his head, and
watched her take off into the starry night sky.
     Urs flew skyward, reveling in the freedom of flying. She'd
always loved flying, and tonight it was glorious, as if she were made
of nothing but limitless air.
     She hugged herself as she flew. She had told Nick the truth. She
needed time to find herself, just as Nick needed time to work out his
own problems. Urs knew that Nick would eventually have to leave this
life. Nick would have to leave Natalie Lambert, however painful.
     And when he did, Urs knew that their paths would cross again.
She would make sure of it. And then, she would give Janette a real
run for her money. Urs smiled at the audacity of competing with
Janette, but she was going to win Nick's love for herself.
     Yes, she would be there and she would be waiting . . . 

                                 end

------- 

Some flashback sequences in this story contain dialogue from the
episode "Hearts of Darkness," script by J. Daniel Sexton.