Out of the Silence
Part 6

See Part 1 for notes and disclaimers and author's ramblings.
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http://www.loftworks.com/wftk/fiction.html

        His cold breath whispered across T.C.'s face.  "There is only 
one place to confront my son's death."
        The ground suddenly slipped away, and the cold wind rushed by.  
T.C. barely registered the fact that they were moving--flying--his mind 
went blank with shock.  He was going to die.  He knew it.  Julie would 
kill him.  She'd dig him up and kill him all over again. 
        They landed abruptly on the roof of a building.  LaCroix let 
him go, strode away to a door and kicked it open.  He disappeared 
inside, and T.C. stared after him in shock.  It wasn't everyday he went 
flying without any visible means of support like say, a plane.  He took 
a deep breath, found some equilibrium, and then slowly followed 
LaCroix.  He walked into a pit of darkness, stopped and put out his 
hands, attempting to feel his way.  Suddenly LaCroix was beside him 
again and handed him a candle.  
        The candle's dim glow cast LaCroix into eerie shadow and light.  
An omen of danger yet to come.  Perhaps last night's moon had been a 
warning--and he'd been fool enough to ignore it.   He really was an 
idiot.
        LaCroix turned and headed down the stairs into the darkness.  
T.C. followed slowly bringing his tiny bit of light with him, staving 
off the inky blackness wondering what the hell he was getting involved 
in.
        T.C. wanted to ask where they were, but instinct kept him 
quiet.  He'd know soon enough given LaCroix' mood.  Even as he 
descended the staircase, more candles were lit, bringing the large icy-
cold room to dim and hollow life.
        T.C. reached the floor and looked around.  Most of the 
furnishings were shrouded in dust covers and the room resonated with 
forlorn emptiness.  Dust, thick and heavy lay everywhere.  Disturbed 
for the first time in years, it filtered through the meager candlelight 
and glimmered like diamonds, cold, cruel, icy diamonds.  The dust 
floated lazily, dreamily through the air and T.C. felt like he had 
somehow stepped inside a snow globe.  Everything here felt unreal and 
eerily...otherworldly.
        After a timeless moment, T.C. moved from the bottom of the 
stairs and crossed the room to stand in front of LaCroix.  He saw that 
LaCroix' entire focus was absorbed in staring at the floor and looked 
down curiously.
        A shiver passed through him, and for a moment he heard an echo 
that hinted at voices and passion played out long ago in this room.  He 
knew where he was.  
        Knight's loft.
        On the floor there was a large area of discoloration.  It was 
faint, not much darker than the rest of the floor, but T.C. knew 
immediately it was the only visible remnant of the violent events that 
had occurred on that night so long ago.  The crime scene statements had 
said there was a pool of blood approximately 41x33 cm.  Rules and regs 
would have required experts clean it up after the scene was cleared and 
processed.  The law required it--since the average person didn't know 
how to deal with biological hazards like that. But nevertheless... he 
*knew* this was where Nick Knight had died.
        It had happened here.  All of it.  The scene had played out and 
ended here with Nick Knight's death, his blood spreading out from him 
in a crimson tide.  T.C. had never been here, never even driven by.  He 
had assumed that the building would have been cleaned up, sold and all 
evidence gone.  He should have known better.
        He looked up and met LaCroix' empty mocking eyes.
        "It happened here," T.C. said flatly.
        "It *all* happened here," LaCroix said finally.  T.C. 
instinctively knew he was talking about more than that night.  He 
turned abruptly on his heel and stalked away from T.C.  He walked 
around as if he could neither stand still nor face his thoughts.  As if 
the place haunted him.  Perhaps, T.C. thought, it did.   LaCroix turned 
and stared at him, his eyes once again burning that odd green-gold 
color.
        "She killed him," he hissed. "she bled all the strength from 
Nicholas with her puerile ideas.  She encouraged his foolish notion of 
finding mortality.  Convinced him that by changing his natural habits 
he could go back to being a lesser thing.  A blind sniveling mortal."
        T.C. almost stepped back at the vitriol that raged in LaCroix' 
voice and curled around him.  Sheer will allowed him to hold his ground 
in the storm.
        "He was duped by her promise that *science* held the answers.  
It was her God and he allowed her to convince him that *anything* was 
possible," LaCroix snarled through suddenly long and wicked looking 
fangs.  "She made him weak, and because of her, he turned his back on 
his family, he turned away from his true nature, he turned away from 
*me*.  He trusted her and it destroyed him!  He should have trusted 
*me*!"
        It was as if a wall, a self-imposed icy dam had broken.  The 
words and anger and pain rushed out of LaCroix in a torrent of 
conflicting emotions.  T.C. listened, struggling to retain an impassive 
face, astonished to find that he had been right.  LaCroix had talked 
with no one about this and it was tearing him apart.  
        His sense of justice, however, overrode his growing 
understanding of the risk he was in.  The story was just too slanted to 
let it slide by.  "Knight didn't seem like the type to be led around by 
a nose-ring," T.C. injected carefully.
        LaCroix' burning gaze raked him and T.C. swallowed reflexively.  
He crossed the room as if T.C. were his prey and from inches away 
pinned him with a withering stare.  "And what would you know about it, 
mortal?" he asked ironically.  "You weren't here--were you?"
        T.C. crossed his arms across his chest and raised an eyebrow 
showing bravery that really didn't exist inside of him.  "I read every 
case he worked on.  I've interviewed everybody and their dog--except,   
um,  you--about his behavior patterns and actions.  I've read every 
report he wrote.  I got to know him.  He had a rhythm to how he did 
things and he wasn't weak.  He was committed.  Intensely, deeply, 
irrevocably committed to being the best officer he could, to doing the 
most thorough job he could.  He was probably committed to changing 
his...uh...lifestyle just as deeply.  I doubt that Dr. Lambert hogtied 
him and forced him onto that path.  From her notes, I think he enlisted 
her to help him, isn't that closer to the truth?"
        LaCroix let his gaze slip down T.C.'s face to his neck.  "I 
lose patience with you," LaCroix said and his voice was suddenly inside 
T.C.'s head pummeling his thoughts and his mind started to fray away at 
the edges.  
        "I think Knight held to his convictions with incredible 
strength--his will was unbreakable wasn't it?"  Fog seemed to be 
building up in his head and the room was going dark.  All he could hear 
was his heartbeat.  Dreamily, T.C. finished his thought as it 
disappeared into the strange gold fog, "and you couldn't dent it, ... 
could ...  you?" 
        Abruptly LaCroix picked him up by his throat and tossed him 
viciously across the room.  T.C. slammed into the wall and slid down it 
to lie in a heap on the floor.  His head was ringing and hurt like 
hell, his throat felt like it had been ripped out.  He hurt everywhere.  
The room was hazy and seemed to be going an odd shade of black.  White 
flashes popped in front of him and pain radiated in every bone of his 
body.  After a while his vision slowly returned and the pain began to 
recede.  It focused into a throbbing head and arm.  
        T.C. sat up shakily and leaned his head on his knee.  "Time 
out," he whispered hoarsely, weakly.  "Ref, could we have a time out, 
here?"
        No one answered, but no one was trying to kill him either, so 
he called it even.  He took stock.  His arm felt like someone had used 
a meat cleaver on it.  He guessed it had taken the brunt of the hit 
when he'd sailed across the room.  Better that than his head, he 
supposed.  He stood, shook the dust off and limped over to the nearest 
chair, ripped the dust cover off it and sank into it with a moan.  His 
ankle was toast, too.  Great.  He wasn't going to be doing anything 
fancy with that foot for a while.  
        He looked around and saw LaCroix sitting at the dining table 
staring at something.  T.C followed his gaze and saw it was the door.  
It was one of those slider types.  He looked back at LaCroix and 
wondered what was so fascinating about a dirty door.
        T.C. stared at LaCroix trying to decide whether knowing about 
Knight was worth the cost.  It was already high and he wasn't giving 
odds on leaving this room alive.  He sighed and rubbed his neck slowly, 
trying to stop the hammer that was pounding there.
        "Okay," T.C. said finally, "you're not big on Dr. Lambert.  You 
didn't like her, or what she was up to.  I get that now."
        "She was his muse," LaCroix said bitterly.  "He followed every 
charlatan, mountebank and mummer that whispered in his ear that he 
could regain his mortality.  She was just the last in a long line of 
fools Nicholas pinned his hopes on."
        T.C. raised an eyebrow.  The words flowing out of LaCroix were 
not exactly common usage.  This guy must have the vocabulary from hell.  
Guess living for eight-hundred plus years would do that for you.  
        "She promised him that science would find answers and give him 
mortality."  LaCroix laughed bitterly.  "He was a fool.  Denying 
himself happiness, looking for the impossible.  If someone promised him 
mortality he would have followed them over a cliff."
        "And did he?" T.C. asked
        LaCroix turned and stared at the scar on the door again.  There 
was a story there, T.C. was sure.  He was also sure he didn't want to 
pursue it.  This one was already costing him way too much.
        "Yes," LaCroix said finally.  "He followed that arrogant woman 
off a cliff.  He followed her into death."
        No.  LaCroix definitely didn't like Natalie Lambert.
        He spoke as if T.C. wasn't there, verbalizing his thoughts.  
"Nicholas was always so strong, so convinced of his quest that I could 
only change his course by chipping away slowly and carefully at his 
'convictions'.  And his convictions cost him, dearly.  He could not 
play in the mortal playground the way he did and not get hurt.  He 
never learned.  Never, not in eight centuries did he learn that lesson. 
No matter how many times I taught it to him.  He refused to learn. And 
the cost was high...the last year...he changed.  He didn't break, my 
Nicholas..." LaCroix shook his head and stopped as if unable to accept 
the words he spoke, the truth he knew, but had denied even to himself.  
"...Nicholas didn't break, but he was coming close.  He lost that 
buffoon of a partner he doted on.  That was the start."
        LaCroix suddenly became aware of T.C. and glared at him with a 
burning hatred.  T.C. wished he'd go back to staring at the door.  It 
was inanimate and couldn't get hurt.  And T.C. didn't think he could 
take another flight and not *break* something.  'Look at the door,' he 
thought, 'look at the damn door...'
        He wished in vain.
        LaCroix got up and strolled casually across the room to sit on 
the sofa across from T.C.  He seemed unaware of the dust that roiled up 
around him.  T.C. coughed and sneezed.  When he looked up at last and 
met LaCroix' deadly gaze, he swallowed.  Fear alone kept him from 
getting up and moving farther away.  His blood turned to icewater in 
his veins, he couldn't have moved if he wanted to.
        "That night," LaCroix said in a cold, icy whisper with cruel 
anger, as if he knew *exactly* how afraid T.C. was, "I'd convinced him 
it was time to move on.  It was.  His partner was dying.  *Natalie* was 
pressing him to love her.  It was all falling apart around him.  His 
little mortal play world was shattering into tiny pieces.  He knew it 
was time to go.  He had outstayed his welcome.  I felt sure he would 
come with me.  But silly little Tracy Vetter died and Dr. Lambert was 
waiting for him when he came back here."
        "You were here?"  T.C. asked.
        LaCroix glared at him.  "If I had been, he wouldn't have died!" 
he said icily, his voice suddenly breaking.  He stopped and looked 
away.  The cords in his neck were taut with anger.  T.C. licked his 
lips.  He decided he didn't like hanging around an edgy almost-out-of-
control vampire.  It was bad enough being within biting distance when 
they were in control, but right now, T.C. felt as if any chance he had 
of living through this was disappearing into thin air.  He watched 
warily as LaCroix struggled to contain his emotions and flaring anger.
        LaCroix turned to look at him again with eyes that were full of 
hatred.  He finally spoke with deadly quiet.  "She asked him to make 
love to her.  *Fool*... She finally knew she couldn't make him mortal 
with her stupid science.  She finally understood, and yet she 
understood nothing.  Nothing!"  LaCroix' hand clenched on the sheet 
under his hand and ripped it.
        T.C. puzzled out LaCroix' words, but could make no sense of 
them.  "What did making love have to do with it?"
        LaCroix met his confusion with a bark of angry laughter.  
"Everything!  They had come into some erroneous knowledge.  Natalie 
believed that making love would make Nicholas mortal."
        "Why did she think that?" T.C. asked after a long moment.  
"What happened?"
        "You do know who Janette is, don't you, Detective?" LaCroix 
asked ironically.
        T.C. nodded numbly.  It would seem that LaCroix had kept closer 
tabs on their investigation than any of them would have imagined.
        "Janette became mortal," LaCroix said somewhere between disgust 
and disdain.  "She fell in love with a mortal, and made love with him.  
And then she became mortal--at least that was her story.  Dr. Lambert, 
of course, heard about it and thought it was their last chance.  But it 
wasn't.  It was their death sentence."
        "So, was Janette really mortal?" T.C. asked confused.
        "Yes.  For a while.  Nicholas," he said with wicked amusement, 
"brought her back across."
        T.C. tried to assimilate it and failed.  He wanted 
clarification, but LaCroix swept on,  "Who knows what really occurred.  
It was a combination of circumstances.  A mystical event--brought about 
by the unleashing of centuries of anger and pain when Janette's mortal 
lover was murdered.  The good doctor didn't understand that.  She 
thought they could duplicate it by making love.  It was doomed to fail--
as everything is--with Nicholas.  She couldn't see it.  He *wouldn't* 
see it.  He never thought anything through.  They were too caught up in 
their emotions and trauma to see anything clearly."  LaCroix closed his 
eyes and his shoulders slumped.  It was if LaCroix was accepting what 
he had refused even to acknowledge.
        "It was inevitable from the moment they met.  Passion cannot be 
held back forever.  What he saw in her, I'll..."  LaCroix stopped 
again, and T.C. waited.  
        LaCroix looked at him and grimaced.  He shook his head as if 
admitting reluctantly a truth he could not deny.  "She was intelligent, 
quick.  Even I enjoyed mixing wits with her.  If she hadn't been so 
stubbornly independent, she might have been a fine addition to the 
family.  Together, we once saved Nicholas' life from unraveling when he 
was shot.  It was ... amusing.         
        "But she was blind to reality.  And Nicholas never accepted 
what he truly was.  And so, in the end, he took her blood, drank her 
soul, and couldn't stop."
        T.C. turned and looked at the floor where the blood stain was.  
        "Yes," LaCroix said softly, following T.C.'s gaze.  "He laid 
her down there and wept.  He had taken too much.  She lay on the cusp.  
He could bring her over...or let her die.  And that was when I entered 
the tragedy they were playing out.  I arrived in time to play out the 
last act.  I felt it all, but I didn't anticipate the Doctor pushing 
Nicholas so.  I failed.  I didn't get here in time to stop her--stop 
them."
        T.C. scratched at his chin thinking and then met LaCroix' oddly 
defeated gaze.  "Would you...could you have stopped it?"
        "Oh yes," LaCroix said, his voice dropping, the timbre of it 
sending chills along T.C.'s skin.  "I, at least, was in a rational 
frame of mind.  Neither of them were."  LaCroix' lips thinned and anger 
burned in his eyes.  "I should have killed her, as I intended to, the 
year before.  I was weak and allowed Nicholas to persuade me to let her 
live.  But only because I realized, even then, that if she died it 
would destroy him.  I will *never* understand why he let her become so 
important!  She was mortal.  She would die.  Why didn't he realize 
that?"
        T.C. bit his lip and stared at the floor.  And then he put in 
his two cents.  "Because he loved her?"
        LaCroix turned his steely gaze back on T.C.  "Love!  Nicholas 
didn't love her.  He loved the idea of mortality.  He loved the idea of 
her loving him.  He didn't know what love was.  Damn him.  He was 
confused, and she added to it.  She said she loved him, but she 
destroyed him.  That's not love.  I wanted my son to live.  If he just 
would have left her behind, walked away, he would eventually have 
gotten over her."
        "What about Natalie?" T.C. asked.
        LaCroix looked at him in disdain.  T.C. stared at him 
belligerently, and LaCroix added grudgingly, "If he'd left, she would 
have moved on.  Gotten on with her pathetic mortal life.  She would 
have gotten over him."
        "But he didn't leave her," T.C. said softly, "did he?"
        LaCroix didn't answer immediately and T.C. waited patiently, 
feeling the bitter chill begin to seep into his bones. 
        "No," LaCroix whispered.  "He knelt there, weeping, holding her 
hand.  He never intended to leave her.  And then he started talking 
about ... faith."

End Part 6
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