Consider, if you will, the sufferings of a prisoner. Stone walls may not a prison make, nor iron bars a cage-- but if you are a vampire, and these are coupled with a sacred cross and some holy water, you can pretty much count on spending the next few millennia exactly where you are. We will ignore, for the moment, the exact progression of deterioration which a creature of the night suffers when denied sustenance. The end result is not pretty, however long it takes.
After forty hours without food, Nick was beginning to wish he'd cheated a bit more on his diet, and had an extra bottle or two of cow before he'd left his apartment. Or possibly a few sips from his secret stash behind the fireplace. As it was, he could feel his grip on the situation at hand beginning to slide as ravening hunger gave way to overwhelming lassitude. Maybe he would just take a nap on top of the sepulcher; okay, it was not the most comfortable of beds, but it was nice and dark in the mausoleum, and he'd already been over and over the details of his capture a thousand times. Screaming for help hadn't gotten him anywhere. Even mentally yelling for LaCroix had availed him nothing.
"He's probably laughing at me," Knight complained bitterly aloud to the ceiling, blinking in fuzzy martyrdom at the cobwebs. He'd eaten the spiders twelve hours before, having finally gotten desperate enough to stoop to Renfield-like snack foods. "The smug bastard. Prob'ly set this whole thing up... just to teach me a lesson."
Of course, that still didn't explain the old guy calling him Klaus. Unless it just seemed like a nice nickname to him; well, you *could* shorten Nicholas to Klaus, instead of Nick, if you were from Germany or somewhere, which the vampire hunter might have been, you never knew, he had an accent.... Nick yanked his drifting thoughts back on course, nursing his sense of grievance and promising himself the execution of untold punishments, or at least some serious humiliation, for LaCroix, or von Helsing, or whoever the hell was responsible for this.
We will leave him here for now, Gentle Reader. Self-pity is rarely entertaining, unless you happen to be the one entertaining it--
A sentiment which LaCroix would agree with vehemently. Why pity yourself, when you can make someone else the object of universal pity and horror? Such as, say, Klaus. It was unfortunate that he would have to wait until sundown to make the squirrelly little slime pay; but in the meantime, Nicholas still had to be found. Tempting as the prospect of allowing Klaus to completely wreck his son's career as a police officer was, LaCroix was unwilling to endure the price of giving von Helsing the upper hand, or risk the possibility that he would not kill Natalie Lambert, and would instead take the unthinkable step of bringing her across. To prevent such an occurrence, the Nightcrawler could grit his formidable teeth and bear the continued ridiculousness of having a child in law enforcement.
Having used Nicholas' phone to telephone for a limo, and appropriated several large, thick coats, a hat, scarf, gloves and sunglasses (not to mention the aforementioned secret fireplace stash-- after all, Nicholas might need it) LaCroix played "Hot, Cold" through the streets of Toronto until he located the cemetery where Nick was imprisoned. Cursing fluently in seven languages, he ran to the mausoleum and forced the door open--
Only to reel back from his goal in anger and repulsion.
[More Notes from the von Helsing Vampire Hunter Files.
The cross of St. Maretha (not to be confused with the cross of St. Selima, or the cross of St. Marcus, or, well, any other cross you've heard of) was first used in the seventh century by Irish monks intent on driving out lamias laired on the coast of Galway. It is also extremely effective on the lamias' more earth-bound cousins, the vampires. St. Maretha was the patron saint of night people, often praying through the night only to collapse snoring at her pew when sunrise broke. It was thought that her cross repelled other night creatures so well because of her affinity for the nocturnal hours, and the power of her snoring.
The myth about only one pure of heart being able to handle it is actually only pure fiction; but we have to allow the monks some amount of self-advertisement.---Editor]
The Cross of St. Maretha is also quite tacky. The sheer gaudy ugliness of the thing would have driven LaCroix several steps backward without it also being a holy relic.
"Nicholas!" LaCroix crouched in the inadequate shade of the mausoleum, peering through his Ray-Bans into the crypt. "Come out of there at once! I have protective clothing for you here, if you can make it past this damnable cross." His son's silliness about mortality notwithstanding, LaCroix actually had hopes that Nick's recent experiments had granted him a measure of immunity to the bright, garish crucifix.
Alas, it was not to be.
"I can't come out. You did this to me, you get me out."
"Don't be asinine. I had nothing to do with this."
"Well, then why did he call me Klaus?" Nicholas is never logical at the best of times, but his father was made keenly aware that the situation didn't even approach that when Knight went on. "It's not because he thought I was Santa Claus.... and he called me his son. He said it was for my own good. I think he thought I was you. No, he thought you were him. Damn. That's not what I wanted to say. I'm sooooo sleepy, LaCroix..."
"Nicholas!"
Nick failed to respond, and LaCroix gave up in frustration. Someone else, someone mortal, was going to have to remove the cross. Standing out in bright sunlight arguing with his delusional offspring was only giving him a headache. On the way back to the Raven, the vampire considered his options.
Natalie Lambert was the obvious choice; but the idea of killing her and blaming it on Klaus had been at the forefront of his mind since the giggling maniac left his son's apartment. And Nick would be too guilt- ridden to be bearable company for *decades* if he accidentally drained Dr. Lambert when she released him. No, someone else - someone expendable, since Nick would undoubtedly attack whoever removed the cross and let him out, simply out of desperation and hunger - was going to have to do it.
It was with a certain sense of relief that he decided to place a call to Tracy Vetter as soon as the sun had set.
Blondes, and boss's daughters, get a bad rap about their abilities. Tracy Vetter was - and is - a very bright young lady, with a somewhat grating personality and manner. That she is so often discounted is attributable as much to stereotypes as her own perky, chirpy, happy outlook. But she is far from stupid; and her partner's sudden change in personality, as well as his irrational persecution of Alexander Lucard, worried her and aroused her detective instincts.
And then she saw her partner fly away.
Well, not her partner, obviously. An impostor. Someone *pretending* to be Nick; a vampire, for God's sake, had switched places with her poor, irritating, depressive of a co-worker, and was now wreaking havoc on both Knight's career and the criminal justice system. It was completely unjust. Horrifyingly awful. But absolutely convincing-- it explained everything.
So why was it so hard for Natalie to believe her?
"I swear, Nat, I saw him fly away as soon as our shift was over," Tracy said earnestly. She'd rung Natalie's doorbell only twenty minutes after the coroner reached her home, and Natalie was somewhat perturbed that she had to listen to the younger woman rant on and on. The M.E. had planned on a good eight hours worth of sleep before her date with Nick that night, and she really didn't want to deal with Detective Vetter's revelations. Especially considering it should have been Nick's job to cope with his partner's new knowledge, not hers. She was not in the mood to explain Knight's rationale in 'protecting' Tracy by lying to her, since it never made much sense to her in the first place.
"Uh-hunh. Sure you did. Did he sprinkle pixie dust on himself, and think a happy thought, too?"
"That's Peter Pan, Nat. Not vampires."
"How can you tell the difference?" Natalie could have taped her mouth shut after she asked this, because Tracy proceeded to tell her all about Vachon, and vampires, and how dangerous they were, and why Natalie must not, under any circumstances, keep her date with the Anti-Nick that night.
Dr. Lambert toyed with the idea of telling Tracy the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, right then, but the idea of dealing with the snit-fit Nick would throw later made her restrain herself. She was looking forward to her anticipated date far too much to risk ruining the good mood he'd been in for the last two days. Instead, she opened her eyes very wide and said, "You know, I think you've convinced me. I understand now."
"Really?" Intelligent as she is, Tracy is no wizard at spotting sarcasm.
"Yup. I know you wouldn't lie to me, and you must believe this if you're over here telling me all this stuff. Don't worry about me. I'll just break that date with the Nick Clone as soon as the sun's up. Then you can go arrest him, and make him tell you where the real Nick is." Natalie smiled bravely, calmly; and then added, "Thank you, Tracy. And be careful!"
"Oh, I always am. Now, if only the Captain were going to be so easy to convince," Tracy sighed as she walked out the door.