The Nourice Fee

by Tazlet

An immortal meets a fellow traveler in time.

There had been some sort of antiquarian business in the old brownstone in the East Village for over a hundred and fifty years, trading under various names. From the outside, it appeared that the owner discouraged foot traffic— the worn gold lettering on the door said simply, By Appointment — but it hadn't always been that way. The policy had been in effect since the 1860s when some youthful hotheads at the Art Student's League around the corner had taken Samuel Colt's fine product in disdain. Insisting on settling their differences of artistic opinion in the good old way, they taken to dropping by the shop at any old hour before decamping to some remote field. The proprietor, a confirmed recluse felt that no school of art, be it Classical, Romantic or Realist, was worth being disturbed for. The sign had stayed up long after the fad for dueling had passed and so it continued from owner to owner until now when, as Russell Nash Antiques, Ltd., R. Nash and R. Ellenstein, Props., a casual drop-in climbing the steps would discover that it was no use rapping or ringing; it was only the exceptional customer who was admitted. And that was too bad — there was some exceptional weaponry on show: daggers, rapiers, scimitars and broadswords. In what had been the formal dining room, now an office, a collection of extraordinarily rare long swords made a magnificent fan display over the fireplace mantel.

On a comfortable broad, brown leather chesterfield in front of the fireplace, Connor McLeod lay stretched with a stack of auction catalogs on his chest. It was three o'clock when Rachel announced she was taking the rest of the afternoon off; she had plans for the evening, there were no appointments on the book and no sense in both of them keeping shop.

Connor just murmured, "Mmm,'kay. Have fun." There was a fire in the fireplace. There was scotch in his glass. He was quite comfortable where he was, thank you, and didn't even look over the top of the catalog he was marking up until she suggested that, if he had nothing else to do, he could at least unpack the crate that was sitting in the front room.

When Connor didn't answer, Rachel had said, "The one that's been sitting there since it arrived three days ago. The one that things are starting to get piled on top of."

Oh. That crate.

Was there some reason he was avoiding it?

He wasn't avoiding it. It was a large lot. He just was waiting for the right moment.

Rachel informed him that the moment had come. It would keep him too busy to brood.

When had Connor protested the brooding, Rachel had just rolled her eyes. So, like a gentleman, he had put the catalog aside, helped her into her coat and escorted her to the door, commenting that it looked like snow. And Rachel had said, 'yes it looked like snow, and he should not be trying to teach his grandmother to suck eggs at this point in his life. That crate had better not still be there on Monday.' Then she was gone, but the little bell over the door went on tinkling because Connor had kept banging his head against the frame, trying to remember when they had switched roles; she to parent him.

Yes, he had been avoiding that crate. There's nothing like being called to handle the property of an old friend you knew two hundred years ago to make you realize that it is getting on for time. Time to turn the business over to your 'daughter.' Time to vanish. Damn! He loved this old shop with its cases crammed with old edged weaponry and the high-backed roll-top desk that wasn't part of the inventory, but people were always trying to buy it anyway, and his comfortable worn leather sofa. He liked being Russell Nash, antique dealer. Cultivating his garden. Staying out of the game.

In the background, the radio with a fine sense of irony was set to an oldies program, Doris Day was prattling '...so I talked to my Ma like a good girl should and she talked to my Pa like I knew she would...because a man is a man wherever he may be.' Connor recognized the tune, Ramirez had used to sing it, but the words were all wrong. Because a knave is a knave wherever he may be... The price of a long life is that the words are always wrong. He sighed and went to dig the strap cutter out of a drawer.

Finally open, the crate held the remnants of a Late Georgian silver service wrapped in sheets of padded paper. There was a salver, a soup tureen, two gravy boats and a spectacularly ugly epergne, all inscribed: To the most eminently distinguished naval commander Jhn Aubrey this service is offered by the Association of West India Merchants in gratitude of his unfailing support of the country's trade (it's life's blood) in all latitudes and in both wars, and in particular acknowledgment of the his brilliant capture of that most determined and rapacious private man-of-war, the Spartan, the largest of it's class.' The pieces were tarnished but the West India Merchants had been thoroughly grateful. Even if he had never eaten off of it, he wouldn't have needed to turn a single piece over to recognize the hand of John Storr, that rock star of silversmiths. It was highly personal and immensely valuable, but it was also evidence of passing time, as if he needed it. The family needed money and Connor had a buyer who would pay through the nose for any item connected to the name Aubrey, particularly – and here he took out the walnut case containing the heart of the matter – two of Jack's swords.

The one was a standard Lloyd's Patriotic Fund £100 saber, its hilt and scabbard covered with classical motifs and patriotic emblems. The other, though, was a practical, supremely practical, stirrup hilt cutlass. Connor's fingers slipped around the hilt. The ivory warmed to his touch. Family legend had it that this was the one with which Jack had boarded the Norfolk.

It was after four o'clock and almost dark —- time to leave the past to take care of the present, but so tempting to raise that wicked blade one last time, before it vanished into an anonymous collection.

Unwilling to relinquish the feeling, Connor brought the cutlass up front with him set and set it on top of the roll-top desk. Going on line, he authorized a wire transfer to a bank in London and emailed reassurance to his anxious customer. He checked the rest of his in-box, deleting most of it, except the offer of an exquisite Masamune dagger from Ferrier. After considering the file, he decided that it was more Duncan's sort of thing, flagged it and forwarded it to his cousin…Because a gob is a slob wherever he may be…that damn song had started looping in his head. The words were still wrong and now it sounded like an old one-sided seventy-eight. It occurred to him that if Duncan were interested in the dagger, he could courier it to Paris. They could visit; have some fun. And, if it was time to be thinking of moving on, take the opportunity to clean out the warehouse, repossess the property in Lyon, arrange to transfer the deed and...without thinking, he reached for the phone.

It rang twice. A testy voice growled, "Ce qui ?"

Connor remembered that it was after 11 o'clock in Paris. "Was?" He pitched his voice higher. "Ist Solange dort? Lassen Sie mich mit Solange sprechen."

"Falsche Zahl!"

"Entschuldigung!"

"Idiot!"

The line went dead and Connor hung up, laughing. Could be he wasn't the only one getting too comfortable. As he began the search for a Parisian florist, he began to sing, 'So I went into my bed as an honest woman shou'd and the knave crept into't, as you know knaves wou'd...' He found a florist and ordered a dozen peach colored roses delivered to the barge. No note. Just 'Looking forward to meeting' in the language of flowers. That should give Duncan something to think about.

The tall case clock in the hall chimed five o'clock.

It was time to go home but there was the mess of packing material to clean up. Rachel would have something to say about that, too, if he left it — and Jack's cutlass was still sitting out. He remembered that old sod Ramirez warning him that to become too familiar with a weapon was as bad as not knowing it at all, and after four hundred years the Katana was such an extension of his arm and his soul that he rarely thought about it anymore. Pocket doors had been removed to create practice space in the entryway. Giving into temptation, Connor pulled his sweater off over his head, picked up the cutlass and stepped into the hall. 'Because knaves will be knaves in every degree...'

He extended his arm, found the cutlass's center of balance and brought it to salute. Stepping back, he turned and lunged. Back to guard. Again. Step, turn, lunge. Do it again! And again! The cutlass was brutal and inelegant compared to the Katana but nonetheless lethal. He finished the routine with a fleche, striking low just as the door, that he'd forgotten to lock, blew open with a tinkling of the bell and a blast of windblown snow. To Connor's horror, there was a young man in the doorway with a an artist's portfolio under his arm and as pale as anyone would be, staring down the length of a sword that had stopped just shy of piercing his throat.

"Sorry." Connor whipped the blade up; the spine grazed his forehead.

The man in the doorway didn't move but his nostrils flared and his lips twitched as if he were trying not to laugh. He said, "I guess I should have made an appointment."

"Believe me, it wasn't personal," Connor said, as he dabbed the blood off of his forehead. Feeling guilty, he added, "Come in."

"Thank you." The newcomer came in and shut the door. "That was amazing. I haven't seen anything like that in a long, long time."

Maybe almost being skewered didn't bother him.

Connor shoved the cutlass back in its case. "That was stupid and dangerous," he said.

"My fault. I should have knocked first, but I saw you through the window. I'm looking for Russell Nash. My name is Henry Fitzroy."

"I'm Nash," Connor said. "Did you call?" The phone had rung while he'd been unpacking the crate but he hadn't bothered to answer it.

"No," Fitzroy said. "I really need your help so I took a chance on coming around." He dropped his portfolio on the nearest clear surface, which happened to be the top of a Regency sideboard. He unzipped it and began removing sheets of layout board. "I'm an artist."

Of course you are, Connor thought with a sinking feeling. Worse than fleas to get rid of. "Look, Henry, I'm sorry, I was about to lock up. Could you come back tomorrow, during the day?"

"No," Fitzroy said, "I can't. I have to leave town tonight." He was cool as the snowflakes still clinging to his long brown hair. "If you'll just take a look. These are pages from a graphic novel I'm working on and the hero has to have a very special sword. You, I've been told, are the expert on exotic swords."

Fitzroy smiled. A thrill ran along Connor's nerves. It was a killer smile that put absurd dimples in both of Fitzroy's cheeks and made him look very young. It was hard not responding to it — but not impossible.

"Listen Henry," Connor said. "I do not carry singing swords, light sabers or blades bearing mystic runes." Go peddle it somewhere else.

Fitzroy's eyes flashed."I'm disappointed," he said.

And Connor was bemused to hear himself, saying, "But I'm sure we could order up something."

"That won't be necessary." Fitzroy's smile widened. And there was more than a hint that he knew exactly the effect it was having on Connor.'I pursed my lips. I tried a frown, but frowning's not my style. I tried a pout, but what came out was a coy, inviting smile.'

"Come on," Connor said.

This time, he made sure the door was locked.

Fitzroy's jacket was draped over the back of the sofa. It was black leather as soft as butter. The man himself was slender with reddish brown curls and he carried himself like a prince, despite the jeans and boots, as he wandered through the gallery looking into display cases, talking about comic books.

"Graphic novels," Fitzroy said, returning to the office.

"Excuse me," Connor said.

He had put fresh logs in the fireplace and poured out glasses of the La Tâche Grand Cru, the good stuff Rachel kept for lubricating balky customers. Fitzroy had accepted a glass, but had barely touched it to his lips during his tour. Connor, on the other hand, was considering his third.

"Graphic novels are the most powerful contemporary combination of art and story telling. It's called 'Kalki.' That's my hero. His destiny is to destroy the wicked, stabilize creation and restore purity to the world."

"What does he do after lunch?"

"Don't be cynical, Mr. Nash," Fitzroy said, "It's the archetypal hero's journey. He'll have a shaman guide who explains that Kalki appears on a white horse with a sword blazing like a comet. He's speaking metaphorically, of course, but Kalki, has to recognize and acquire certain sacred objects, including a sword." Fitzroy looked up from the case in front of him and smiled. "I want him to have a really big sword." The innuendo was so blatant Connor could feel himself flushing. "I was thinking of a two-handed broadsword. You would think that would be sexy enough for any fanboy."

"You would think," Connor held his glass against his cheek to cool it.

Fitzroy turned toward fireplace with its fan of swords over the mantel, giving Connor a view of his profile. Most people, these days, thought the two-handed broadsword was the classic cut and thrust weapon. There were a number of them up there, all dating from the fourteenth century. There was a hand-and-a-half sword, as well, cross-hilted with a Brazil nut pommel; eleventh century. There were several two-hand-and-a-half swords that looked strange and exaggerated to modern eyes. There was a Venetian broad sword with knuckle bow and finger ring. There were rapiers that Fitzroy's gaze passed over appreciatively, but Connor noticed how it lingered on one particular piece. It was an eccentric looking blade of mannerist design in the very center of the display. Fitzroy was still talking about his hero's weapon, "It has to be something really exotic, in case this goes into game development..." At this time of night the shop lights were dim and the light seemed to concentrate in the reflections from the weapons with polished hilts. The piece that held Fitzroy's attention, although it was rich in repousse′ ornament, was made of chiseled iron. It literally did not shine in that company of great blades, but Connor watched Fitzroy touch his glass of wine to his lip, as if he were saluting it. It didn't seem that Fitzroy actually tasted the wine. His nostrils flexed, though, as if for him the aroma of that exquisite burgundy were enough.

Connor considered pouring himself that third drink. Instead, he took the last swallow in the glass and set it on the floor. 'But a knave has his knave tricks. Aye where e'er he be...'

"You know," Connor said, "my cousin would love to hear all about this. Why don't I call him? We can put him on the speaker phone."

"You keep mocking me," Fitzroy said.

"Perish the thought." Connor felt under the edge sofa. "I just want to know what you're up to."

"I'm not up—"

He was too late on the protest. Connor had him against the mantel with the edge of the katana across his throat.

"Oh, you're up to something. Now, I'm going to ask you one more time, and if I don't like the answer, this guy is going to do the asking."

He could feel Fitzroy's muscles bunching. Sane human beings do not argue with three feet of razor sharp steel.

After four hundred years, Connor didn't hesitate. He started to slice. Then he was flying across the room, crashing into one of the standing cases and being showered with fragments of stinging glass. He shook himself, and stood up to face — what? Connor had a fairly elastic idea of what it meant to be human, but with teeth and eyes like that, Fitzroy was suddenly a grotesque that might peek down from a niche at Notre Dame.

"You will not attack me!" The harmonics of Fitzroy's made the hair on Connor's neck stand up.

He raised the katana, screaming, "Gis, Hob! This is my God damned shop!"

"Huh!" Crouched to spring, Fitzroy's teeth snapped together with an audible click. "Point taken," he said, and in a blink, his eyes went from red-black to human. Gray and calm, if not quite contrite. "Truce?"

Fitzroy's tongue flicked over his lower lip and he leaned forward. Connor could have beheaded him at that moment.

"Stay where you are." Blood from the cut on his forearm was running freely, staining his jeans and shirt. There was a shard still protruding from his flesh. "Back off or by s'lidikins I will plant you at the gates of hell!" Fitzroy raised his hands. Connor took a chance and plucked the shard from his arm. The bleeding stopped. The wound healed. Fitzroy's brows shot up. "Don't get any bright ideas," Connor said.

"Yes. Well." Suddenly, the dimples were back in Fitzroy's cheeks. "Call me a merry-begot nod-cock but what, i' the other devil's name, are you?"

"That," Connor said, "should be my question, but we both know the answer. So, why don't you...?" He fluttered his left hand. "That thing you guys do. Do it!"

"Bats?" Fitzroy shook his head. "Can't. Something about the laws of conservation of mass and energy. You have to be a demon spawn from Hell to get away with bats."

"Figures," Connor said.

"That instantaneous healing thing, too, except that," Fitzroy tilted his head, the better to see where the wound in Connor's arm had been, "you are not a demon." He tapped his nose. "I can tell."

With a flip of the wrist, Connor had the Katana pointing directly at him. "You, however," he said, "are a vampire. Aren't you?"

"Yes." Fitzroy sighed, "It's the teeth."

"And you 'vant' to suck my blood?"

"Oh, no. I 'vant' to draw your sword."

"Hold still."

Connor raised the katana a trifle. All he had to do is shift his weight, swing and it would be over.

"How much longer?"

"I'm almost done. Listen — this is the best par — I could make Kalki an antique dealer. Somebody comes in with an old trunk and..."

"Now who's mocking who?" Connor said.

"Gad no! It came to me as I was watching you practice."

"You really are a...what's the word?

"I don't believe it! Five hundred years and you never met a vampire before?"

"I was going to say 'cartoonist!'"

"Graphic illustrator!"

"I don't believe a vampire has to work for a living."

"You do."

"I am not a night person," Connor said, primly. "You were guessing at my age?"

"Who swears by God's little eyelids, nowadays," Fitzroy said. "You sound like all of the Scotch Guards at the court of Francis I."

"When were you at the court of France?"

"Oh, now and again."

Really, Connor reflected, undead or not, artists really were worse than fleas. Some—Rubens—hadn't been so bad (Connor still cherished several drawings), but there had been those appalling months in Paris, the winter of '93—days and nights posing in that freezing studio. He still regretted not killing that regicidal bastard, but it had been that or the guillotine, Girondist that Connor had been in those days...

"I said hold still!"

Fitzroy was just as arrogant as that fanatical Republican and gave nothing away as an artist in his total concentration on his work. Being the object of that attention was having a peculiar effect on Connor. He had discarded the bloody t-shirt, but where Fitzroy's gaze caressed him, his skin seemed to burn. And when Fitzroy paused and focused and his hand began sketching the folds and shadows at Connor's crotch, he swelled and hardened. He wondered if Fitzroy sensed how hard. He was pretty sure Fitzroy hadn't charmed him again, but if he hadn't, there was no excuse for such wondering.

"Done!" Fitzroy put his pencil down and held the drawing pad for Connor's inspection.

It was good, particularly the detail of the dragon's head. The figure blocking an attack, although broader in the shoulders and narrower in the hips, was definitely Connor. Fitzroy had caught the firelight in his hair.

"Not bad," Connor said.

"Oh, bite me." Fitzroy threw the pad down and turned on the sofa, pulling his legs up and laying back with his head on the arm rest. The sword cut Connor had given him was a red ribbon around his throat. He touched it and Connor noticed that he was panting slightly. A gash that deep would have killed a mortal.

"Does it hurt?"

"Just a paper cut. It will heal."

"When?"

"When I've fed."

"When you've killed someone."

"Nash." Fitzroy narrowed his eyes.

"You drink blood."

"That is what vampires do. Don't you think it would still arouse the mobility if I killed every time I fed?" Fitzroy's mouth quirked "It occurs to me that if the days of cold steel are long over, you're too good with that." He nodded at the Katana Connor was now leaning on. "What do you do with it?"

"Kill." No use in denying it. "Others, like me."

"What are you?"

"Immortal."

"So you're not human, either, and you kill your own kind."

"We live and we fight until another takes our head. Our life and our power are absorbed by the winner."

"I wouldn't throw stones, then," Fitzroy said. "Vampires feed to live but we don't have to kill. And the feeding, Nash," his eyes glittered under his lashes, "the feeding can be so much more than eating."

"What do you mean?" Connor said.

Fitzroy reached a hand toward him. "Let me show you.

Was that hand as cool as marble? And would it grow warm, Connor wondered, if he held it? The need was Fitzroy's, but the fascination, the desire to know, was all Connor's to own.

"Nash." Fitzroy's eyes had gone dark again. His voice was urgent. "We're territorial. I can't hunt in this city. Help me."

Fitzroy's hand was cold, pulling Connor down to the sofa.

He let the Katana slide to the floor as Fitzroy bent and planted a kiss in the hollow of his elbow. The vampire's breath raised gooseflesh inside his arm—there was a churning velvet roughness against his skin—then a sweet piercing pain—a sucking that drew out and out and out, making Connor cry softly when the connection broke. Fitzroy soothed the sting with a kiss. He licked an errant trace of blood and then sat up.

His cheeks were pink and his lips were dark red and his tongue a darker red between stained teeth. The fire had died down but he was glowing with Connor's blood and the wound had healed.

"Thank you," Fitzroy, making to rise. "I guess I should go now."

Connor grabbed his wrist. "Don't serve me so," he said. "There's a stiff standard thing to be a staiffin' in thy neiff. D'ye ken me, Hob?"

Fitzroy's dimples made their appearance with a bubbling laugh. He began unbuttoning his shirt, heeling his boots off on the floor. Skinning his jeans of after them.

Could Fitzroy have been more than sixteen? He had a boy's body, hard and lean in the hips and, then—"I ken, and bid thee come."—he was climbing on top of Connor and pushing Connor's jeans down, freeing his rampant sex.

Connor threw a leg over his back to bring them even closer as Fitzroy's weight pressed down. He felt the vampire rooting under his jaw—nipping, licking and kissing—and then teeth sinking deep into his neck. It was pain. It was pleasure. He was a banquet, a feast. He arched, thrusting and stabbing, screaming as he came in a communion more intimate than normal sex.

I boucht a pint ale and the knave drank it a...'

The vampire's saliva must have a styptic quality. Fitzroy licked at the punctures and then softly nuzzled his way down Connor's chest—gentle touches on overly sensitive nerves until he came to the damp brush, in which, sighing, he buried his face.

I gied him cheese and bread. The knave ate it a...'

Connor dug his fingers in Fitzroy's hair. Silky strands looped around his fingers. "Don't even think about biting down there," he said, provoking a growl from Fitzroy. The growl was repeated with even more feeling as a cell phone in Fitzroy's jacket pocket began to ring. The jacket had fallen on the floor. The growl turned into a groan as Fitzroy felt around for it. Eventually he found it and answered, "Fitzroy."

Whatever the caller had to say, he listened to and then snapped, "You tell Celluci he can take a flying leap at himself...I know, Vicki...Yes, I'm still in New York. I'll see you tomorrow night." He hung up and looked around. "What time is it?"

As if on cue, the case clock in the hall began chiming ten.

"Christ!" Fitzroy grabbed his jeans. "I've got to get on the road." He began scrambling into his clothes.

Connor found his own pants. He put them on and sat down to enjoy watching Fitzroy dress.

This was it.

See you 'round eternity.

Not quite.

"The iron sword—" Fitzroy was tucking his shirttales in. "How much?"

"No way you can afford that on a cartoonist's pay," Connor said. "Hans Holbein the Younger designed that sword for his most important patron."

"I know." Fitzroy shoved the sketch pad into his portfolio and threw his jacket over his shoulders. He bent over Connor and kissed him, the skirts of his jacket fell around them like the wings of a bat. "I'll send a check," the vampire said.

Somewhere there was a phone ringing. Connor rolled over and let the answering machine take it.

A minute later it rang again.

He ignored it.

It rang again.

Answer me!

Connor fumbled for the hand-set next to the bed.

"What?"

"Connor!"

"Yeah?" Stupid with sleep, he squinted at the clock. "It's three in the morning. What'a you wan'?"

"Connor," Duncan said. "Why did you send me twelve dozen peach colored roses. They're taking up every flat surface in the barge?"

Finis

I paid the nourice fee.
The knave got the widdie.
And I've tamed ye now.
How the knave guided me.