1995 101 Gateway Lane, Nick's Loft, Toronto, ON, Canada
Nick slowly opened his eyes and stared at the ceiling in his bedroom. There was something different, just a feeling he had. Looking around the room, everything seemed undisturbed. Concentrating, he tried to detect any other being in his loft, but there was no one. Nick rubbed his face as he sat up, deciding the sensation must just be due to his current case and the pressure he and Schanke were under to close it out quickly. Shaking his head to rid himself of the odd feeling, Nick got ready for work.
Slipping on his coat as he descended the stairs, Nick pivoted towards the refrigerator to feed his beast. Forgoing a glass, he opened the appliance door, reached past Nat's newest shakes, and snagged a green bottle by the neck. Walking into the kitchen area, he pulled the cork out with his teeth, spat the plug in the direction of the sink, then brought the bottle to his lips. Cold cow blood entered his mouth and, though every sensation was screaming to spit the liquid out, he forced himself to swallow.
"Considering how long you have been doing that, I assumed you would be proficient at actually getting the cork into the sink."
Nick choked down the last mouthful of blood and turned around. He had not even felt his sire near. The uneasy feeling from earlier had now returned.
"And," LaCroix continued, "it goes without saying you will not be drinking that for the next week." He gently placed two dark bottles down on the table and slid one closer to Nicholas.
Nick glared at the bottle; even unlabeled, it was clear what was in there. He put the green bottle on the table and used it to slide LaCroix's bottle away. "Why are you here, LaCroix?"
"Our appointment."
"What appointment?"
"An agreement I know you have not forgotten."
Nick sighed. "I have no meeting with you and no standing agreement where you are to be in my home-"
"Au contraire, mon fils. You have simply ignored it, but I do not intend for it to pass this year." LaCroix smiled at his son's continued confusion.
"LaCroix, I don't have time for this." Nick decided to not finish his dinner and just leave for work. He walked over to the metal door and slid it back.
"But that is what you wanted from me – time away. Time to be by yourself. Opportunity to be loose and unfettered." LaCroix paused. "1929."
Nick stopped opening the door. He let go, and the thick metal sheet slid back into the closed position. He stared at the burned metal before slowly turning around.
"Good. You remember now."
"That was 66 years ago."
"Yes," LaCroix agreed as he walked over to his son. "And for me granting you more … unsupervised … freedom, what did you agree to do in return?" He waited while Nicholas squirmed for a bit, stubbornly refusing to answer. "You agreed to check in with me every six years for one week, the dates of which you chose. That would be this week."
"It's been a while, LaCroix."
"Yes, you missed your last three appointments. I will not allow a fourth to pass."
Nick shook his head. "Do we really need to do this? You know where I am; we are in the same city. I'm leaving for work." He turned and once again reached for the handle on the metal door.
"Must be terribly important," LaCroix drawled, "this activity you must perform that you will risk both breaking an agreement with me and the consequences that will occur."
Nick's heart rate increased slightly upon hearing his maker's words and the dark undertone to his voice. Through their mental link, he felt the faint echo of the strength and power LaCroix had, both due to his age and by virtue of being his maker. Nick released the door, and once again, it slid closed.
"I know how much you value your independence, Nicholas. I am only asking for a single week and not the three you owe me." His child pivoted to face him.
Nick thought of Nat, and Schanke, and his life in Toronto. All of this was never meant to be long-lasting, but he wasn't going to allow LaCroix to cut it shorter than it was already going to be. He didn't even dwell on what LaCroix might physically do to him; his concern focused solely on his mortal friends. Nick headed over to the phone. "I'll call in sick," he mumbled.
"Is one week with me really that bad?"
Nick continued to press the buttons on his phone. "Ask me again after this week."
A satisfied grin teased across LaCroix's face. He knew why his son avoided these extended times with him: Nicholas enjoyed them.