No other loss had prepared LaCroix for this. He knew the moment it had happened, the moment when the vibrating mental link was silenced, and only emptiness remained. The pain of that experience was far worse than the wooden stake that had been impaled next to his own heart: the feeling of his son's death.
In a place LaCroix had thought was safe, a Hunter had found and wounded him. Nicholas, sensing the danger and his maker's distress, had rushed to instinctively attack. The Hunter had led the chase outside, into the blood-red morning dawn. From where he had fallen, LaCroix had called out. With his last reserves of strength he had issued the warning through his link, but it was to no avail. Nicholas had been feral; the normally-contained vampire completely emerged, completely enraged, completely focused on the target, completely oblivious to the dangers until it was too late. Nicholas could endure more exposure to the sun than was typical for their kind, but once the limit had been reached, he was too far from safety and too close to the Hunter.
Closing his eyes, LaCroix had howled out his anger in the empty space: to have finally gotten closer to his son only to lose him! Eventually, he removed the stake, the stinging discomfort of the extraction but a fraction of the pain he still felt. He finished healing through the day, his ancient blood rebuilding him. Then, when night had barely fallen, LaCroix emerged to hunt down the mortal that had taken his son from him. He would at least do that for his favorite child: a quick avenging of his death. LaCroix refused to let too much time pass, refused to allow the Hunter to live one moment longer than absolutely necessary.
He never did find the body, or the ashes, of his Nicholas. He was not able to perform the burial rights that his son deserved to have. He would never get to touch his child, any part of him, one last time. The feeling of the yielding flesh and bones of the Hunter being torn and crushed between his fingers would have to suffice. He had not drained the mortal. LaCroix would not have that filth within him; he would not have within him the Hunter's memories of seeing exactly how Nicholas had died. Instead, LaCroix had let the blood run out, staining the ground the same color as that morning sun had been. Then he had tossed the body into the dumpster where it belonged.
Originally, LaCroix had thought of going into the light now that what he cared for most was gone. However, he had finally decided that would be an unworthy remembrance of his son, for that is what his Nicholas now was – only memories. He would force himself to continue on, to keep those memories alive. He would not, could not, destroy what still remained of his child. Nicholas would forever exist within him; he would become an eternal living mausoleum. Cenotaph, LaCroix had quickly corrected himself, an empty tomb dedicated to the memories of Nicholas.
LaCroix sought out more remembrances of his son to preserve and protect – Nicholas' warehouse, Nicholas' art, and yes, LaCroix thought with a sad smile, even that gas-guzzling car. And one other. The only other one that housed memories of Nicholas, cared for Nicholas, though not nearly as much as he did. Housed them in a mind that would die. But that would soon change. He looked downward. He would make sure of that. LaCroix felt his fangs slide down, heard the barely perceptible sound of the teeth surfaces scraping against their neighbors. He extended them to their full length, locking them in place and preparing himself for what he was about to do.
As soon as she opened her eyes and saw him, she began to thrash and uselessly strike him. Good, he thought, as his vision narrowed to focus only upon the blood vessels under her skin. She was a fighter, just like his Nicholas had been. He struck, his fangs finding her skin, then the blood underneath. He had made vampires enough times that the process was almost automatic. LaCroix allowed his body to do what needed to be done, while his mind lingered in her memories of Nicholas.
Sunlight streamed through the open window, but he made no move to close the curtain. He watched the light slide across the floor, knowing that he and his new daughter would be safe where they were. Leaning his back against the wall, LaCroix sat on the floor holding his sleeping fledgling in a protective embrace. Now, he just had to wait. Once the sun set and she woke, her training would begin. She was a worthy guardian, and after he finished teaching her, Natalie would be able to protect her piece of Nicholas from anyone.