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Nor Any Place Be Empty Quite

by E. R. Fiennes

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Author's note: The middle of this story is intolerably flawed and I no longer have the interest necessary to do a complete revision, so I initially thought it should not see the light of day. However, as I am fond of the beginning and the end and as they present a view of LaCroix that is sadly underrepresented in FK fanfic, I have decided to let it go up. Take it for what it's worth.

                                 
          He really must remember to tell Nicholas, LaCroix thought distantly as he stared down at the body at his feet, just how many mortal lives his little exercise in 'righteous vengeance' had cost. He nudged the boy's head with his boot, turning the face so that the faint glow of the streetlight touched the tousled blond hair, the staring blue eyes. Another victim of his need for fresh blood to restore his strength. There had been many such since the betrayal. Yes, Nicholas would be sure to appreciate that.
          A gust of icy wind came around the corner, and he turned away, irritably tightening the belt of his coat. What damnable weakness. Even though he had fed not three minutes before, he still felt the cold as a mortal would. Trust Nicholas to choose the fiercest winter in many years to do this to him. When they were together again, he would have to think of some way to share the experience with him. But for now...he wanted to find somewhere to rest and warm himself before flying home. He had been outside hunting for too long. He left the alley and walked quickly up the street lined with shuttered shops, ignoring the ache in his bones, looking for any sign of welcome for travellers.
          Even at that late hour, the windows of the hotel streamed light. There would be a bar of some kind in the lobby, surely. For a moment LaCroix stood irresolute in the snow. It might be difficult to avoid tiresome conversation with drunken mortals in such a place. But the rest of the street was dark and deserted. He might have to walk for blocks to find a more suitable shelter. He thought of the apartment he'd rented in Toronto, of Janette's nightclub, of Nicholas's loft. By right he should be there tonight, at ease with his family, instead of outside in the cold of a strange city. Damn Nicholas, anyway. He might have lingered longer over this particular thought, one which occurred to him frequently those days, but another gust of wind interrupted his meditations. His chest burned with the influx of chilly air, and he began to cough raggedly. He waited impatiently til the fit passed, then pushed open the doors to the hotel.
          The bar was decorated in an unpleasant nineteenth-century English style--mahogany and brass--but it was warm. LaCroix sank gratefully into a seat at one of the tables, for the moment aware of nothing but the overheated air, closed thick around him like water in a pool. He was wearier than he'd realized; he was not quite sure how he was going to get up and face the cold again. Perhaps he should take a room and spend the day there. But would that be wise? He leaned back and looked around. There were few people about. A middle-aged couple, sitting together quietly. The waitress, leaning against the bar, talking to the bartender. And, on the other side of the bar, partially screened by an overgrown fern--
          Nicholas.
          He half-rose, the thought flashing through him that Nicholas had come looking for him, that he regretted what he'd done, that they could simply go home together. Then he realized his mistake and dropped abruptly back into his seat, scowling at his foolishness. There was no vibration in the air between them. He could feel Nicholas, faintly, and he was many miles away. This young man was someone else.
          But in the name of all the gods, who else? The resemblance was astonishing--closer than that of brothers. What cruel trick of fate had given this young man the same features as someone who had lived eight centuries before him? LaCroix had seen cases before when mortals had worn, all unknowing, the faces of those long dead, but never had the similarity been so painfully exact. He stared at the honey-blond hair, clear blue eyes, wide brow, and full mouth in fascination, drinking his fill of the irony. This young man wore his hair short, with one soft wave across his forehead. His sweater was a smudgy charcoal grey, a cut too large, with sleeves which fell loosely around his wrists. He was leaning his cheek on his hand, staring off into space. He looked lost; his eyes were full of trouble, his mouth unconsciously turned down with despair. A familiar sight. Poor Nicholas, LaCroix thought, and a smile flickered across his own mouth, always taking the weight of the world on his shoulders...
           He shook himself abruptly. Whoever it was, it was not Nicholas sitting there at the bar, looking bewildered. No, Nicholas was in Toronto, Nicholas was happy, playing foolish games with his mortal acquaintances--that coroner, that partner--secure, no, delighted, in his belief that he had driven a flaming stake through the heart of his oldest friend. Making a life without him, and grateful for the chance. LaCroix looked down, snarling, remembering the body he'd left in the alley. Nicholas was not here, but his mortal double was. He did not need to feed again tonight, not so soon. But there were other ends for which the boy might be useful, useful indeed. Would he scream with Nicholas's voice? He carefully smoothed out his expression, and got to his feet.
          "A cold night, is it not?" he asked, sliding onto the stool next to the young man a minute later.
          "What?" he said absently, glancing at him for only a second. LaCroix felt an instant's chill. It was the same voice. Even more remarkable. "Yes. I guess so." He was slowly crumbling a toothpick into bits with his free hand.
          "Pardon my intrusion, but I did not think you looked well." He nodded at the bartender. "Have another drink."
          "No, thank you," he said dully, meeting his eyes perfunctorily again, but for a longer period this time.
           "Have another drink," LaCroix repeated, letting the power come into his voice, as the bartender set the glass in front of him. The other man stared at him, then nodded slowly. "All right." He picked up the glass and swallowed the liquid without enthusiasm. Good. LaCroix hoped he would not have to call on that ability too often to pick this young man up. It drained him more than any of the others, and he did not have strength to spare, these days.
           "Now, what is your name?"
           "Klaus."
           "Well," he tilted his head, tasting the name, "Klaus, you seem overwhelmed with cares. An affair of the heart gone sour, perhaps?"
           "Does it matter?" He took another drink.
           "Obviously it does to you. It would ease your suffering to speak of it."
           "It doesn't matter. It's stupid of me to care. Stupid," he repeated under his breath, his face darkening, as he banged the bar softly with his fist.
           "It isn't 'stupid' to care about something, Klaus. What is stupid is to deny the feeling, and therefore enslave yourself to it." He laid a hand across his wrist. "Tell me about it."
           Klaus shook his head and drained the glass, apparently oblivious to the touch. "I'm not a slave to anyone. Not anymore," he declared defiantly. Then he laughed, a touch hysterically. "I'm free."
           Oh, that was too much Nicholas. LaCroix's fingers tightened on the other's wrist, and he had to look down for the space of several breaths. Finally, he murmured, "But you were...?"
           "Who are you, anyway?" Klaus jerked his head around, looking at him suspiciously. "What do you care?"
           Damn. "That doesn't matter," LaCroix whispered, and let his hand drop to the other's knee. "This feels good, doesn't it? And so does talking to me. You want to tell me all about it."
           "Ohhhh," the other said softly, his eyes going blank. "Yes." His own hand settled very slowly on top of LaCroix's, as if he were not aware of it. Nicholas's hand, only warmer. Soft skin and strong fingers. Yes.
           After they sat for a moment in silence, he prompted, "Well?"
           "No one cares about me here."
           "Ah, yes, loneliness is often a problem for travellers. Why are you here?"
           "I had to come. --Business," he added hastily, seeing the other raise an eyebrow.
           "But when your business is finished, you can return home to those who care for you, can you not?"
           "No. That's the problem. There's nowhere for me to go." He stared down at the bar. "No one wants me anywhere."
           Ah, yes, the outcast wherever he went. LaCroix had heard that complaint in that voice many times over. In those very same irritating tones of self-pity and accusation, as well. "Well, Klaus, you're a very fortunate young man," he smiled over the other emotions stirring in him, and fished in his pocket for some money.
           "Why?"
           "Because now you have somewhere to go."
           "I do?" He glanced up wearily.
           "Indeed. You see, you're coming home with me," he murmured, looking hard into his eyes, sliding his hand a few inches upward.
           Klaus breathed in sharply and looked down again.
           "Aren't you?" he prompted.
           "Yes," he said quietly. "Yes, I am."
           LaCroix smiled again, and patted his leg. "Good. Let's go, then. The night is all too short."
           The bartender grinned paternally as he watched the two men walk out of the bar together.
            
           The possibilities were simply enchanting. LaCroix played with them all during the cab ride home, turning them over in his mind lingeringly. A mortal Nicholas--the opportunities for creativity, for the display of his own particular insidious brilliance, were almost limitless. He had smiled and stroked the boy's hand as he thought of them. Klaus had been quiet on the trip, probably still dazed from the hypnosis. But he smiled at him hesitantly with the touch, and LaCroix had smiled back more broadly, reaching to caress the face, watching the blue eyes go shut as he slid his thumb across the sensuous lips. Oh, yes. This was going to be deeply satisfying.
           LaCroix slid the bolt on the door behind him as his guest took uncertain steps into the large, dark space. These lodgings were very luxurious, very private, and very expensive; perfectly suited to his needs. No one ever saw or heard anything here--no one wanted to. How naive Nicholas had always been, to believe that mortality meant innocence. LaCroix had never had difficulty finding mortals whose corruption was as great as his own, mortals who didn't care what he did so long as he satisfied their demands for payment handsomely. And what would he do this time? So many choices, and only one Nicholas, now looking around him with confusion. Well, first things first.
           "Sit down," he said, and went over to the large grey cabinet where he kept his tools. He took a pair of handcuffs from a drawer and turned around. Klaus had chosen a couch of severely-styled black leather; he was sitting on its edge, looking more alert than he had in some time.
           "Now, Klaus," LaCroix advanced on him, holding the cuffs slightly behind him, "we are going to play some games."
           "What do you mean?" The blue eyes were quicker than they had been.
           LaCroix sat on the couch next to him. "I like a little sport now and then, Klaus. And you want to play with me, don't you?"
           His expression went blank again. "Yessssssss...." The answer was drawn out between his teeth.
           "Good." LaCroix took one of Klaus's hands and turned it over slowly. Yes, as he'd thought, as fine as Nicholas's. Then he brought out the cuffs and clicked in the wrist. Klaus started slightly. LaCroix continued, softly, "You see, Klaus, I can't have you deciding later that you want to stop. I would find that...irritating." He put the other wrist in the other cuff. There, now he could decide what to do with him at his leisure. He looked up at the boy's face. He still seemed tense, but his eyes were dull again. He would let him become fully conscious of his circumstances soon--once he had decided what they were to be, of course. But, since his children didn't seem to want to be here to help him, it was most convenient to start this way. "Stay here, Klaus. Stay here and think about what wonderful games we're going to play." He ruffled Klaus's hair, then got up again to go back to the cabinet.
           He had taken only a few steps when he heard the snap and crunch of metal breaking, and the clatter of something falling to the floor. The handcuffs? He spun around just in time to take Klaus's lunge full in the chest. The two of them fell awkwardly side-by-side to the floor. Klaus rolled over and tried to pin him down, eyes blazing. LaCroix snarled, his own eyes lighting in response, drew back his feet and knocked him away. The impact sent the other man skidding back against the couch. LaCroix scrambled up just as Klaus got to his own feet, growling, showing his fangs--
           Eyes blazing?Showing his fangs?
           The two of them stared in astonishment at each other for a minute. Then Klaus laughed. It was a high-pitched, squeaky laugh, which rang unpleasantly in the high-ceilinged room. He gasped, "Both of us? Oh, that's rich. Both of us?" He slapped a nearby table and laughed again.
           "You're...a vampire, then?" LaCroix said, staring at him suspiciously. Impossible. How could he have been so mistaken?
           "Oh, there's no question about that!" His eyes sparkled.
           There could hardly be, not with what he'd just seen, but--"If I wasn't controlling your mind, why did you come with me?"
           "You were trying to control my mind? I thought I felt something. --Well, why do you think? I was hungry. You were persistent." He put on a look of mock-innocence. "If a victim insists on being taken, who am I to refuse him?"
           Hungry. He'd drunk the alcohol without so much as a flinch. He'd been flushed from it, and warm. What manner of trickery was this? "I saw you drinking. Your heart--your heart races like a mortal's, I can hear it even now."
           "Shouldn't it?" Klaus smiled broadly, shrugging.
           "Mine does not."
           Klaus waved his hands. "But vampires' hearts do beat like mortals'."
           "You're wrong. Our hearts beat but once every few minutes."
           "But that's...You can't drink, either?"
           "Blood, of course. Nothing more."
           "Or eat, I bet. What about the sunlight? Can you go out in it?"
           Could it be that he could? Vampires in the sunlight? Impossible. Preposterous. He had always told Nicholas it could never be--
           "You can't!" Klaus exclaimed delightedly, pointing at him. "That's..." He began to pace about rapidly, mumbling to himself. "That's very strange..."
           "We must be different kinds," LaCroix mused. "Different kinds that have never met the other. How peculiar." Peculiar indeed. It was a strange world out there, to be sure, filled with oddities, freaks, horrors, mysteries. But how could he have lived two thousand years and never encountered one of this strange breed? Would he even know if he had? Or would he have brushed past them, thinking them mortals, as he had Klaus up to the moment his eyes changed color?
           "I've certainly never heard of you," Klaus said, continuing to pace. Then he stopped suddenly, his hands clasped before him, staring off into the middle distance with a strange grin on his face. "Ohhh..." he breathed. "A kind of vampire Alexander doesn't know about! It's too perfect!" He looked up at LaCroix, abruptly earnest. "You have to help me. I'll do anything you ask." The odd smile returned. "Anything except put those handcuffs back on, of course." He giggled wildly and rubbed his hands, moving past LaCroix to look around at the apartment.
           LaCroix regarded him dubiously. This transformation was proving astonishing in more ways than one. He had never seen Nicholas looking quite so...unbalanced. The young man was bounding gleefully about the apartment, as if measuring it for his own purposes. He was chuckling almost constantly to himself, and seemed totally unaware that anyone else was in the room. LaCroix knew he ought to send this puppy away at once--that is, if he didn't just dispose of him--and yet...he gazed at the other's animated profile. Nicholas had never been quite so enthusiastic either.
           "Klaus," LaCroix said loudly, and the other vampire turned and blinked at him. "I take it your name is Klaus."
           "Yes."
           "I am LaCroix. Please," he gestured, "sit down. I find this dashing about...distracting."
           Klaus came back and flung himself into the indicated chair, then leaned forward eagerly. LaCroix settled into the chair opposite, crossed his legs, and laced his fingers together over his knee. "Now, you want me to help you?" His tone was skeptical.
           "Oh, you have to! You must be powerful, to have knocked me across the room like that." Klaus looked around the room again. "And you do know how to choose a refuge. You have resources."
           "And why do you need help?"
           "Don't you see? I'm hiding from someone, my sworn enemy." He chuckled. "It's such fun." Then his face darkened. "Or it was. He cheated--canceled all the credit cards, cleaned out the bank accounts, turned all of my friends against me...Now I need money and somewhere safe to stay until I can put my brilliant plan for revenge into action."
           LaCroix smiled in polite disbelief. "And why should I provide you with these little amenities?"
           "It's obvious! I can go out in the daylight. So I can stir up whatever mischief suits you. I'm good at causing trouble for people," he said, earnest now.
           "Yes, I can certainly see that," LaCroix said absently. His disappointment was beginning to fade in favor of a greater excitement. A mortal Nicholas would have been good for some things, but could not an immortal one, a more exact copy, do so much more? Properly directed, in fact, he could teach Nicholas quite a sharp lesson in Toronto. Those mortals his protegé preferred to his own kind--he would see how quickly they would run from him once given a good enough reason. He would see how it felt to be rejected, spurned, betrayed. And then he would be sorry. Maybe he would kill them himself. He was delightfully easy to encourage in that direction, once his feelings were hurt. That would be splendid. But, if not--well, he obviously needed to be reminded that mortals never lasted. LaCroix smiled again. Yes, he might be angry at first. He always was. But sooner or later, he'd realize the truth, even if LaCroix had to point it out to him a dozen times before he grasped it. He'd appreciate what his master had done for him, and be glad he'd been freed. He'd come back to the only person who would never leave him, never turn away from him. They'd be a family again. As they were meant to be.
           Klaus was still looking at him seriously. "Please, LaCroix. I need your help. I'll do anything you ask."
           LaCroix was startled out of his reverie. "What?"
           "I said, please, LaCroix. Please help me. I'll do anything."
           How sweet it was, to hear those words in Nicholas's voice after all those years. How unbearably painful that it was not Nicholas speaking those words to him--and yet the sweetness remained. He looked up to see the appeal in Nicholas's eyes--for they were Nicholas's eyes, even if they did not belong to Nicholas--and his breath caught in his throat. The injury again, he thought, blinking and looking away.
           "Please?"
           He cleared his throat. "Very well. But I will hold you to that promise, Klaus. You will pay my price."
           "Of course." Klaus looked around absently for a minute, then clapped his hands. "But since I can't very well snack on you, I still need to eat. Let's go hunting."
           LaCroix had not been expecting to be staggered again, but it was all he could to keep his jaw from dropping when he heard such a proposal volunteered innocently in his son's voice. This young one was definitely...disconcerting. "Hunting?"
           "Well, you know the city better than I do. I've only been here three days. Besides, I need to get my things from the hotel room."
           "I don't believe that's necessary. I do have blood here."
           "You do? What do you mean?"
           "In bottles, of course. Nothing but the best, I assure you. My suppliers know better than to try to pass off an inferior grade on me."
           "Cold blood?" Klaus looked as though he were going to be ill. "Gross! I can't drink that."
           Another difference between them? "Have you ever tried?"
           "No, and I don't need to. That's disgusting. We have to have the blood fresh. Besides, how boring it would be to drink bottled blood! You couldn't play with your food!"
           LaCroix almost laughed. This young man might well be deranged, but he certainly was a vampire after his own heart. Perhaps because he was deranged, he thought, smiling. Hadn't Nicholas always said that he was, too? Well...he was feeling considerably stronger now, and the idea was curiously attractive. "Very well," he agreed. "After I indulge, myself. But then you will tell me about this man you're hiding from."
           Klaus's brow furrowed briefly, but then he nodded. "All right."

           Some of the edge had gone from the air outside by the time LaCroix and Klaus went out again, much to the former's relief. Yet even though he wasn't suffering from the cold this time, the hunt was disturbing for him. It had been many long years since he had simply taken a peaceful stroll with Nicholas, without having to suppress the infuriating awareness that the younger vampire would rather be anywhere than with him. That night, he kept catching sight of the familiar face, calm and content, and imperceptibly (he hoped) starting. It hardly seemed possible.
           He could not have asked for more enthusiasm in his companion's hunting, either. He had almost given up hope of ever seeing Nicholas stalk a victim as this one did now, deftly choosing a lovely redhead and tracking her unobtrusively to a quiet spot before closing in for the kill with a grin of delight and a knowing look for LaCroix. The girl crumpled easily into his arms, and the older vampire stared mesmerized at the vision of his son feeding with obvious pleasure. He would have liked some more blood himself, but that sight was far more satisfying; it flushed him with a strange, almost forgotten warmth.
           "Your turn, then?" Klaus asked when he was finished, taking a handkerchief out of his coat pocket and absently wiping at his mouth, where a few drops of blood lingered. LaCroix found himself licking his lips as he watched.
           "No, I've already fed this evening. But if you would like another--"
           "No, thank you. I don't need any more--I've been feeding much better now than Alexander ever used to let me."
           "'Alexander,'" LaCroix said thoughtfully while they began walking towards the hotel. "Is that the man who's looking for you?"
           Klaus shrugged. "Yes."
           "Well?"
           He kicked at a stone. "He's the one who made me a vampire."
           "Your master?" LaCroix demanded, suddenly appalled. "You ran away from your master?"
           "He's not  my master," Klaus said sullenly. "Why should he be? I worked for him. I thought he was my--was my friend. But I was wrong."
           "What do you mean?"
           "He was always trying to control me. He could do whatever he wanted, but I had to do what he said. It wasn't fair. Why should he get to have all the fun?"
           "Younger vampires often require discipline--"
           "That's what he used to say, too."
           "That doesn't mean he wasn't your friend. Doubtless he was simply trying to provide for your welfare, and the safety of you both. What more certain sign of friendship is there?"
           "You don't understand. He didn't care about me. I know that now."
          The grimness in that voice sent a chill through LaCroix. "Perhaps he did not express his affection in a way you could understand. That is not as easy as some imagine."
           Klaus scowled. "No. One day he decided that I was too much trouble to deal with anymore. He let my--he let a vampire hunter shut me up in a crypt to starve. I called him to help me, and he just stood there and watched. And laughed. He said the vampire hunter was doing him a service. If it had been up to him, I would never have gotten out of there."
           "What happened?"
           "Oh, I escaped, and...ran away. He found out that I got out, and now he's chasing me. He probably wants to put me back in the crypt."
           "I think you are mistaken." LaCroix was finding it difficult to maintain his tone of detached assurance. "It was all for your own good, I assure you. He merely misjudged your reaction to your punishment. He doubtless regrets what happened and would like you to return to him."
           Klaus giggled abruptly. Startled, LaCroix glanced over at him to see a broad, unsteady grin on his face. "Oh, he'd like me to return to him, all right. So he can rip out my throat with his own hands. No, thank you."
           "Klaus--" Nicholas--
           Klaus rolled his eyes, and his voice rose uncontrollably. "You don't know what you're talking about, LaCroix! No, he--" He stopped, and swallowed hard. When he spoke again, his voice was cold. "No, he hates me. He always did. He told me he was my friend, and he lied. I'll never let him catch me. I'll get my revenge first."
           Revenge. "Burn in hell. Va au diable!" LaCroix's throat tightened. Oh, Nicholas would be sorry. It was all he could do not to kill his double, then and there. But, no--he would have to wait for that gratification. Patience, he adjured himself. You have all the time in the world.
           They walked the rest of the way in silence.
            
            
           It had not been, perhaps, the most subtle plan, but Nicholas did not have the most subtle mind. He needed direct lessons, messages made concrete and repeated over and over again. And subtle or not, the result had been gratifying: Nicholas had taken the girl he had been simpering at like a idiot for weeks. No more nonsensical talk about her purity or humanity, no more of this insufferable posing as a tragic outcast, staring over the rail at the innocence he blamed LaCroix for taking from him. No, there had only been the rush of warmth and power and pleasure that her blood had given him. LaCroix had felt the way Nicholas had been lost in it, and had been delighted beyond measure. But then the faint stirrings of guilt had begun. He wasn't going to put up with that again. He had gone into the girl's dressing room at once.
           Nicholas had seized him. "What have you done?"
           LaCroix allowed a faint smile to spread over his face. This was wonderful. The silly girl lay forgotten on the floor. Nicholas's eyes were fixed on him now. It was him who made him tremble with emotion. Him who his hands clutched. "We wanted you back, Nicholas."
           "She was innocent," he realized.
           "She was in love," he replied scornfully. There is no innocence in love, Nicholas, haven't you realized that yet?
           "You betrayed me." LaCroix savored the flash of pain in his eyes, the confession implicit in the words. But then Nicholas released him and went back over to the girl, to wring his hands and bemoan her fate. LaCroix felt some of his satisfaction fade as he watched him make a fool of himself over his victim's body, as he had done so many times before. Finally, though, the younger vampire looked up, and said what he had been waiting for. "I hate you."
           LaCroix smiled again, and said paternally, "Good. Hate is a step in the right direction."
           And perhaps it was. But he had never gotten any further. It was not Nicholas's hatred that LaCroix wanted, though he was prepared to endure it until his protegé realized the tantalizing other possibilities which existed. Better that he should feel something for LaCroix than that he should spend all his time mired in his tedious self-pity, thinking only of his wearisome quest for mortality. Something could lead to other things some day. LaCroix could wait. He had an eternity at his disposal. Or so he had thought. But this time he had succeeded too well. He had aroused Nicholas's feelings for him again, but in doing so had made them so strong that the younger vampire had withdrawn from his family entirely. And he had never forgotten. It had taken a century, but he had finally avenged Sylvaine's death, repaid the imaginary betrayal with a real one, and driven LaCroix here.
           Here, where he was now enlisting the aid of a vampire who dreamed of revenge on his master. It was bitterly ironic. LaCroix opened his eyes and glared at the clock as though it had been Nicholas, mocking him about it. It was not yet morning, but already he knew that sleep would prove impossible that day. There was a deep silence over the apartment, and it was dark in his room. Nothing should have been easier than for him to get some much-needed rest. Klaus obviously had. He rolled over restlessly. The evening could not have been that disturbing. After all, Klaus had cheered up quickly on their return to the apartment, and drawn him into several hands of picquet, a game he'd never thought to play again, while drinking glass after glass of wine and attempting to cheat at every turn. He'd been reluctant at first, but the young man's manic chatter had amused him enough to chase away his black mood. His gleaming blond hair, vivid blue eyes, quick smile, and exuberant gestures had brightened up the older vampire's otherwise gloomy home, just as he'd always known Nicholas could. They'd parted peacefully enough, when Klaus had begun to tire at a surprisingly early hour. LaCroix remembered how intrigued he'd been at the signs of it: the yawns he gave in to so completely, the drowsy look in his eyes, the way he'd snuggled into his couch and smiled dreamily. Apparently, his sort of vampire lived on a different sleep schedule. That was hardly something to keep LaCroix tossing and turning. Yet there he was, still awake. Finally, he sighed and got up. He might as well check to make certain that all was well in the apartment.
           The cold, steadily strengthening pre-dawn light spilled into the living room, falling across the couch which Klaus was occupying. He obviously hadn't thought to draw the curtains. As careless as Nicholas, too, he thought, smiling despite himself. He shook his head and padded noiselessly over to close them. Klaus was fast asleep, curled on one side, his cheek resting on his hand. He had brought back crisp white cotton pajamas from the hotel; not at all Nicholas's style, but they did flatter him. The color brought out the blond in his hair, made him look young, vulnerable, peaceful. His shirt was caught under him, pulling the fabric close; LaCroix could see his chest rising and falling in a gentle rhythm of sleep. He stood contemplating his guest for a moment, wondering what had drawn Alexander to Klaus. Would he have found this sight of a ruthless killer sleeping like a child as charming as LaCroix did? After all, he would have given a great deal to see Nicholas like this.
           A vampire so remarkably in love with his life: it was more than LaCroix could have ever hoped for with Nicholas. It was such a pity that the poor boy was obviously a little unstable. This Alexander would have had succeeded brilliantly with him, were it not for that. But that was enough. One small mistake, and everything had fallen in ruins. Klaus had run away; now he wanted to kill his master. He hated Alexander, at least...at least as much as Nicholas hated him. And yet he was not happy in his much-vaunted freedom, either--just as Nicholas would not be. Another irony.
           "He didn't care about me. I know that now." Did Nicholas speak of him to that Natalie so, with such unjustified anger and resentment? Such...unnecessary longing and frustration? But surely Nicholas, unjust, short-sighted, and self-absorbed as he was, knew. He had to be aware that LaCroix's discipline meant love, not the opposite. Didn't he? Klaus sighed gently in his sleep, stirring a few shining hairs which had fallen over his eye. LaCroix's fingers itched to brush them away, to touch the hair whose softness was but a wistful memory for him now, but he folded his hands behind his back instead. Klaus would certainly not understand that.
           Grimacing slightly, he went to the table and poured himself a glass of blood, then took a deep draught of it. He needed time to consider this, time away from his disturbing visitor. But he was reluctant to waste this strange opportunity to see Nicholas as he could have been. Even if a change in method were to succeed, it might be years before Nicholas would let him have what Klaus gave without even thinking--
           His thoughts were interrupted by a glimpse of something odd out of the corner of his eye. Blue sparks, drifting in lazy circles in the air, as if floating on some uncanny swirling wind. LaCroix blinked, for a moment not certain whether they were some trick of the light or his currently unreliable eyes. But the sparks--two sets of them, he could see now--persisted, and began spiraling inward, tighter and faster, until the two columns they formed actually collapsed on themselves, and suddenly spinning out of them were two quite solid-looking men in business suits. The sparks glittered around them for an instant longer, then vanished.
           "Who are you? What are you doing here?" LaCroix demanded, rising to his feet.
           One of the men drew a gun on him. "Nothing you need to worry about, old man," he said in heavily-accented English. "Just tell us where Klaus is, and we'll be gone in no time."
           Could this be Alexander? LaCroix couldn't believe it. "Klaus?" he asked loudly. "Who is Klaus?"
           "Never mind," the other man, who had been looking around the room, broke in. "He's over here. Asleep."
           "Good," said the first. "Then finish him quickly." To LaCroix, he added, "No heroics, or we'll finish you, too."
           LaCroix looked over at the other man, who, with his back to him, had taken a stake from his jacket and was advancing on the couch where Klaus lay, still unmoving, apparently helpless. He snarled, clenching his fists. He was going to make these fools regret invading his home and attacking his guest. If they had stakes, then they already knew--
           He was past the gunman in an instant and twisting the wrist of the other. He heard the stake clattering to the floor, a scream which did his cold heart good, and, a few seconds later, the sound of a gunshot. He felt a bullet graze his left side, but ignored the slight burn. The other man was turning towards him, and he struck him in the face with all the force he could muster. His head went unnaturally far around, and LaCroix heard the neck bones crack satisfyingly. Good. That would put him out of the way for a little while. Later he'd want to have a talk with him. Now, for the other.
           He turned around to see that the first man had discarded his gun and was now wielding a stake of his own. He lunged for him, but when he was but inches away, his target had melted into empty air. Melted? He stopped himself, off-balance, arms flailing, and felt other hands catch his own, twisting his arm up behind him. His assailant was not as strong as he was, but he had enough leverage in that position to force LaCroix to the floor, then put a knee down in the small of his back.
           "You're making a mistake," LaCroix ground out.
           "No, you made the mistake, old man," said the first man. "I don't know what you are, but let's see if a stake will do the trick--"
           The voice cut itself off with a strangled gasp, and LaCroix could feel the other man's whole body jerk. Then it was simply gone. He rolled over quickly to see Klaus, hair disheveled, eyes still heavy with sleep, holding the second man's stake.
           "Lucard's people," he said, in a daze. "They were going to kill me."
           "Not only you," LaCroix said wryly as he cautiously sat up.
           "Oh. Of course. Both of us. But I stopped that."
           "Yes. Thank you." Would Nicholas have done as much? "But how did they find you in the first place?"
           "The hotel. They must have tracked me to the hotel." Klaus turned around, went over to the other man, and staked him viciously, stabbing down the wood with both hands and biting his lip hard. LaCroix was fascinated enough by the results--the man's form collapsed in a cloud of golden particles, his skeleton glowing out a bright white before the particles dissipated--that it didn't occur to him to chide Klaus for killing his captive. "They could have followed us from there."
           "Impossible. No one, mortal or immortal, could follow me without my knowledge."
           "They could have," Klaus said distantly, looking at the stake in his hand. "They can teleport from place to place, change their shape, fly. I might have noticed them, but I didn't think to look."
           "'They'? What were they?"
           "Vampires. Like me. Lucard's creations. I knew them." He smiled shakily, and made a strange noise deep in his throat that sounded like a choked-off giggle. "Rakoff always did want my job..."
           LaCroix stood up, wincing slightly, and looked down at his side. There were two holes in his shirt. The skin where he'd been shot stung. Nothing to concern himself over. "Your kind can do such things?"
           Klaus nodded. "Mm-hmm." He still hadn't moved from his kneeling position.
           For a moment, LaCroix reflected on the disquieting possibility that he might not be the most powerful predator who moved among mortals. To be hunted by these creatures might not be pleasant. "Will there be more of them coming?"
           "Not right now. It's almost morning."
           "But you said you could go out into the sunlight."
           "Yes...but we don't have any powers during the day."
           Then they weren't quite as strong as he'd feared. But he could think about that later. The other's face was almost green, and he suddenly put one hand down onto the floor to support himself. Seeing the pain in his expression, LaCroix nearly moved forward to help him, but caught himself in time. "Are you all right?"
           "Y-yes," Klaus answered faintly. "I just--I just can't believe he actually tried to kill me. It was supposed to be fun." He looked at LaCroix, bewildered. "It was all just a game."
           "A 'game'? You told me you ran away." The poor boy was mad; he wasn't making any sense. But who could blame him, now? Nicholas's expression dark with hatred, the sickening thump of the stake going through his chest...
           "I did. I didn't think he'd try to kill me for it. I was only trying to make him listen to me, respect me!" His eyes were miserable. "He didn't. And he didn't love me. Even though we..." He stopped and swallowed.
           LaCroix blinked, his mind snapping back to the present. The thought went through him like a swiftly bolted draught of blood. Could it possibly be...? "You were lovers?"
           Klaus shrugged, looking down. "Sometimes." LaCroix stared at him in shock. Someone could touch him after all, he thought numbly, and he was overwhelmed by the flood of images. Someone kissing those sensuous lips, running fingers through that fine hair, burying his face in the soft skin of the neck, drawing him close and catching his fingers in the shirt, ripping the buttons away. Someone capturing his wrist, pulling him down into his lap, sliding both hands possessively across the smooth hard muscle of the chest. Or lying on top of him, stroking his face, seeing his eyes already closed, his face upturned in abandon, and the artery pulsing in his neck...LaCroix did not realize he had moved behind Klaus until he felt his hands touch his shoulders. When he spoke, his voice was hoarse.
           "Tell me..." he said, and Klaus started slightly. LaCroix began to withdraw his fingers, but slowly, letting them trail along the shoulders, and stopping when the tips were still just resting against the cool cloth. Klaus gave a soft, shuddering sigh, and the hands remained. "Tell me how it happened."
           Klaus had shut his eyes. "It was about four months after I came to live with him. We were at a party, at a mansion. This ridiculous woman had been flirting with me all night. I didn't like her. She wore such a short dress, and her makeup was so bright. I didn't know how to deal with women like that back then. I didn't know what to say to her, or how to get away. Finally, thank God, a friend of hers dragged her away, and I decided she wasn't going to catch me again. I went into one of the rooms that wasn't being used for the party--a drawing room with windows that opened up onto the terrace. It was large and airy, with a cool night breeze. I sat down on the piano bench and enjoyed the quiet. But then she came in after me.
           'Running away?' she laughed, and sat down next to me. I started to stand up, but she put her hand on my wrist. 'Silly boy, you shouldn't be afraid of me. I don't want to hurt you.'
           'Shouldn't we be getting back to the party?' I asked. Every time I looked at her, it got worse. I was trying not to, but when we spoke...
           'Not unless we want to. Didn't Alexander tell you? This is the sort of party where no one minds if you...slip away for a little while.'
           'No, Alexander didn't tell me that.'
           'I'll bet there are a lot of things Alexander hasn't told you. He hasn't told you how handsome you are, or how jealous of him you've made all the girls...'
           'Jealous?'
           'Mm-hmm,' she nodded, eyes twinkling. 'Lucky for you, I'm not the jealous type.'
           'You're not?'
           'Not at all,' she whispered, and her hands were in my hair, and I didn't want to, but I was bending to kiss her, when I heard a dry cough.
           I knew it was Alexander at once; I'd never been so embarrassed. Or ashamed, which was strange. I jumped to my feet. He'd thrown open a pair of the windows behind us and was standing in them. The woman just looked up at us coolly. 'But I suppose you are, Alexander. How boring.'
           'I'm afraid so, Katya,' he said mildly. 'And as I know you can't bear to be bored, I suggest you find somewhere else to amuse yourself.'
           'Oh, I don't know,' she answered lightly, 'this could be very amusing,' but he tilted his head a little, and she added, 'but not if you're going to be tiresome. Good night, gentlemen,' and she was gone."
           Klaus fell silent for a minute. LaCroix was leaning forward, fascinated, thinking of all the times he had surprised Nicholas in such situations. What had Alexander done to turn the situation to his advantage? "Yes?"
           "I felt awful. 'I'm sorry, Alexander--' I started, but he cut me off.
           'It looked as if you required rescuing, Klaus.'
           'I didn't, I don't like her, Alexander, I just...'
           'I know.' He came into the room, shutting the windows behind him. 'Katya is a dangerous predator, in her own way.'
           'Yes, she is,' I agreed fervently. He laughed, and I relaxed. 'But why did she have to come after me?'
           Alexander looked at me closely for a minute, smiling faintly. 'You mean you don't know?'
           'Well...she did say I was handsome...'
           He laughed, more loudly this time, moving to the nearest couch and draping himself over it. 'That's not quite the reason.' He looked at me again, and his eyes were very bright. 'Come here.' He patted the side of the couch.
           The way he was lounging, there was no room for me, so I sat down on the floor next to it. He ruffled my hair. '"Handsome." You have grown vain. Although not'--he moved his fingers down to my jaw, lifting my face to the light--'entirely without reason.'
           I think I must have blushed at the compliment, but before I could say anything, he released me. I found that I couldn't meet his eyes any more, so I shifted around until I was leaning sideways against the couch, facing away from him. 'Well, then, what is the reason?' I asked quickly, trying to hide how nervous I suddenly was.
           'You are an irresistible challenge to Katya, Klaus. You see, this is almost the first time I've taken you out into the world. There have been stories, of course, but scarcely anyone has seen you. So you are "the observed of all observers" tonight. Everyone is watching you and wondering.' He started stroking my hair, which should have calmed me down, but in fact only made me more uncomfortable. 'Wondering who this young man is who has caught my fancy. Wondering how much freedom I allow you.'"
           LaCroix slowly brought his hand up to begin exploring those unruly locks. The texture was just as soft as he had remembered, and the sight of his fingers entwined in Nicholas's hair was both dizzying and riveting, as if the world were spinning about him and the only thing holding him still was his hand on that head. He could not have looked away for the world.
           "'Freedom? I am free.' Although I didn't feel that way, as his fingers slipped more deeply into my hair.
           'That is not how they look at it. They think I am possessive.'
           'And you're not?'
           He laughed once more. 'My dear Klaus, of course I am. Quite possessive, in fact.' Then he slid his first three fingers into my collar." As if in a dream, mind awhirl with images, LaCroix followed suit, almost gasping at the feel of the skin, while Klaus continued, "That pulled the fabric on the other side hard into my throat. It felt...it felt good. As if he were holding me very tightly. Then he started running his thumb along the back of my neck." So did LaCroix. Klaus shivered. "'So Katya wants to see if she can take you away from me. That's why she's so interested in you. I wouldn't allow it, of course, but I don't have to worry about that, do I? You've been thinking about me lately, haven't you?'
           'Yes,' I admitted. It was true. I hadn't known what it meant, but I had been, all the time.
           'Thinking, imagining, wondering, dreaming...' With his other hand he was reaching around and unbuttoning my shirt.
           'Yes...' I was very still."
           LaCroix's hand was trembling as he began opening up Klaus's shirt. He made no move to resist.
           "'You are far too delicious a morsel for someone like Katya, Klaus. You're a delicacy for my palate alone.'
           He let my collar go, and I turned to look up at him. He was enchanting. His grey eyes were glimmering, and his mouth, which was so fine, was half-smiling. He looked too beautiful to be real. Ethereal. A fairy prince. 'You--you want to...?'
           'Consume you,' he breathed, and he kissed me." Briefly opening his eyes, Klaus looked back over his shoulder at LaCroix, who needed no more encouragement than that heavenly blue, now far away with desire, to do the same thing.
           The shock of the contact was tremendous. He'd imagined it so many times down the centuries that he had stopped believing it could ever actually happen. It was the stuff of dreams suffused with longing, of waking fantasies which seethed with frustration. But now the silken lips were under his, and the other turning into the kiss, his hands floating up to LaCroix's neck. They were strong, but they shook as they brushed the skin. Consume you. Yes. With a low growl, he pushed him to the floor, onto a nearby rug of midnight blue.
           "Nicholas," he whispered, and kissed him again, half on top of him, exploring the body with both hands, eagerly. Other desires ripped him away from the kiss after only a few seconds, as what he was discovering with his touch cried out for more intimate investigation. He ducked his head, darting his tongue back and forth across the skin of the chest, a thin layer of softness giving way to the firmness of muscle, with the nipples offering a delightful slight roughness for contrast. Back and forth, up and down, pausing everywhere to kiss and nibble and caress...He wanted to make his presence felt over every inch of the body he had so long eyed hungrily. The other was breathing hard, clutching at his head. Yes, Nicholas, yes...you do love it after all, I knew you would, if only you'd ever let me...
           He moved further down, drawing his hands along Nicholas's sides and stopping at his hips. He held them still as he flicked his tongue lightly at the sensitive flesh of the abdomen, thrilling to hear him groan, feel him trying to squirm away. Smiling, he slid one hand into the pajama bottoms, and was rewarded with a loud gasp. Ah, yes. That particular organ of the body might not function as it once had, but that did not mean it could no longer serve for pleasure. He played with it for a moment, delighting in holding that most private part securely in his grip, but even more to hear Nicholas crying out at his touch. Struggling to get away; struggling to move closer. How marvelous his reactions always were--how sublime now that they were of ecstasy instead of rage. Teasingly, he withdrew, and sat up to take off his own clothes. He had meant to do it slowly, lingeringly, to make Nicholas wait a little, but he could not quite get his hands to slow down, and ended up shedding them hastily before turning to pull away the remainder of Nicholas's clothes. He nearly fell over in his eagerness to slide on top of him.
           To have nothing at all between him and Nicholas-- it was divine. Even with all that had just happened, it was not until he lay over him, covering him completely, that he was truly able to believe that there was not some invisible barrier around that flesh that would hold him off, frustrating him at the last moment. The actual feel of the skin, not at just one or two places, but everywhere, threatened to overwhelm his senses altogether. Every point at which they touched was the source of unimaginable pleasure. He could not hold still; he had to keep shifting, each new touch which each movement brought a revelation which made his nerves thrill even higher. Chest and stomach and cock and thighs and calves, solid warm flesh beneath him...He was driven by sheer greed now, consuming the exquisite sensations with reckless speed. The boy was moaning shamelessly, words LaCroix did not grasp, his arms slipping along his back, adding yet more facets to his pleasure. Even the momentary pain when his hand brushed the gunshot wound was only an added relish. There was no resistance now, no contesting of the desire inch by inch, none of the complications, hostilities, resentments Nicholas had always fenced him out with. LaCroix wanted them to touch in every way, to take every possible advantage of this unbelievable opportunity...
           But that meant more than this superficial contact, intoxicating though it was. The flesh, ah, the flesh was all he had hoped for, but it was still a barrier. The last one, and one he meant to break through. He wanted it all; he wanted Nicholas's mind, his self, flooding through him. With that vision, his eyes watered and he felt his fangs come down. He moved upwards a little, delighting in the friction. The other's eyes were closed; he seemed to be drowning in physical sensation.
           "Tell me you love me," he commanded, cupping his face in his hand. "Say, 'I love you. I'm sorry.'"
           "Yes," the other said feverishly. His chest was heaving. "Love you...sorry...please...take me back..."
           With those words, LaCroix felt the vise he'd worn about his heart for centuries loosen. "I have to have you," he said, and moved the chin a little to the side so he could see the artery clearly. Nicholas's eyes fluttered open, and Klaus stared at him in utter astonishment.
           "L-LaCroix, what are you doing?"
           "What do you think?" he said, moving to drop his face into the neck. But a hand stopped him, held him away. LaCroix snapped at it in sheer blind frustration.
           "Have you lost your mind?" Klaus demanded. "No!"
           LaCroix knew he should stop, but the body was still moving under him. It was still the same hair, the same eyes, the same voice...He would not be denied. Not this time. Not after so many centuries of waiting, so many rejections and disappointments. Not after the boy had made him believe he could finally have it. He could not be refused again. "You made a bargain with me," he said harshly, in a voice he scarcely even recognized as his own. "You swore that if I let you stay you would do anything I wanted. You said I could name my price. This is my price. Now, take that hand away before I take it off."
           "I'm not going to let you kill me--"
           "I won't."
           He stared up at him for a moment longer, then shut his eyes. "Then get it over with, you freak," he said through his teeth.
           He might still have hesitated, recovered his reason, stopped the encounter. But the words, in that voice, wounded him; their sting drove him downwards, into the neck. The boy gasped and stiffened, clawing at his back. LaCroix scarcely noticed the rush of blood; he was lost in anticipation of the moment when mind would touch mind, and he would feel Nicholas...
           But it never came. The blood was silent, cold, medicinal. There was a curious sensation in his stomach, but he ignored that, holding him even tighter, plunging into the stream of blood, searching it for what he knew had to be there. Nothing. And he was sputtering, choking on the blood; he couldn't keep it down. It was...it was dead. He pulled away, half-rolling off the boy, feeling that he was going to be sick.
           The other lay there, dazed, for a moment longer before sitting up and shoving him away. He put his hand to his throat and stared in disbelief at the blood that came away on his fingers. "You're crazy, LaCroix. Crazy."
           "Nicholas," he choked, shaking. "Help me."
           "Nicholas? Who the hell is Nicholas?" Klaus got to his feet, eyeing him warily as he struggled to rise, then collapsed.
           "Don't go--" he pleaded, but he was already gone. In a moment LaCroix was sick, and the rush took him into darkness with it.
            
           LaCroix came to a few minutes later. The tide of nausea was ebbing, but in its wake were a monstrous disappointment and rage. Had that wretched creature led him on only to leave him lying on the floor of the apartment, as Nicholas had abandoned him to dangle on that spike? No. He could hear his footsteps, coming closer. Good. He opened his eyes, tensed for a spring. Klaus was emerging from his room, a photograph in his hand and the bag he'd brought from the hotel in the other.
           "This is Nicholas?" he asked coldly, showing it to him. LaCroix lunged for him--but it was hardly more than a spasm. He couldn't even sit up. Klaus ignored his feeble attempt, continuing to hold the picture out with a cool impatience. He, Janette, and, yes, Nicholas, in prewar Berlin. Rummaging through his possessions, and knowing--LaCroix's throat closed up.
           "Yes," he muttered, subsiding to the floor. The mixture of disgust and pity on the other's face was worse than any torment he'd ever borne. Vulnerable. To this creature, this...this faux-Nicholas, this gibbering lunatic, this victim he had picked up in a bar! Exposed for a fool. And unable to obliterate the memory of it, to rip apart the flesh which held it and spill it onto the floor with his blood, as he yearned to. He gnashed his teeth.
           Klaus looked at the picture. "Hm. I do see the resemblance. He's not quite as good-looking as me, though." He looked back at LaCroix, voice dripping with scorn. "So, you were dreaming of having sex with someone else--this Nicholas--the whole time?"
           "Yes," he said, sounding as contemptuous as he could. "You can't imagine anyone would want to do that with you." Maybe that would at least wound his vanity. Was that all he could do? Intolerable.
           Klaus blinked, then that alarming broad grin crossed his face again. He giggled more wildly than LaCroix had yet heard. "Lucky for you. Because I was thinking of someone else, too." He tossed the picture onto LaCroix's chest. "Keep that. From what I felt, you really need it."
           "Get out." Oh, someone would suffer for this. More mortals to go to the cross for Nicholas's sins. Many, many this time.
           "Oh, believe me, I will. Give my excuses to Lucard's goons when they show up again, won't you?"
           His unbalanced laughter hung in the air long after he was gone. LaCroix shut his eyes and listened to it, the fury slowly calming, being replaced by a new resolve. "Nicholas," he whispered, remembering now lips, skin, hands. That was it. He would never let Nicholas put him in such a position again. He was going back to Toronto, very soon now. And it would be different this time. He was going to try something new. It would be Nicholas's last chance...