A note of introduction:
This story was written this summer for the "Different Views" project
started by Sue Clark. This was to be a zine that featured stories that
involved assigned character combinations. The combinations were put
together at random. I drew Nick and Bourbon. Yikes!
Since we saw only a glimpse of Bourbon, I felt free to invent his
character for this story. But how to get the two of them together? I
finally decided to set the story in the past, in 1953 to be precise,
when Nick was teaching archaeology in Chicago, and I chose an
exotic setting, a mythical seaside casino in France.
Since Sue has gotten caught up in RL, she has graciously released the
Different View participants to publish their stories on the list.
Thanks, Sue, and thanks for thinking of such an interesting project!
===================
Deadly Stakes 01/03
By Nancy Kaminski
Copyright July 2000
===================
Nicholas Gerard paused a moment before walking up the steps to the
Casino Royale Les Eaux. Absently, he straightened his cuffs as he
surveyed the facade of the elegant establishment. It had almost
regained its prewar splendor, he judged. In the eight years since the
end of World War II, the local populace had worked hard to once again
attract the wealthy and extract as much money from them as they could
in the luxurious seaside casino.
Earlier that evening, Nicholas had stepped out of the Hotel Splendide
as soon as the sun slipped below the horizon. He had strolled the
esplanade, enjoying the remnants of light in the sky that allowed him
to see the world in its true colors, if only for the half-hour of
twilight the early June evening granted him. The sky had gone through
its palette of pale blues, mauves, fiery red, and finally cobalt,
while the sea turned gunmetal gray and the stars appeared.
The brief respite from his eternal darkness had been over too soon.
Regretfully, Nicholas had turned his steps back up the esplanade
towards the casino.
His somber mood soon lightened, however. The June air was warm and
fragrant with the scent of the sea and the bright flower beds and
wisteria vines that lined the boulevard.
Now, standing on the casino's broad front steps, he smiled to himself.
If only his students could see their professor now...
The budding archaeologists he taught in Chicago were under the
impression he was doing research on the cave paintings at Lascaux in
the Dordogne during the summer break. In reality, he was seeing to
some of the properties he had owned since the mid-1700s under one name
or another, and indulging himself in the pleasures of mingling with
the beautiful people in Royale's rarified atmosphere.
You can take the boy out of the aristocracy, but you can't take the
aristocracy out of the boy, he thought ruefully, tacitly acknowledging
his pleasure in high society, evening dress and the civilized risk-
taking the casino provided. He thought nostalgically of those times
when almost every week had brought a formal affair to attend -- but
those times were long gone. The last six years spent as an academic
had been intellectually rewarding, but his social life had been rather
boring, limited to college soirees and receptions for visiting
scholars.
The refined atmosphere of the casino appealed to his taste for
excitement. Royale attracted a less flashy crowd than did Monte Carlo,
with its film stars and nouveau riche jet setters. Instead one found
stolid German industrialists, minor English aristocrats, and serious
Parisian entrepreneurs and their elegant women.
And tonight, one currently-American vampire.
Nodding to the doorman, Nicholas entered the opulent foyer. The
maitre, an astute observer of class, noted his quietly expensive
attire and hurried forward to greet him. "Bon soir, m'sieur."
"Bon soir," Nicholas answered with a smile. "How is the roulette
tonight?"
"An English lady had a short run betting on even red, m'sieur, but in
general the wheel is cold. Perhaps m'sieur would care to change its
luck?"
"Perhaps," he replied, nodding and moving to the caisse. He removed
his notecase from his breast pocket and separated out five hundred
thousand francs, about twelve hundred American dollars. That should
make for a pleasurable evening, he thought. "Fifty-thousand franc
plaques, please."
As the caissier took the cash, Nicholas stiffened, all his senses
suddenly on alert. He could feel another of his kind in the vicinity.
He stared at the main salon -- yes, the sensation was from that
direction. Another vampire was in the casino.
He pocketed the heavy plaques the caissier handed him and walked
through the salon as if looking for an inviting table to join. There
-- at the roulette wheel. He examined the intent faces watching the
croupier spin the wheel and then flick the boulle in a counter motion
with an expert twist of the wrist. "Le jou est fait," the croupier
intoned as players hurriedly placed their bets on their favored
numbers.
Nicholas scowled. He recognized one face, although he had not seen the
man for several hundred years. It was that bastard, Bourbon. His
pleasure in the evening was dampened. Of all the rotten luck...
Bourbon might have been French, and he might have been a Bourbon,
although certainly a bastard offshoot of that noble family. He was
handsome in a dissolute way, with slightly too-long brown hair, a
vulpine face, and cold blue eyes. Like Nicholas, he was in evening
dress, although his was cut rather too smartly for good taste. A young
woman, almost a girl, really, was at his side, watching the betting
with naive fascination.
Bourbon finally sensed Nicholas' attention. He put his arm
possessively around the girl's waist and raised his eyes to stare back
across the room. The blue eyes glittered coldly in recognition for a
moment, then returned to the roulette table to watch the drop of the
boulle.
"Noir cinque," the croupier announced, expertly raking in the losers'
plaques and awarding a small stack to an excited elderly woman. "Place
your bets, mesdames et messieurs."
Shrugging off his losses, Bourbon threw a plaque to the croupier and
whispered something in the girl's ear. He guided her away from the
table and towards Nicholas. "Well, well, who have we here?" he said
with false bonhomie. He turned to the girl. "This is Nicholas..." He
paused, raising an eyebrow inquiringly.
"De Brabant," Nicholas said shortly. He had no desire to give Bourbon
any more information about his current life than was absolutely
necessary, even so slight a detail as his current last name.
"Nicholas de Brabant," Bourbon repeated. "Allow me to introduce
Angelique Messier. This lovely creature is my good luck charm for the
evening."
The girl smiled shyly. "Bon soir, Monsieur de Brabant," she said.
"Henri persuaded me to come to the casino this evening with him -- I
met him in my hotel. I've never been in such an exciting place
before!"
Nicholas took her in. She was barely twenty-two, and still had the
awkward, coltish look of a teenager, but her face and figure showed
the promise of a beautiful woman. Her brunette hair was swept up in a
severe chignon that emphasized her large, hazel eyes, and she wore a
single strand of pearls in an old-fashioned setting. Her black evening
frock didn't fit quite right, and though it was of a classic cut, it
wasn't new. Her accent was Parisian. Nicholas was reminded
irresistibly of a very young, very naive Janette.
He guessed she was a shop girl out on her first exciting trip by
herself, and that she had borrowed the frock and the pearls for her
holiday by the sea. She was probably both excited and frightened by
her own daring, going to the casino with a strange man.
Bourbon was enjoying the situation. "Yes, can you believe my good
fortune? She was all alone and so was I, so I offered to take her to
the casino and then to dinner." Bourbon's eyes were mocking. Nicholas
realized Bourbon's true intention -- the girl wasn't going to be taken
to dinner, she was going to *be* dinner.
"Bourbon..." Nicholas said warningly. He put steel into his voice. "I
suggest you forego dinner and stick to gambling." His eyes flicked
meaningfully at the girl. "I know how hard it is for you to tear
yourself away from the tables." He turned to the girl. "The casino has
superb food. Allow me to escort you to the bar for a drink and some
caviar while Monsieur Bourbon tries his luck at the wheel again."
The girl looked confused. "But why shouldn't Henri take me to dinner?
Henri?" she looked at her escort for an explanation.
Bourbon took Nicholas' arm. "Will you excuse us, my dear? I have some
things to discuss with my good friend Nicholas." He handed her a small
stack of plaques. "Here, go try your luck at roulette. I'll be back
shortly." He steered Nicholas away. Angelique looked even younger as
she forlornly watched the two men retreat to the bar.
Once safely out of earshot, Nicholas turned on Bourbon angrily. "Don't
even think it, Bourbon. I won't allow you to take that innocent girl."
Bourbon lounged negligently against the bar, waving away the
approaching barman. "Still doing the chivalry act, eh, Nicholas? I
would have thought that was out of fashion after all these years." He
looked around as if searching for someone. "I don't see your sire
anywhere. Exactly how do you propose stopping me without the old
general to back you up? You realize, of course, that without him
you're quite the laughingstock in the Community. 'Nicholas the would-
be carouche' is the kindest thing I've heard."
Nicholas' eyes flared dangerously. "Don't underestimate me, Bourbon,"
he warned, and let the full weight of his eight hundred years show for
just a moment. Bourbon, younger by at least four hundred years,
flinched under the impact. "Lacroix may not be here, but I carry the
favor of certain others of his acquaintance who are nearby. I
understand they don't look very kindly on your usual crowd -- who was
it? -- some Spaniard and a dance hall girl? Oh, and a carouche?" His
voice dripped with scorn. "You've called attention to yourself more
than once in the past with your escapades, and I won't allow you to do
it again."
Bourbon had, however, regained his confidence. "It's not as if she'll
be missed," he said with a dismissive wave. "She lost most of her
family in the late unpleasantness. However," he continued, holding up
a forestalling hand, "I concede that the casino or the Hotel Splendide
are perhaps a trifle too public a place for my original intentions. I
propose a compromise."
"What do you mean, a compromise?" Nicholas asked guardedly.
"A wager." Bourbon smiled, a feral flash of teeth. "I am a bit short
of cash right now, as well as dinner. I propose we play a game.
Roulette, perhaps? The girl's life will be the prize. The money will
serve only to sweeten the pot. Agreed?"
Nicholas' first impulse was to refuse outright. The thought of
gambling the girl's life on a turn of the wheel was abhorrent. But, he
realized resignedly, he was between a rock and a hard place. If he
didn't go through with this charade, Bourbon would kill the girl. And
even if he persuaded him to leave the girl alone, he would probably
kill someone else that night. But if Nicholas accepted the challenge,
he was fairly sure Bourbon, despite his unsavory nature, would keep to
his side of the bargain.
Besides, he thought ruefully, even though he had threatened Bourbon
with the prospect of calling down one of the ancients, in reality he
wasn't sure if any of them would pay him any heed.
He thought of yet another alternative -- a bribe. Bourbon was both
greedy and practical, a convenient combination. Cash was far less of a
risk. He offered, "I will pay you a million francs to leave her to
me."
Bourbon tilted his head, considering, then regretfully shook it. "A
handsome offer, indeed, but I think not. Where's the challenge in
that? I feel lucky tonight, Nicholas, and I'm in the mood to gamble.
Choose your game, or go away and leave me to my -- diversions."
Nicholas frowned. Damn! "Very well, agreed. But not roulette -- that
is mere chance. I suggest a game of skill -- baccarat." He smiled
thinly. "Since you are short of funds, I will buy the bank. Challenge
me by calling 'banco' and we will see who prevails. If you lose, I
take the girl. If you win, you take her and the money." Nicholas knew
he was lucky at cards, and the game required nerve to play well. He
had often bet vast sums and won in the past playing this deceptively
simple game. Also, the odds were slightly in favor of the bank. He
calculated he had perhaps a five percent advantage over his opponent.
Bourbon rubbed his hands together. "Excellent, baccarat it is." He
paused. "You will have to advance me a certain amount of cash, though
-- you know they won't let me near a table without cash in hand. I'm
afraid this is all I have." He held up a small handful of five
thousand-franc plaques, then grinned impudently. "Perhaps that
million? God knows you won't miss it, you're rolling in the stuff."
Nicholas was astonished and a bit amused at Bourbon's audacity.
"Here," he said, handing over a sheaf of notes, "You won't be keeping
it long. And if you try to leave without going through with the game,"
he warned, "you'll regret it."
"Don't worry. I told you I feel lucky -- I wouldn't miss this for the
world."
They moved back into the salon, Nicholas to find a suitable table and
Bourbon to collect Angelique. Nicholas briefly considered asking the
maitre for a private table in the salle privee, but decided he didn't
want to call that much attention to himself or Bourbon. Instead he
located a table where four players were engaged in a relatively low-
stakes game. After watching the play for a moment, he judged that they
would be unlikely to banco if the bank went much above four hundred
thousand. It would do. He had a quiet word with the chef de partie
about buying the next bank, then seated himself at one of the two
remaining places and gestured to Bourbon to join him.
While they waited for the current game to end, Angelique whispered
questions to Bourbon from her position behind the two men. "I don't
know this game -- how do you play?"
Bourbon turned and replied sotto voce. "It's quite simple, really. One
player becomes the banker by buying the bank." He nodded at Nicholas.
"Nicholas has done so." He continued, "There are six decks shuffled
thoroughly together in the shoe." He gestured to the box the current
banker was dealing cards from. "The banker deals himself and a player
a hand of two cards each, face down, with the option of drawing one
additional card. The player whose cards add up most closely to nine,
wins. Court cards and tens count zero, aces count one, and all others
count their face value. Only the last figure of the total counts --
for instance, a nine and a four is three, not thirteen.
"Each player can accept the bet or pass. If no single player takes it
all, then the players, and even any spectators, can combine their bets
to equal the bank."
Angelique nodded seriously. "I see."
The bank was at fifty thousand when a quiet-looking Englishman
challenged and won with a natural nine. The banker, a dour looking
German, retired from the table, his small stack of plaques depleted.
There was a small flurry as the chef de partie announced that Nicholas
had bought the bank for five hundred thousand francs. Nicholas
smiled thinly at the table's reaction. That sum ensured none of the
other four players would interfere with their deadly and private game.
The unwitting prize, Angelique, stood behind Bourbon and smiled in
innocent anticipation of an exciting new game.
Nicholas took his place at the center of the table, the croupier and
chef de partie hovering silently at his elbow.
One by one the players refused to take on the bank. All eyes were on
Bourbon when it was his turn to accept or refuse.
He stared coldly at Nicholas, all pretense to civility forgotten, and
said, "Banco."
"Un banco de cinq cente mille," announced the croupier. "Le jou est
fait."
Nicholas fingered four cards out of the shoe, and the croupier deftly
slipped two of them towards Bourbon with his long, flat paddle. The
two men stared at each other for a moment, then Bourbon dropped his
eyes to barely glance at his cards. He tapped the back of one with his
finger. "Un carte."
Nicholas slipped another card from the shoe, and the croupier passed
it over. Bourbon turned it over. A five. Raising his eyes to Nicholas,
he turned over his other two cards - a queen and a four. He had a
natural nine. A wide smile split his face. "A nine plus a queen. How
fitting."
Nicholas turned his cards over. A six and a two. The chances of him
getting an ace to challenge Bourbon's nine were miniscule. Silently he
dealt himself another card -- a king.
Bourbon had won, and Angelique's fate was sealed.
The croupier said quietly, "Le baccarat," and with his paddle moved
Nicholas' stack of plaques in front of Bourbon. Nicholas felt a stab
of apprehension. This couldn't be the end so soon. But Bourbon was
starting to gather up his booty and leave the table.
"Wait," Nicholas said.
Bourbon stopped, halfway out of his chair.
Nicholas placed another stack of plaques on the table. "Again?" It was
a blatant appeal to Bourbon's greed, and it worked.
"You don't know when to stop, do you?" he said equably, sitting down
again. "I'll be happy to take more money from you, Nicholas." The
other players at the table, now forgotten by the two vampires, watched
the byplay with fascination.
The croupier had been counting the plaques. "Un banco d'un million,"
he announced.
"Banco," Bourbon said again.
"Le jou est fait."
Nicholas again dealt four cards and watched as Bourbon tipped up the
edges, pursing his lips in thought.
Finally Bourbon said, "Un carte."
Now Nicholas knew Bourbon had to have at most a five. He looked at his
own cards -- an ace and a three. He would have to draw another card,
and hope that Bourbon had drawn more than a four.
He fingered the pink tongue of the card out of the shoe and looked at
it. It was another court card, a king. Unless Bourbon drew a high card
and had an eleven, twelve, or thirteen, he was beaten again.
Bourbon turned his cards over to reveal two twos and a three. Seven.
He sat back in his chair and looked at Nicholas quizzically, waiting
for him to reveal his own cards.
The croupier said flatly, "Quatre a la banque, et sept."
Bourbon grinned. "I told you that I felt lucky tonight, Nicholas."
Angelique gasped in delight at the large stack of plaques the croupier
presented to him, and he turned to her.
"Shall we go, my dear? Our dinner awaits." Bourbon tossed Nicholas a
triumphant look mixed with lecherous anticipation. He licked his lips.
"I've developed quite an appetite."
"No," said Nicholas.
Bourbon turned back to him and said harshly, "I believe I've won our
little bet, Nicholas. Haven't you taken punishment enough for one
evening?"
"Double or nothing, Bourbon." Nicholas opened his notecase and handed
the last of his francs to the chef de partie. "Deux millions, s'il
vous plait."
"You're making a spectacle of yourself, de Brabant, but if you
insist..." Bourbon eyes glittered greedily as he reseated himself, at
ease and confident. "Allow me to relieve you of yet more of your no-
doubt ill-gotten money, by all means. Double or nothing it is."
The chef hurried back to the table carrying more plaques, and the
croupier announced to the gathering crowd, "Un banco de deux
millions."
"Banco."
"Le jou est fait."
Steeling himself, Nicholas dealt the final four cards on which
Angelique's fate rested. He hated this, and at that moment he hated
Bourbon more than ever.
Bourbon looked at his cards and started laughing softly. He turned
them up -- two fours, an almost unbeatable eight.
Nicholas closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at his own cards.
Angelique's life depended on those two bits of pink pasteboard.
Expressionlessly, he turned them over. A nine and a queen.
"Le baccarat," intoned the croupier as the crowd gasped.
He had won, and Angelique was safe.
As Bourbon stared at him in disbelief, Nicholas rose, taking the
stacks of plaques the chef de partie handed him. He said, "I assume
the rest of the bet is also paid?" His smile was cold and carried the
hint of a threat.
Bourbon stood as well, radiating frigid fury. "She's yours, damn you."
He turned abruptly, pushed through the crowd of onlookers, and
disappeared. Angelique stared after his retreating back. "What did he
mean, I'm yours? What just happened?" she asked, a bit fearfully.
Nicholas took her elbow as they moved through the small crowd around
the table. He said reassuringly, "All he meant was that he wishes me
to escort you back to your hotel room. He's just upset that he lost.
It is late, and it's been rather an exciting night, don't you think?"
He felt a tension he hadn't known was in him drain from his body. She
was safe.
She nodded and allowed herself to be steered out of the main salon.
"No dinner, then?" she said sadly. She looked longingly at the elegant
restaurant as they walked through the foyer.
Nicholas smiled faintly, glad that she was still able to worry about
her loss of an expensive meal. "Tell you what, I'll take you to dinner
tomorrow night. Would that be acceptable? I promise it will be the
highlight of your holiday."
She brightened. "Oh, Monsieur de Brabant, that would be most
wonderful! I am sure you would not abandon me as Henri has done."
"Never," he promised, and smiled again as she attempted to stifle a
tremendous yawn. "I believe your bed is calling you. Where are you
staying?"
"The Splendide. I'm afraid I've been very extravagent on this
holiday."
Nicholas smiled at her. I'm sure you've earned it. It's a very
pleasant hotel. I have a room there, too." Arms decorously linked,
they strolled out the door into the fresh-smelling night air. It was
two in the morning. Nicholas breathed deeply. He hadn't realized how
stifling the air in the casino had become, redolent with the smell of
cigarette smoke, sweat, and alcohol. The girl leaned a little on his
arm and stumbled in her tiredness, the excitement of the evening
finally telling on her.
At her door she turned to him and smiled uncertainly. Nicholas could
tell she was wondering if he was going to try to kiss her. But she was
so young -- the gulf of years between them yawned far too widely for
him to even consider it. Even if he had been mortal he would not have
been tempted; as it was, he felt incredibly ancient and protective in
the face of her innocent naiveté. So instead he raised her hand to his
lips, kissed her knuckles, and smiled. "Go to bed, Angelique. I will
see you tomorrow night after sunset. Sweet dreams."
She looked both disappointed and relieved at his small gallantry. "I
look forward to it -- Nicholas." She blushed charmingly. "Good night."
She slipped into her room and softly shut the door. Nicholas could
hear her sigh as she leaned against the other side, then her light
footsteps moved away into her room.
He rested his hand on her door. She was safe, at least from Bourbon's
depredations. It had been rather a more exciting evening than he had
planned, and as a result, he felt restless and certainly not ready for
sleep. He decided to take another walk on the esplanade to clear his
mind.
As he strolled along, he listened to the soft susurration of the waves
on the sand, and felt a quiet satisfaction. Because of him, one life
was safe for another day. He knew his small act wouldn't offset the
thousands of deaths he had caused over the centuries, but it helped to
make his balance sheet tilt just a little bit more to the positive
side.
The blow came out of nowhere. He was leaning on the low stone wall
that separated the esplanade from the beach, staring absently at the
moonlight gleaming on the waves, when he was struck heavily in the
back by a hurtling body. Caught off-guard, he tumbled over the wall
and landed with a thud in the sand ten feet below. His assailant
dropped onto his back and slammed his face into the sharp, damp sand.
The fingers closing around his neck were like iron.
"Did you think I'd just go away with my tail between my legs, you
self-righteous bastard?" a voice hissed in his ear. "I'll have what's
mine!" The fingers tightened.
Nicholas heaved himself up, sand cascading off his clothes, and tore
the hands from his throat. Eyes ablaze and fangs extended, he whirled
to face Bourbon and shoved him away. "Are you asking to die?" he
hissed. "If so, I'm more than willing to oblige you." With that he
hurled himself at Bourbon, wrapped his arms around him from behind,
and bore him into the air. Bourbon, still off balance, was unable to
resist.
Bourbon struggled fiercely against Nicholas' grip, but was unable to
free himself. He tried to sink his fangs into anything he could reach
-- a hand, an arm, but to no avail. He lashed viciously backward with
his heels, trying to connect with Nicholas' groin, but succeeding only
in hitting his shins.
The two vampires fought viciously as they soared through the dark sky,
two writhing black shapes silhouetted against the stars. Miraculously,
the few late-night revelers making their semi-drunken way back to
their rooms didn't see them. The struggle was almost silent, save for
grunts of effort or pain as a blow landed.
They seemed to be almost evenly matched, Nicholas' age lent him
greater strength, but his diet of steer's blood almost weakened him to
the younger vampire's level. He managed finally to immobilize the
writhing, violently struggling vampire enough to lock his fangs into
the back of the other's neck and try to bite through his spine.
Bourbon screamed and ceased flying.
The sudden lack of lift bore the two vampires plunging towards the sea
beyond the breakwater. Taking advantage of Bourbon's sudden weakness,
Nicholas deliberately flew downwards, accelerating towards the cold,
black water. Bourbon flailed in his arms, his struggles weakening as
Nicholas' teeth ground into his spine.
Nicholas only intended to plunge them into the sea, but at the last
moment he saw rusty iron spikes thrusting out of the inky water like
the teeth of a sea monster gaping open to capture its prey. The spikes
had been sunk into the water by the Germans as anti-landing craft
defenses; tonight, the forgotten remains of the war reached upward to
trap another kind of predator.
Nicholas dropped Bourbon and swerved just in time to narrowly avoid
being impaled; Bourbon was not so lucky. His momentum carried him
backwards onto one of the iron spikes, driving it through his back and
out his abdomen with a sickening noise. His limbs jerked
spasmodically, then went limp, his head dropping back into the water.
His breath came out with a hissing moan.
Nicholas hovered for a moment, appalled at the sight, then dropped
into the sea next to the stricken vampire. But he steeled himself
against any sympathy for his attacker, remembering instead what
Bourbon had planned for Angelique.
He grasped Bourbon's hair and lifted up the vampire's head. When
Bourbon cracked open his eyes, no longer angry but now glazed with
pain and surprise, he gritted, "It ends here, Bourbon. No more."
Bourbon moaned.
With a grunt Nicholas grasped Bourbon and pulled him off the wicked
spike. He shrieked in agony as the rough, rusty metal grated through
his flesh. When he was free, Nicholas let him fall back into the sea,
and then, treading water, regarded him dispassionately. Bourbon
floated face up, his mouth a round O of effort and pain as the salt
water oozed into the hideous wound.
"Keep up the killing, Bourbon, and you'll wish I'd left you on that
spike to greet the sun. There's been enough bloodshed in the world in
the last twenty years to last a millennium." The stricken vampire
stared vacantly up at the stars, immersed in his own pain. Nicholas
wasn't sure he'd heard him. He grasped Bourbon's chin and turned his
face towards him. He shook him slightly, and after a moment the eyes
focused on his face. "Are you listening?"
Bourbon grunted weakly.
"Get to shelter before dawn, or don't -- I don't give a damn either
way. But leave this place." He released Bourbon's chin. "You get this
one last chance, Bourbon. Don't waste it."
Nicholas lifted out of the sea in a cascade of glittering water.
Bourbon lay motionless, but Nicholas could see that he was beginning
to revive. His legs and arms were moving weakly as he tried to turn
over and orient himself.
Nicholas was fairly certain Bourbon would be able to reach shelter in
time, but he realized he really didn't care if he did or not. He
suddenly felt very tired.
Wearily he flew to the window of his room at the Splendide and slipped
inside, leaving small puddles of sea water on the parquet floor. He
opened the crate that held his blood supply and downed a bottle
thirstily.
He replaced the lid and then stopped to consider his own condition.
His clothes were a soggy, blood-streaked mess but somehow hadn't been
ripped during the fight. He stripped and threw everything into a heap
on the floor. A big enough tip would ensure that they would be cleaned
and pressed with no questions asked.
As he got ready for bed, he wondered why he hadn't simply killed
Bourbon when he had him at his mercy. He should have, and a few
centuries ago he wouldn't have hesitated for a second. Bourbon clearly
fell into the category of unrepentant predator that he had loathed
even then.
But here he was, even more reluctant than ever to take a life, even
one so amoral and worthless as Bourbon's. Perhaps the last war had
finally burned it out of him.
Battlefields reeked of blood and death, even after years had passed.
Places like Ardennes and the Somme, charnel houses of the First World
War, still did, and the massive war only eight years gone had added to
the stench. France had been soaked in blood and he found he couldn't
bring himself to add to it.
Save a life, spare a life. It was all he could do to make his amends
for the personal war he had waged for so long against humanity, for no
better reasons than those of the Axis Powers -- to thrive at the
complete expense of others, to treat those others as less than human,
mere animals to be slaughtered. No more.
Sighing, he picked up the telephone and asked for a valet. After he
had turned over his ruined clothes and a discreet amount of cash, he
went to the window to close the drapes against the coming day.
The sun was about to come up. He looked out at the paling horizon and
wondered if Bourbon had made it to safety.
Shaking his head at his own folly, he turned down his bed and went to
sleep.
FIN
*************************
NOTE: the conversion rate between francs and US dollars in 1953 was
405 francs to one dollar. So Nicholas offered Bourbon $2500 to leave
Angelique alone -- an impressive sum in 1953 dollars, when middle-
class Americans were earning about $3-5000 a year.
===============================================
Comments, criticisms, and martinis that are
shaken, not stirred, may be sent to:
Nancy Kaminski
nancykam@mediaone.net
"The name's De Brabant -- Nicholas de Brabant."
===============================================
This story was written this summer for the "Different Views" project
started by Sue Clark. This was to be a zine that featured stories that
involved assigned character combinations. The combinations were put
together at random. I drew Nick and Bourbon. Yikes!
Since we saw only a glimpse of Bourbon, I felt free to invent his
character for this story. But how to get the two of them together? I
finally decided to set the story in the past, in 1953 to be precise,
when Nick was teaching archaeology in Chicago, and I chose an
exotic setting, a mythical seaside casino in France.
Since Sue has gotten caught up in RL, she has graciously released the
Different View participants to publish their stories on the list.
Thanks, Sue, and thanks for thinking of such an interesting project!
===================
Deadly Stakes 01/03
By Nancy Kaminski
Copyright July 2000
===================
Nicholas Gerard paused a moment before walking up the steps to the
Casino Royale Les Eaux. Absently, he straightened his cuffs as he
surveyed the facade of the elegant establishment. It had almost
regained its prewar splendor, he judged. In the eight years since the
end of World War II, the local populace had worked hard to once again
attract the wealthy and extract as much money from them as they could
in the luxurious seaside casino.
Earlier that evening, Nicholas had stepped out of the Hotel Splendide
as soon as the sun slipped below the horizon. He had strolled the
esplanade, enjoying the remnants of light in the sky that allowed him
to see the world in its true colors, if only for the half-hour of
twilight the early June evening granted him. The sky had gone through
its palette of pale blues, mauves, fiery red, and finally cobalt,
while the sea turned gunmetal gray and the stars appeared.
The brief respite from his eternal darkness had been over too soon.
Regretfully, Nicholas had turned his steps back up the esplanade
towards the casino.
His somber mood soon lightened, however. The June air was warm and
fragrant with the scent of the sea and the bright flower beds and
wisteria vines that lined the boulevard.
Now, standing on the casino's broad front steps, he smiled to himself.
If only his students could see their professor now...
The budding archaeologists he taught in Chicago were under the
impression he was doing research on the cave paintings at Lascaux in
the Dordogne during the summer break. In reality, he was seeing to
some of the properties he had owned since the mid-1700s under one name
or another, and indulging himself in the pleasures of mingling with
the beautiful people in Royale's rarified atmosphere.
You can take the boy out of the aristocracy, but you can't take the
aristocracy out of the boy, he thought ruefully, tacitly acknowledging
his pleasure in high society, evening dress and the civilized risk-
taking the casino provided. He thought nostalgically of those times
when almost every week had brought a formal affair to attend -- but
those times were long gone. The last six years spent as an academic
had been intellectually rewarding, but his social life had been rather
boring, limited to college soirees and receptions for visiting
scholars.
The refined atmosphere of the casino appealed to his taste for
excitement. Royale attracted a less flashy crowd than did Monte Carlo,
with its film stars and nouveau riche jet setters. Instead one found
stolid German industrialists, minor English aristocrats, and serious
Parisian entrepreneurs and their elegant women.
And tonight, one currently-American vampire.
Nodding to the doorman, Nicholas entered the opulent foyer. The
maitre, an astute observer of class, noted his quietly expensive
attire and hurried forward to greet him. "Bon soir, m'sieur."
"Bon soir," Nicholas answered with a smile. "How is the roulette
tonight?"
"An English lady had a short run betting on even red, m'sieur, but in
general the wheel is cold. Perhaps m'sieur would care to change its
luck?"
"Perhaps," he replied, nodding and moving to the caisse. He removed
his notecase from his breast pocket and separated out five hundred
thousand francs, about twelve hundred American dollars. That should
make for a pleasurable evening, he thought. "Fifty-thousand franc
plaques, please."
As the caissier took the cash, Nicholas stiffened, all his senses
suddenly on alert. He could feel another of his kind in the vicinity.
He stared at the main salon -- yes, the sensation was from that
direction. Another vampire was in the casino.
He pocketed the heavy plaques the caissier handed him and walked
through the salon as if looking for an inviting table to join. There
-- at the roulette wheel. He examined the intent faces watching the
croupier spin the wheel and then flick the boulle in a counter motion
with an expert twist of the wrist. "Le jou est fait," the croupier
intoned as players hurriedly placed their bets on their favored
numbers.
Nicholas scowled. He recognized one face, although he had not seen the
man for several hundred years. It was that bastard, Bourbon. His
pleasure in the evening was dampened. Of all the rotten luck...
Bourbon might have been French, and he might have been a Bourbon,
although certainly a bastard offshoot of that noble family. He was
handsome in a dissolute way, with slightly too-long brown hair, a
vulpine face, and cold blue eyes. Like Nicholas, he was in evening
dress, although his was cut rather too smartly for good taste. A young
woman, almost a girl, really, was at his side, watching the betting
with naive fascination.
Bourbon finally sensed Nicholas' attention. He put his arm
possessively around the girl's waist and raised his eyes to stare back
across the room. The blue eyes glittered coldly in recognition for a
moment, then returned to the roulette table to watch the drop of the
boulle.
"Noir cinque," the croupier announced, expertly raking in the losers'
plaques and awarding a small stack to an excited elderly woman. "Place
your bets, mesdames et messieurs."
Shrugging off his losses, Bourbon threw a plaque to the croupier and
whispered something in the girl's ear. He guided her away from the
table and towards Nicholas. "Well, well, who have we here?" he said
with false bonhomie. He turned to the girl. "This is Nicholas..." He
paused, raising an eyebrow inquiringly.
"De Brabant," Nicholas said shortly. He had no desire to give Bourbon
any more information about his current life than was absolutely
necessary, even so slight a detail as his current last name.
"Nicholas de Brabant," Bourbon repeated. "Allow me to introduce
Angelique Messier. This lovely creature is my good luck charm for the
evening."
The girl smiled shyly. "Bon soir, Monsieur de Brabant," she said.
"Henri persuaded me to come to the casino this evening with him -- I
met him in my hotel. I've never been in such an exciting place
before!"
Nicholas took her in. She was barely twenty-two, and still had the
awkward, coltish look of a teenager, but her face and figure showed
the promise of a beautiful woman. Her brunette hair was swept up in a
severe chignon that emphasized her large, hazel eyes, and she wore a
single strand of pearls in an old-fashioned setting. Her black evening
frock didn't fit quite right, and though it was of a classic cut, it
wasn't new. Her accent was Parisian. Nicholas was reminded
irresistibly of a very young, very naive Janette.
He guessed she was a shop girl out on her first exciting trip by
herself, and that she had borrowed the frock and the pearls for her
holiday by the sea. She was probably both excited and frightened by
her own daring, going to the casino with a strange man.
Bourbon was enjoying the situation. "Yes, can you believe my good
fortune? She was all alone and so was I, so I offered to take her to
the casino and then to dinner." Bourbon's eyes were mocking. Nicholas
realized Bourbon's true intention -- the girl wasn't going to be taken
to dinner, she was going to *be* dinner.
"Bourbon..." Nicholas said warningly. He put steel into his voice. "I
suggest you forego dinner and stick to gambling." His eyes flicked
meaningfully at the girl. "I know how hard it is for you to tear
yourself away from the tables." He turned to the girl. "The casino has
superb food. Allow me to escort you to the bar for a drink and some
caviar while Monsieur Bourbon tries his luck at the wheel again."
The girl looked confused. "But why shouldn't Henri take me to dinner?
Henri?" she looked at her escort for an explanation.
Bourbon took Nicholas' arm. "Will you excuse us, my dear? I have some
things to discuss with my good friend Nicholas." He handed her a small
stack of plaques. "Here, go try your luck at roulette. I'll be back
shortly." He steered Nicholas away. Angelique looked even younger as
she forlornly watched the two men retreat to the bar.
Once safely out of earshot, Nicholas turned on Bourbon angrily. "Don't
even think it, Bourbon. I won't allow you to take that innocent girl."
Bourbon lounged negligently against the bar, waving away the
approaching barman. "Still doing the chivalry act, eh, Nicholas? I
would have thought that was out of fashion after all these years." He
looked around as if searching for someone. "I don't see your sire
anywhere. Exactly how do you propose stopping me without the old
general to back you up? You realize, of course, that without him
you're quite the laughingstock in the Community. 'Nicholas the would-
be carouche' is the kindest thing I've heard."
Nicholas' eyes flared dangerously. "Don't underestimate me, Bourbon,"
he warned, and let the full weight of his eight hundred years show for
just a moment. Bourbon, younger by at least four hundred years,
flinched under the impact. "Lacroix may not be here, but I carry the
favor of certain others of his acquaintance who are nearby. I
understand they don't look very kindly on your usual crowd -- who was
it? -- some Spaniard and a dance hall girl? Oh, and a carouche?" His
voice dripped with scorn. "You've called attention to yourself more
than once in the past with your escapades, and I won't allow you to do
it again."
Bourbon had, however, regained his confidence. "It's not as if she'll
be missed," he said with a dismissive wave. "She lost most of her
family in the late unpleasantness. However," he continued, holding up
a forestalling hand, "I concede that the casino or the Hotel Splendide
are perhaps a trifle too public a place for my original intentions. I
propose a compromise."
"What do you mean, a compromise?" Nicholas asked guardedly.
"A wager." Bourbon smiled, a feral flash of teeth. "I am a bit short
of cash right now, as well as dinner. I propose we play a game.
Roulette, perhaps? The girl's life will be the prize. The money will
serve only to sweeten the pot. Agreed?"
Nicholas' first impulse was to refuse outright. The thought of
gambling the girl's life on a turn of the wheel was abhorrent. But, he
realized resignedly, he was between a rock and a hard place. If he
didn't go through with this charade, Bourbon would kill the girl. And
even if he persuaded him to leave the girl alone, he would probably
kill someone else that night. But if Nicholas accepted the challenge,
he was fairly sure Bourbon, despite his unsavory nature, would keep to
his side of the bargain.
Besides, he thought ruefully, even though he had threatened Bourbon
with the prospect of calling down one of the ancients, in reality he
wasn't sure if any of them would pay him any heed.
He thought of yet another alternative -- a bribe. Bourbon was both
greedy and practical, a convenient combination. Cash was far less of a
risk. He offered, "I will pay you a million francs to leave her to
me."
Bourbon tilted his head, considering, then regretfully shook it. "A
handsome offer, indeed, but I think not. Where's the challenge in
that? I feel lucky tonight, Nicholas, and I'm in the mood to gamble.
Choose your game, or go away and leave me to my -- diversions."
Nicholas frowned. Damn! "Very well, agreed. But not roulette -- that
is mere chance. I suggest a game of skill -- baccarat." He smiled
thinly. "Since you are short of funds, I will buy the bank. Challenge
me by calling 'banco' and we will see who prevails. If you lose, I
take the girl. If you win, you take her and the money." Nicholas knew
he was lucky at cards, and the game required nerve to play well. He
had often bet vast sums and won in the past playing this deceptively
simple game. Also, the odds were slightly in favor of the bank. He
calculated he had perhaps a five percent advantage over his opponent.
Bourbon rubbed his hands together. "Excellent, baccarat it is." He
paused. "You will have to advance me a certain amount of cash, though
-- you know they won't let me near a table without cash in hand. I'm
afraid this is all I have." He held up a small handful of five
thousand-franc plaques, then grinned impudently. "Perhaps that
million? God knows you won't miss it, you're rolling in the stuff."
Nicholas was astonished and a bit amused at Bourbon's audacity.
"Here," he said, handing over a sheaf of notes, "You won't be keeping
it long. And if you try to leave without going through with the game,"
he warned, "you'll regret it."
"Don't worry. I told you I feel lucky -- I wouldn't miss this for the
world."
They moved back into the salon, Nicholas to find a suitable table and
Bourbon to collect Angelique. Nicholas briefly considered asking the
maitre for a private table in the salle privee, but decided he didn't
want to call that much attention to himself or Bourbon. Instead he
located a table where four players were engaged in a relatively low-
stakes game. After watching the play for a moment, he judged that they
would be unlikely to banco if the bank went much above four hundred
thousand. It would do. He had a quiet word with the chef de partie
about buying the next bank, then seated himself at one of the two
remaining places and gestured to Bourbon to join him.
While they waited for the current game to end, Angelique whispered
questions to Bourbon from her position behind the two men. "I don't
know this game -- how do you play?"
Bourbon turned and replied sotto voce. "It's quite simple, really. One
player becomes the banker by buying the bank." He nodded at Nicholas.
"Nicholas has done so." He continued, "There are six decks shuffled
thoroughly together in the shoe." He gestured to the box the current
banker was dealing cards from. "The banker deals himself and a player
a hand of two cards each, face down, with the option of drawing one
additional card. The player whose cards add up most closely to nine,
wins. Court cards and tens count zero, aces count one, and all others
count their face value. Only the last figure of the total counts --
for instance, a nine and a four is three, not thirteen.
"Each player can accept the bet or pass. If no single player takes it
all, then the players, and even any spectators, can combine their bets
to equal the bank."
Angelique nodded seriously. "I see."
The bank was at fifty thousand when a quiet-looking Englishman
challenged and won with a natural nine. The banker, a dour looking
German, retired from the table, his small stack of plaques depleted.
There was a small flurry as the chef de partie announced that Nicholas
had bought the bank for five hundred thousand francs. Nicholas
smiled thinly at the table's reaction. That sum ensured none of the
other four players would interfere with their deadly and private game.
The unwitting prize, Angelique, stood behind Bourbon and smiled in
innocent anticipation of an exciting new game.
Nicholas took his place at the center of the table, the croupier and
chef de partie hovering silently at his elbow.
One by one the players refused to take on the bank. All eyes were on
Bourbon when it was his turn to accept or refuse.
He stared coldly at Nicholas, all pretense to civility forgotten, and
said, "Banco."
"Un banco de cinq cente mille," announced the croupier. "Le jou est
fait."
Nicholas fingered four cards out of the shoe, and the croupier deftly
slipped two of them towards Bourbon with his long, flat paddle. The
two men stared at each other for a moment, then Bourbon dropped his
eyes to barely glance at his cards. He tapped the back of one with his
finger. "Un carte."
Nicholas slipped another card from the shoe, and the croupier passed
it over. Bourbon turned it over. A five. Raising his eyes to Nicholas,
he turned over his other two cards - a queen and a four. He had a
natural nine. A wide smile split his face. "A nine plus a queen. How
fitting."
Nicholas turned his cards over. A six and a two. The chances of him
getting an ace to challenge Bourbon's nine were miniscule. Silently he
dealt himself another card -- a king.
Bourbon had won, and Angelique's fate was sealed.
The croupier said quietly, "Le baccarat," and with his paddle moved
Nicholas' stack of plaques in front of Bourbon. Nicholas felt a stab
of apprehension. This couldn't be the end so soon. But Bourbon was
starting to gather up his booty and leave the table.
"Wait," Nicholas said.
Bourbon stopped, halfway out of his chair.
Nicholas placed another stack of plaques on the table. "Again?" It was
a blatant appeal to Bourbon's greed, and it worked.
"You don't know when to stop, do you?" he said equably, sitting down
again. "I'll be happy to take more money from you, Nicholas." The
other players at the table, now forgotten by the two vampires, watched
the byplay with fascination.
The croupier had been counting the plaques. "Un banco d'un million,"
he announced.
"Banco," Bourbon said again.
"Le jou est fait."
Nicholas again dealt four cards and watched as Bourbon tipped up the
edges, pursing his lips in thought.
Finally Bourbon said, "Un carte."
Now Nicholas knew Bourbon had to have at most a five. He looked at his
own cards -- an ace and a three. He would have to draw another card,
and hope that Bourbon had drawn more than a four.
He fingered the pink tongue of the card out of the shoe and looked at
it. It was another court card, a king. Unless Bourbon drew a high card
and had an eleven, twelve, or thirteen, he was beaten again.
Bourbon turned his cards over to reveal two twos and a three. Seven.
He sat back in his chair and looked at Nicholas quizzically, waiting
for him to reveal his own cards.
The croupier said flatly, "Quatre a la banque, et sept."
Bourbon grinned. "I told you that I felt lucky tonight, Nicholas."
Angelique gasped in delight at the large stack of plaques the croupier
presented to him, and he turned to her.
"Shall we go, my dear? Our dinner awaits." Bourbon tossed Nicholas a
triumphant look mixed with lecherous anticipation. He licked his lips.
"I've developed quite an appetite."
"No," said Nicholas.
Bourbon turned back to him and said harshly, "I believe I've won our
little bet, Nicholas. Haven't you taken punishment enough for one
evening?"
"Double or nothing, Bourbon." Nicholas opened his notecase and handed
the last of his francs to the chef de partie. "Deux millions, s'il
vous plait."
"You're making a spectacle of yourself, de Brabant, but if you
insist..." Bourbon eyes glittered greedily as he reseated himself, at
ease and confident. "Allow me to relieve you of yet more of your no-
doubt ill-gotten money, by all means. Double or nothing it is."
The chef hurried back to the table carrying more plaques, and the
croupier announced to the gathering crowd, "Un banco de deux
millions."
"Banco."
"Le jou est fait."
Steeling himself, Nicholas dealt the final four cards on which
Angelique's fate rested. He hated this, and at that moment he hated
Bourbon more than ever.
Bourbon looked at his cards and started laughing softly. He turned
them up -- two fours, an almost unbeatable eight.
Nicholas closed his eyes for a moment, then looked at his own cards.
Angelique's life depended on those two bits of pink pasteboard.
Expressionlessly, he turned them over. A nine and a queen.
"Le baccarat," intoned the croupier as the crowd gasped.
He had won, and Angelique was safe.
As Bourbon stared at him in disbelief, Nicholas rose, taking the
stacks of plaques the chef de partie handed him. He said, "I assume
the rest of the bet is also paid?" His smile was cold and carried the
hint of a threat.
Bourbon stood as well, radiating frigid fury. "She's yours, damn you."
He turned abruptly, pushed through the crowd of onlookers, and
disappeared. Angelique stared after his retreating back. "What did he
mean, I'm yours? What just happened?" she asked, a bit fearfully.
Nicholas took her elbow as they moved through the small crowd around
the table. He said reassuringly, "All he meant was that he wishes me
to escort you back to your hotel room. He's just upset that he lost.
It is late, and it's been rather an exciting night, don't you think?"
He felt a tension he hadn't known was in him drain from his body. She
was safe.
She nodded and allowed herself to be steered out of the main salon.
"No dinner, then?" she said sadly. She looked longingly at the elegant
restaurant as they walked through the foyer.
Nicholas smiled faintly, glad that she was still able to worry about
her loss of an expensive meal. "Tell you what, I'll take you to dinner
tomorrow night. Would that be acceptable? I promise it will be the
highlight of your holiday."
She brightened. "Oh, Monsieur de Brabant, that would be most
wonderful! I am sure you would not abandon me as Henri has done."
"Never," he promised, and smiled again as she attempted to stifle a
tremendous yawn. "I believe your bed is calling you. Where are you
staying?"
"The Splendide. I'm afraid I've been very extravagent on this
holiday."
Nicholas smiled at her. I'm sure you've earned it. It's a very
pleasant hotel. I have a room there, too." Arms decorously linked,
they strolled out the door into the fresh-smelling night air. It was
two in the morning. Nicholas breathed deeply. He hadn't realized how
stifling the air in the casino had become, redolent with the smell of
cigarette smoke, sweat, and alcohol. The girl leaned a little on his
arm and stumbled in her tiredness, the excitement of the evening
finally telling on her.
At her door she turned to him and smiled uncertainly. Nicholas could
tell she was wondering if he was going to try to kiss her. But she was
so young -- the gulf of years between them yawned far too widely for
him to even consider it. Even if he had been mortal he would not have
been tempted; as it was, he felt incredibly ancient and protective in
the face of her innocent naiveté. So instead he raised her hand to his
lips, kissed her knuckles, and smiled. "Go to bed, Angelique. I will
see you tomorrow night after sunset. Sweet dreams."
She looked both disappointed and relieved at his small gallantry. "I
look forward to it -- Nicholas." She blushed charmingly. "Good night."
She slipped into her room and softly shut the door. Nicholas could
hear her sigh as she leaned against the other side, then her light
footsteps moved away into her room.
He rested his hand on her door. She was safe, at least from Bourbon's
depredations. It had been rather a more exciting evening than he had
planned, and as a result, he felt restless and certainly not ready for
sleep. He decided to take another walk on the esplanade to clear his
mind.
As he strolled along, he listened to the soft susurration of the waves
on the sand, and felt a quiet satisfaction. Because of him, one life
was safe for another day. He knew his small act wouldn't offset the
thousands of deaths he had caused over the centuries, but it helped to
make his balance sheet tilt just a little bit more to the positive
side.
The blow came out of nowhere. He was leaning on the low stone wall
that separated the esplanade from the beach, staring absently at the
moonlight gleaming on the waves, when he was struck heavily in the
back by a hurtling body. Caught off-guard, he tumbled over the wall
and landed with a thud in the sand ten feet below. His assailant
dropped onto his back and slammed his face into the sharp, damp sand.
The fingers closing around his neck were like iron.
"Did you think I'd just go away with my tail between my legs, you
self-righteous bastard?" a voice hissed in his ear. "I'll have what's
mine!" The fingers tightened.
Nicholas heaved himself up, sand cascading off his clothes, and tore
the hands from his throat. Eyes ablaze and fangs extended, he whirled
to face Bourbon and shoved him away. "Are you asking to die?" he
hissed. "If so, I'm more than willing to oblige you." With that he
hurled himself at Bourbon, wrapped his arms around him from behind,
and bore him into the air. Bourbon, still off balance, was unable to
resist.
Bourbon struggled fiercely against Nicholas' grip, but was unable to
free himself. He tried to sink his fangs into anything he could reach
-- a hand, an arm, but to no avail. He lashed viciously backward with
his heels, trying to connect with Nicholas' groin, but succeeding only
in hitting his shins.
The two vampires fought viciously as they soared through the dark sky,
two writhing black shapes silhouetted against the stars. Miraculously,
the few late-night revelers making their semi-drunken way back to
their rooms didn't see them. The struggle was almost silent, save for
grunts of effort or pain as a blow landed.
They seemed to be almost evenly matched, Nicholas' age lent him
greater strength, but his diet of steer's blood almost weakened him to
the younger vampire's level. He managed finally to immobilize the
writhing, violently struggling vampire enough to lock his fangs into
the back of the other's neck and try to bite through his spine.
Bourbon screamed and ceased flying.
The sudden lack of lift bore the two vampires plunging towards the sea
beyond the breakwater. Taking advantage of Bourbon's sudden weakness,
Nicholas deliberately flew downwards, accelerating towards the cold,
black water. Bourbon flailed in his arms, his struggles weakening as
Nicholas' teeth ground into his spine.
Nicholas only intended to plunge them into the sea, but at the last
moment he saw rusty iron spikes thrusting out of the inky water like
the teeth of a sea monster gaping open to capture its prey. The spikes
had been sunk into the water by the Germans as anti-landing craft
defenses; tonight, the forgotten remains of the war reached upward to
trap another kind of predator.
Nicholas dropped Bourbon and swerved just in time to narrowly avoid
being impaled; Bourbon was not so lucky. His momentum carried him
backwards onto one of the iron spikes, driving it through his back and
out his abdomen with a sickening noise. His limbs jerked
spasmodically, then went limp, his head dropping back into the water.
His breath came out with a hissing moan.
Nicholas hovered for a moment, appalled at the sight, then dropped
into the sea next to the stricken vampire. But he steeled himself
against any sympathy for his attacker, remembering instead what
Bourbon had planned for Angelique.
He grasped Bourbon's hair and lifted up the vampire's head. When
Bourbon cracked open his eyes, no longer angry but now glazed with
pain and surprise, he gritted, "It ends here, Bourbon. No more."
Bourbon moaned.
With a grunt Nicholas grasped Bourbon and pulled him off the wicked
spike. He shrieked in agony as the rough, rusty metal grated through
his flesh. When he was free, Nicholas let him fall back into the sea,
and then, treading water, regarded him dispassionately. Bourbon
floated face up, his mouth a round O of effort and pain as the salt
water oozed into the hideous wound.
"Keep up the killing, Bourbon, and you'll wish I'd left you on that
spike to greet the sun. There's been enough bloodshed in the world in
the last twenty years to last a millennium." The stricken vampire
stared vacantly up at the stars, immersed in his own pain. Nicholas
wasn't sure he'd heard him. He grasped Bourbon's chin and turned his
face towards him. He shook him slightly, and after a moment the eyes
focused on his face. "Are you listening?"
Bourbon grunted weakly.
"Get to shelter before dawn, or don't -- I don't give a damn either
way. But leave this place." He released Bourbon's chin. "You get this
one last chance, Bourbon. Don't waste it."
Nicholas lifted out of the sea in a cascade of glittering water.
Bourbon lay motionless, but Nicholas could see that he was beginning
to revive. His legs and arms were moving weakly as he tried to turn
over and orient himself.
Nicholas was fairly certain Bourbon would be able to reach shelter in
time, but he realized he really didn't care if he did or not. He
suddenly felt very tired.
Wearily he flew to the window of his room at the Splendide and slipped
inside, leaving small puddles of sea water on the parquet floor. He
opened the crate that held his blood supply and downed a bottle
thirstily.
He replaced the lid and then stopped to consider his own condition.
His clothes were a soggy, blood-streaked mess but somehow hadn't been
ripped during the fight. He stripped and threw everything into a heap
on the floor. A big enough tip would ensure that they would be cleaned
and pressed with no questions asked.
As he got ready for bed, he wondered why he hadn't simply killed
Bourbon when he had him at his mercy. He should have, and a few
centuries ago he wouldn't have hesitated for a second. Bourbon clearly
fell into the category of unrepentant predator that he had loathed
even then.
But here he was, even more reluctant than ever to take a life, even
one so amoral and worthless as Bourbon's. Perhaps the last war had
finally burned it out of him.
Battlefields reeked of blood and death, even after years had passed.
Places like Ardennes and the Somme, charnel houses of the First World
War, still did, and the massive war only eight years gone had added to
the stench. France had been soaked in blood and he found he couldn't
bring himself to add to it.
Save a life, spare a life. It was all he could do to make his amends
for the personal war he had waged for so long against humanity, for no
better reasons than those of the Axis Powers -- to thrive at the
complete expense of others, to treat those others as less than human,
mere animals to be slaughtered. No more.
Sighing, he picked up the telephone and asked for a valet. After he
had turned over his ruined clothes and a discreet amount of cash, he
went to the window to close the drapes against the coming day.
The sun was about to come up. He looked out at the paling horizon and
wondered if Bourbon had made it to safety.
Shaking his head at his own folly, he turned down his bed and went to
sleep.
FIN
*************************
NOTE: the conversion rate between francs and US dollars in 1953 was
405 francs to one dollar. So Nicholas offered Bourbon $2500 to leave
Angelique alone -- an impressive sum in 1953 dollars, when middle-
class Americans were earning about $3-5000 a year.
===============================================
Comments, criticisms, and martinis that are
shaken, not stirred, may be sent to:
Nancy Kaminski
nancykam@mediaone.net
"The name's De Brabant -- Nicholas de Brabant."
===============================================