— — —
The trilling wire in the blood
Sings below inveterate scars
- T.S. Eliot, Burnt Norton
— — —
"Look, Evan," the radio caller said to the radio host over the airwaves. "My grandmother's first husband died shortly after they were married. He's the only one with a reason to flip over the portraits of her and my grandfather. I'm telling you, he's haunting her."
In the passenger seat, Schanke turned up the volume of the radio in the Caddy and Nick glanced sideways at him.
"What?" Schanke asked a bit defensively. "I'm just curious."
"Couldn't it just be a prank?" the radio host asked. "Does grandma have a sense of humor?"
"Yeah, but she wouldn't joke about a thing like that," the caller replied.
"So the question for us all, my believers and skeptics," the host said, "is whether grandma is sitting at home laughing it up right now or whether there is a ghostly presence haunting her." The host paused. "Looks like we're out of time. Tonight we tackled hauntings by family members here on 'Beyond the Veil.'
"Tomorrow," the host continued, "we've got the episode you've all been waiting for, vampires! Do they exist? What laws bind them? I'll leave you with this parting question to chew on: if a vampire cop shows up at your door with a warrant, can he come in without your permission?
"This is your host, Evan Thorn, signing off." The radio station switched to a commercial.
"Weird show," Nick commented with a hint of amusement.
"Yeah, well, there's not much on at this hour," Schanke responded with a shrug. "What do you think, Nick? Can the vampire cop come into your house if he has a warrant?"
"Of course, why couldn't he?" Nick asked, his lips quirking into a faint smile.
"Because he hasn't been invited. C'mon Nick, geez, don't you know anything about vampire rules?"
Nick's smile widened as he said, "Maybe a thing or two. But what if that particular rule isn't real?"
"Well then, we're all pretty screwed aren't we, if they can just come and go into our homes drinking our blood as they please?" Schanke said with a tone of mock dread.
"Well, let's just hope the vampire cop doesn't show up to your house."
"Yeah, seriously," Schanke said with a chuckle as he looked out the window while they passed an all-night diner. "Hey Nick, pull over here. I want some coffee."
— — —
Nick adjusted the radio dial searching for music he hoped he and Schanke could agree on. As he settled on a classic rock station, a paper bag landed on the seat next to him. He looked up as Schanke leaned over the passenger door holding out two styrofoam cups filled with coffee. "Take one of these, would you?" he asked and Nick obliged, accepting one of the cups.
Schanke opened the passenger door and slid into his seat.
"I thought you just wanted coffee," Nick said, glancing down at the paper bag, which he could smell had food in it.
Schanke shrugged. "Well, coffee and a BLT. Sorry for the wait. It was surprisingly busy in there. Got you a coffee too, by the way. You're welcome."
Nick handed the extra coffee cup back to Schanke. "Thanks, but I'm trying to cut down on caffeine," he offered by way of explanation.
"I don't know how you get through the graveyard shift without caffeine," Schanke said, shaking his head as set both coffee cups between his feet on the floor and unwrapped his sandwich. He took a bite and then retrieved one of the cups to chase it down with a big swig of coffee. "I know you're a night owl, but it's almost 4:00 a.m. for God's sake. It's like you're some kind of masochist."
"81 Kilo, 81 Kilo," the Caddy's police radio crackled to life. "Come in, 81 Kilo."
Nick picked up the radio mic and responded, "Dispatch, this is 81 Kilo."
"Homicide reported. Corner of Rialto and Pine. CERK radio station."
"We're on our way," Nick replied and started the car, the engine rumbling to life.
"Spooky," Schanke commented, "we were just listening to that station."
— — —
Nick and Schanke showed their badges to the uniformed police officer standing guard at the entrance of the radio station.
"What's the news?" Schanke asked the officer, a young woman who was looking green around the gills.
"It's pretty gruesome in there," the young officer said, her gaze a little distant. "My partner is securing the scene inside. Paramedics are still there. We thought you'd want to talk to them."
"That was a good call," Schanke commended her and then asked with concern, "You all right?"
"Yeah, I'm okay. But like I said, gruesome."
As they made their way inside, Nick saw two paramedics, one with a medical bag slung over her shoulder, leaning back on a high reception desk.
Approaching them, Schanke took the lead on introductions. "I'm Detective Schanke," he said and then gestured to Nick, "this is my partner Detective Knight, anything you can tell us?"
"Not much," the paramedic with the bag said. "He was dead when we got here."
"He?" Nick questioned. "He who?"
"Guy named Thorn. He had a radio show here. Body's in the recording room down the hall."
Nick exchanged a look with Schanke, who mouthed, "Spooky."
Nick asked, "Do you know who called in the emergency?"
"Nah, dispatch didn't say," she responded.
Schanke asked, "Any idea how he died?"
Now the two paramedics were the ones to exchange a look. The one with the bag said, "Official call is up to the M.E., but that guy bled to death."
"Definitely bled to death," her partner confirmed.
"Look," she added, a hint of caution in her voice. "I know you're professionals, but if you're at all squeamish… it's a literal bloodbath in there."
The paramedics' radio crackled to life, calling them to another emergency. Glancing at the radio, the paramedic with the bag asked, "Can we go? There's nothing more we can do here."
Nick nodded. "Yeah, just leave your contact info with the officer at the door in case we have more questions."
Further down the hall, beneath the sterile glow of the fluorescent lights, another uniformed officer stood guard outside the closed door to the radio broadcast studio. He stood under the darkened "on air" sign and, like the first officer, there was a queasy look on his face.
Nick could smell the heady scent of blood in the air, and then he felt something under his skin, a thrumming current flowing through his veins. He tried to ignore both sensations.
"Officer," Schanke greeted. "We're Detectives Schanke," he nodded to Nick, "and Knight."
"I've made sure no one other than the paramedics went in there," the officer said. "M.E. isn't here yet. It's…" the officer's voice trailed off as if he lacked the words to describe what he had seen.
"Gruesome, yeah, we heard," Schanke said. "Any witnesses?"
The officer shook his head. "There was a broadcast engineer who found the body. She's in the station manager's office. She called the manager. He's on his way."
"Great," Schanke said. "Guess we better see what we're dealing with."
Pushing open the door to the studio, Nick stepped inside followed by his partner.
"Hoooooly…" Schanke started to say and trailed off as they both took in the scene.
Blood splattered the walls and the window between the control room and studio. It dripped from the host's table and from a promotional poster for "Beyond the Veil" pinned to the wall behind the table. A glossy dark red pool surrounded the victim, who lay on his back in the middle of the room. His long sleeved, once-white shirt was shredded, gashes down his arm, his head was turned to one side and eyes were open and glassy.
The scent of the blood choked the air, thick and intoxicating. Nick fought against himself as he felt his eyes involuntarily start to shift. He turned away from Schanke.
"Nick, you all right?" Nick felt his partner's hand on his back.
"I think…" Nick said. "I think I need to step out for a moment."
"Yeah, I'll join you."
They exited the room and Nick leaned forward on the wall in the hallways, resting his head on his forearm as he closed his eyes. He took deep, controlled breaths to settle the predatory excitement the scene had stirred inside of him.
"Nick? Schanke?" Nick heard Natalie's voice. He looked up to see her coming down the hall.
"Thank God," Schanke said, visibly relieved. "Nat, it's definitely murder. Nick, heck even me… we haven't seen one this bad in a long time."
"You okay, Nick?" She asked with concern and put a hand on his shoulder.
Nick straightened himself up and glanced at the doorway to the studio. He swallowed, still breathing deep and answered, his voice strained, "There's a lot of blood."
She gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze and said, "Let's see what I can make of it." She pulled a pair of latex gloves from her pocket, pulled them on, and entered the crime scene.
She remained inside for a while before calling, "Schanke, Nick… I want you to see something."
Nick steeled himself and re-entered with his partner. Natalie was leaning over the body.
"I'll need to examine him at the lab, but obviously, his arms were slashed. That looks like the source for most of the blood. But look here," she said as she turned Thorn's head, exposing the side of his neck that had been facing the floor. Nick could see two clear puncture marks.
Natalie said, "Could have been something like an ice pick." However, she cast Nick a knowing look, conveying to him exactly what she thought it might be instead.
At the same moment, Nick felt that thrum in his veins intensify and then run like electricity down his spine. It meant only one thing: LaCroix was near.
— — —
"Detectives," the officer who'd been keeping watch outside the studio door said as he popped his head in the room, purposely not looking at the body. "Station manager is here. He's in his office. Just down the hall on the left."
Relief washed over Nick as he exited the crime scene and its bloody spectacle. He and Schanke made their way the short distance down the hall to the station manager's office and stepped inside. A small woman with a hollowed out look in her eyes sat on the couch while a middle-aged man in jeans and a faded University of Toronto sweatshirt sat at the desk looking visibly distraught.
Nick made introductions for himself and Schanke. The man at the desk stood and introduced himself. "I'm Carlos Alcala. I'm the station manager here at CERK. This," he gestured at the woman, "is Leticia Banks. She… she found Evan."
The woman didn't even look at them before she started speaking. "I couldn't have been gone more than twenty minutes."
"Ms. Banks," Nick said with sympathy, "I know this is difficult, but if you could walk us through what happened before and after you saw Mr. Thorn alive, that would help us figure out what happened."
"After his show," she said, a tremor in her voice, "Evan stuck around. There isn't another show right after his. The station just plays music and I make station announcements. I'd been working all through Evan's show and he said he'd cover for me so I could take a break. He always did that. I went to the bathroom then the breakroom to make some coffee and have a snack. When I came back, he…" Her voice faded as if she were unable to continue.
Schanke asked, "Did you hear anything?"
Banks shook her head, her distress evident. "Nothing. The break room is down the opposite hall from reception and he was in the studio, which is soundproofed."
"Was the building locked?" Nick asked.
Banks was silent for a moment. "It should have been, but I can't remember." She glanced guiltily at Alcala. "We weren't always that great about keeping it locked."
"Did you have to unlock the front door to let the paramedics in?" Nick probed.
Her frown deepened. "I… I don't think so. It was all so fast though. I don't know 100 percent, but no, I don't think it was locked." She rubbed her face. "I'm sorry, detectives. I didn't see anything, I didn't hear anything, and I can't even remember if the damn door was locked."
"It's all right, Ms. Banks," Schanke said with a reassuring tone. "Your recollection might improve after some rest. You can go home and we'll be in touch."
She rose from the couch and Alcala patted her on the shoulder. "Just… take the rest of the week off," he said to her and she nodded before leaving the office.
"I can't believe this happened in our station," Alcala said, voice heavy with disbelief.
Schanke asked, "What can you tell us about Evan Thorn?"
Alcala said, "Evan was passionate about the show. He's been broadcasting 'Beyond the Veil' for seven months now. The late night/early morning time slot is a tough one to fill. But listeners liked the paranormal angle, maybe it's spookier in the wee hours. He had a dedicated following. The show was a hit for its time slot."
Nick asked, "Did he have any enemies or receive threats?"
"I don't know about enemies. But threats, maybe. Evan received some weird letters. He brushed them off as part of the territory."
Schanke asked, "Does the station keep the letters?"
"Yeah," Alcala confirmed. "I insisted he keep the letters here. You know, just in case any of them ever escalated. Some real kooks come out of the woodwork with a show like his."
"We're going to need to see the letters," Schanke asserted.
"Yeah, of course." Alcala went to a file cabinet and opened two drawers stuffed with papers. "Sorry, detectives, I know it's a lot."
Nick asked, "Were there any recent conflicts or tensions at the station?"
"Nothing like that. We're a small team, and we get along well."
Nick probed further, "Did Evan have any personal issues that you were aware of?"
"None that he shared with me. He was dedicated to his show and his listeners. He didn't let personal matters affect his work as far as I could tell."
"Have you noticed anyone suspicious around the station recently?"
"Nothing, it's pretty quiet around here."
Schanke said, "I think we'll start with those letters." He nodded to the file cabinet. "You have some file boxes we could use?"
"Yeah," Alcala replied, "Let me get a couple for you from the supply room."
After Alcala left the office, Schanke turned to Nick and commented with a note of weary sarcasm, "Well, that was informative. No one saw anything, no one heard anything, and no one knows anything."
"We're going to have to dig deep in those letters. Split them?" Nick asked as he looked down at his watch. Dawn was approaching. "I can take half with me."
"Works for me," Schanke agreed. "Nick, I know you have to go. I'll get some uniforms to help me canvas the immediate area to see if we can find the murder weapon or any witnesses. One thing I do know is this wasn't a ghost or the boogeyman like he talked about on his show, this was a flesh and blood murderer."
Nick nodded and through his arteries and to his core, that thrumming current frazzled like an exposed wire.
— — —
At home, Nick dropped the filebox full of letters on the kitchen table before grabbing a bottle of cow's blood from the fridge. He drank it deeply, trying to shake the craving for human blood that had stirred in him at the crime scene. The cow's blood was a poor substitute, but it took the edge off enough that he thought he could concentrate on combing through the letters.
He took the lid off the box and set it aside. Each letter had the envelope it came from stapled to the back. He began scanning through the letters and organizing them into two separate piles: (1) follow-up and (2) nothing. Most of the letters were innocuous enough. One asked Thorn to do a show about lake monsters and feature callers who had seen something in Lake Ontario. Another asked if Thorn was ordained and, if so, would he officiate the letter writer's wedding scheduled for Halloween.
One was from a law firm, Henkle & Gray. Nick read through the letter:
Dear Mr. Thorn,
This is our final demand and offer for settlement on behalf of our client, Geoffrey Horner. Mr. Horner will relinquish all claims for a settlement of $50,000. This offer expires on April 18, 1994 at 5:00 p.m. Eastern Daylight Time.
Sincerely,
Amanda Gray
Henkle & Gray
Nick added the letter to the "follow-up" pile, which now had exactly one letter. He continued scanning the letters. One man recommended Thorn look into alien abductions even though they weren't technically paranormal. Another invited Thorn to record a show at a place called Kessel House where ghosts manifested frequently. Another warned Thorn not to broadcast his upcoming episode about vampires or there would be "consequences." Nick paused at that one. It was unsigned. He looked at the envelope, but there was no return name or address. Nick added it to the "follow-up" pile.
The next letter asked Thorn if he knew any reputable suppliers of equipment for detecting ghosts. The next recommended Thorn hold a séance live at the radio station and channel spirits over the airwaves.
— — —
London, 1872
"A most charming production, wouldn't you say, Miss Caldwell?" LaCroix asked the young woman on his arm as they emerged from the theater with Nick, Janette, and their other human companion trailing behind.
"Oh yes, quite," the young woman giggled coquettishly, dark curls bouncing around her face. She turned to the human man, whose face bore a resemblance to hers and she asked, "Harry, dear brother, don't you agree?"
Harry Caldwall yawned. "I'm afraid not, Constance. I find Shakespeare frightfully boring. Never cared for the chap." He paused and asked Janette, "And you, Miss DuCharme, what did you think?"
"I quite agree with you, Lord Caldwall," she replied. "Certainly, Shakespeare is clever, but he does drag on and his wit is no match for Molière."
"Just so!" Harry said with a laugh. "And you, Mr. de Brabant? Do you feel the same?"
"Must I espouse a favorite?" Nick asked, amused. "For I find both playwrights clever and witty. And I must agree with our esteemed companions here," he touched the brim of his top hat and bowed slightly in the direction of LaCroix and Constance, "this production was charming."
"Well said, my young friend," LaCroix said to Nick, tipping his own hat in return.
"Blast," Harry muttered as he surveyed the clog of theater goers and carriages jostling for space on the street. "I swear it will be an hour before we'll be able to leave."
"Oh, Harry," Constance chided. "Don't swear and don't say blast. It's so unbecoming."
"Perhaps," said LaCroix, taking a deep breath of the evening air, "on a fine night such as this, we should take a turn around the nearby park." He flicked a knowing glance to both Janette and Nick. Nick caught the predatory glint in his master's eyes and the sensation of it tingled in his blood.
"It's awfully late," Harry said doubtfully.
"Lord Caldwell," Janette said and touched his arm with a black-gloved hand, "we have had to sit for hours through that play. A walk to reinvigorate the circulation would be most welcome."
"Yes, dear brother," Constance pleaded.
"Very well," Harry relented and offered his arm to Janette, who took hold. Nick walked companionably beside them as LaCroix led the way, Constance still on his arm.
They paused after they entered the darkened park with only the soft glow of gas lamps to light the way. Constance turned her head and said wide-eyed, "My, but it is both eerie and bewitching at this hour. It makes one almost think the fae folk are about just as in the play." A cool breeze rustled through the trees and the young woman gripped LaCroix's arm tighter as she asked him, "What do you think?"
LaCroix's lips quirked and he said in a playful, conspiratorial voice, "Perhaps you are already among them."
Constance's laughter rippled through the night air. "Would you put a spell on me, sir?"
"Don't tempt him," Nick said in mock warning. "For what if he is Oberon afterall?"
She laughed again and then became more serious. "You know what could really be about?" She tossed a look backwards to her brother. "Spirits. We must tell Mrs. St. Claire about the eerie feeling of this place at night."
"Certainly, of course," Harry replied.
"Who is Mrs. St. Claire?" Nick asked curiously.
Constance paused, extracted herself from LaCroix's arm, and turned to Nick, who could see the look of annoyance in LaCroix's eyes.
"Victoria St. Claire. She is a medium," Constance said, "able to contact the spirit world through séances."
"Charlatans and their hoaxes," LaCroix said impatiently. "Spiritualists are nothing new."
"You are surely correct that most are charlatans," Constance said, "but Mrs. St. Claire is different. She works with only the most select members of society and she can truly speak to the dead." Her eyes became misty. "She allowed Harry and I to talk to our own dear Papa and bid farewell. He died so suddenly and unexpectedly last year, you see."
"It is quite true," Harry said. "I too would have called myself a skeptic had I not experienced it myself."
"Is there no one any of you would wish to contact?" Constance asked and touched Nick's arm. "To speak to again?"
Nick's mind drifted, caught between the shadows of remorse and cherished memories. There were many he had wronged over the years, but his mind focused on them only momentarily before focusing on those he had loved and who had been dear to him, those he'd had to say goodbye to because of what he had become. He thought of his mortal family, centuries gone.
"Yes," he confessed with a slight melancholy and he saw both LaCroix and Janette frown. "I would like to meet Mrs. St. Claire."
"I think we should be able to make an introduction," Constance said excitedly.
Nick slipped one of his arms under Constance's and said, "I feel a chill in the air. Perhaps we should return and wait for the carriages after all. And you can tell me more about your experience with Mrs. St. Claire."
Constance took his arm and began chatting excitedly. Nick ignored the daggered looks from his vampire companions and their burning frustration roiling in his veins.
— — —
"Hey, Nat," Nick said the next night as he lightly rapped on the threshold of the open door into the coroner's lab to get her attention. She glanced up at him from the clutter of paperwork on her desk, a warm smile touching her lips as she greeted him with a nod.
As he stepped into the lab, Nick continued, "I wanted to stop by and check in with you before I head to the station." He leaned back on the empty exam table and said, "Last night's victim, tell me it's not what it looks like"
"I can tell you that Evan Thorn died by exsanguination. And those punctures on his neck were deep into his carotid."
Nick furrowed his brow. "So it's exactly what it looks like."
She shook her head. "Not necessarily. There was a lot of blood at the scene."
"And?"
"And that seems a little, I don't know, wasteful for a vampire."
Nick nodded and said, "Wasteful and sloppy, leaving the body there to be found.
He stood thoughtfully in silence for a moment when that same discordant vibration in his blood from the night before pulsed under his skin. "Unless…" His voice trailed off, but his mind was racing.
"Unless?"
"Unless someone is sending a message."
"To the radio station?"
Nick shook his head. "No, not to the station. To me."
She looked at him in surprise. "To you? Why?"
Nick hesitated, torn by the decision of whether to reveal events from his vampire life to her. Things were complicated enough without giving her something else to worry about. But a sense of moral obligation tugged at him, compelling him to share the truth. It felt wrong to keep her in the dark.
"Nat, I need to tell you something," he began and then took a breath before continuing, "LaCroix is back."
Natalie's eyes widened and her face paled slightly. " LaCroix LaCroix? You said he was dead."
Nick could feel the vibrations in his blood intensify. "I was wrong. He's been back for almost two months. And he's been…" He paused, searching for the right word. "Meddling."
"Meddling?"
"That case where my watch mysteriously appeared at a crime scene? He was the one who planted it. Remember how I mentioned it felt like another vampire was pushing me to move on? It was him." He paused a moment before continuing. "He killed Andrew, the assistant to Emily Weiss's publisher. And when Inspector O'Neal came to Toronto in pursuit of Jack the Ripper, LaCroix manipulated the evidence to divert O'Neal to him. Bridget Hellman lost her life because of it." He swallowed. "And then, last night... he was near the crime scene."
"You saw him?" Natalie asked, her eyes wide with concern.
Nick shook his head. "No."
"Then what makes you think he was there?"
"There's a… connection between us. It's difficult to put into words. I can sense his presence, if he wants me to, not just the general awareness of another vampire nearby, but specifically him. I felt it at the crime scene."
"And you suspect he murdered Thorn and then lingered close by as some form of message?" Natalie furrowed her brow, puzzled. "Seems convoluted."
Nick sighed in frustration. "That's just how he operates."
"Okay, let's say it's him. What's the message?" Natalie pressed.
Nick's frustration deepened. "I don't know." That trilling wire in his blood that bound him to his master started to burn and he stood up straight, glancing around.
"Nick," Natalie said with hushed concern, "are you feeling him right now?"
Nick nodded slowly. "He's near. But he's hanging back."
Natalie's voice lowered to a whisper, her anxiety palpable. "Are you in danger? Am I?"
Nick hesitated, the unsettling sensation coursing through his veins. "I… don't know," he admitted. "He's unpredictable. But as long as he's fixated on me, I don't think you're in immediate danger."
"And you?" Natalie whispered, worry etched across her features.
Nick could only shrug, unable to offer any reassurance as the heat and vibration in his veins surged.
— — —
Outside the coroner's building Nick closed his eyes, focusing on that invisible tremor inside him. He concentrated, attempting to trace it to its source, to pinpoint LaCroix. Opening his eyes, he scanned the street and then cast his gaze upwards, studying the tops of the surrounding buildings. Nothing.
Frustration crept in as he glanced around at street level again. No one was looking and he decided to take to the air, flying up to the roof of the coroner's building. The sensation inside him flickered, responding to his pursuit and remaining just out of reach, like someone almost glimpsed out of the corner of an eye.
Nick glanced down at his watch. He needed to make another stop. He would be late to work, but it couldn't be helped.
— — —
As Nick entered the Raven, he scanned the room for Janette. The club had few patrons at this early hour of the evening and he quickly located her. Under the pulsing colored lights, she stood at the bar in conversation with a mortal man, leaning in close to him, her fingers lightly grazing his arm.
Nick approached them and when Janette caught sight of him, she shook her head subtly, a signal that she did not want him interfering. Ignoring her warning, Nick tapped the man on the shoulder.
"I need to cut in," Nick asserted firmly.
The man turned to him, indignant, and said, "Get lost."
Nick caught him in his gaze and as the man's heartbeat amplified in his head, Nick commanded. "No, you get lost."
"I'll get lost," the man mumbled in a daze before obediently walking away.
"Nicolas," Janette said with annoyance as he leaned on the bar next to her, "I was enjoying a nice little conquest there." She traced a finger down his cheek. "But perhaps you are jealous and came here for a conquest of your own?" She leaned in and kissed him lightly on the lips. "And if that is the case, how could I be upset?"
"There's been a murder," Nick said and Janette gave an exasperated sigh. "Evan Thorn, he was a radio host with a show about the paranormal. You know the name?"
"Nicolas, why would I? Can't you just do your cops and robbers thing on your own time without interrupting my fun?"
"He might have been killed by a vampire," Nick pressed. "Do you know anything?"
She looked at him in surprise. "A vampire?"
"Bite marks on his neck. Bled to death. There was blood everywhere."
"Blood everywhere you say?" She said playfully, licking her lips. "I guess your job has some perks."
"Janette…" Nick's voice held a hint of frustration.
"Nicolas, I haven't heard anything. I've never heard the name. Do you really think one of us would be so foolish to leave a body behind?"
"If they were trying to make a point," Nick said, "to me."
Janette looked at him with a puzzled expression, but then understanding played across her features and she rolled her eyes. "Oh, I see. You think it was LaCroix. Not everything is about you, Nicolas."
"He's been following me."
"Well, that is his style," she conceded.
Nick felt the thrum in his veins fraying, and he scanned the room, his senses on high alert. "He's doing it right now."
Janette frowned, her gaze darting around as well. "Well, I do not feel him. Which means he doesn't want me to. Which means he doesn't want me involved." She waved the bartender over and pointed to her empty glass on the bar. "And I am happy to oblige."
"Of course you are," he said with an edge of irritation.
She brushed a strand of hair from her face as she remarked, "Ah yes, this is familiar. You want me to choose a side. Well, what if I am on your side, Nicolas, but also on his. I don't want to anger him. Nor should you. We both owe him our loyalty."
The bartender refilled her glass, and she picked it up, tilting it slightly in Nick's direction in an unspoken offer. He shook his head in response.
"I want to talk to him," Nick stated firmly.
"Then do it," she replied before taking a sip from her glass. "I wish you both would stop putting me in the middle."
"He wants me to know he's there, but he's hanging back, staying out of view."
She looked thoughtful for a moment, her eyes searching Nick's face, before she said, "Perhaps he is holding you at arm's length to restrain himself." She put a hand on Nick's arm, her touch gentle yet firm. "He has been patient since he came back. He has tried to forgive you. He has tried to help you…"
Nick snorted with contempt. He thought of bright, young Detective Hellman, dead because of LaCroix's interference.
"Someone I worked with died last time he gave his so-called help," Nick growled.
"That means nothing to him," she snapped. Then she softened her tone as she continued, "If you refuse to see his perspective, if you continue to reject him, it will only get worse. The harder you push him away, the harder he is going to pull you to him no matter who gets in the way.
"Oh, mon amour," she said, her voice carrying a hint of melancholy, "I have seen your conflicts with him play out across the centuries." She took one of his hands in one of hers and squeezed it gently. "But this time is different from all the others. You know it is. You went too far. You tried to kill him."
Nick glanced away from her, and she tightened her grip. "He has not sought vengeance in the same way against you, but what has he gotten in return, hmmm?"
Nick remained silent for a moment before asserting, "I won't give in to him."
"If you won't relent like perhaps you should, you must come to an understanding with him. Or one of you really will end up dead," Janette warned. She leaned in close to him, her lips brushing his ear, and he could feel sorrow in her words as she said, "And I do not think it will be him."
He contemplated her advice for a moment before leaning in to kiss her tenderly on the lips. "I have to go, Janette."
"Nicolas," she said, her grip tightening one last time before she released him. "Tread carefully. He will only give you so many chances. Know your limits, mon cheri, but more importantly, knowhis."
— — —
"Yeesh, nice of you to finally show up, Nick," Schanke said as Nick set the box of letters on his own desk across from his partner's and settled into his chair. "I was thinking I'd solve the case without you if you're too busy."
"Sorry, Schank," Nick replied. "I had to take care of something."
"Well, you might like to know that we got nothing when we searched in and around the CERK building. Bupkis. Did you get anything from those letters?"
"There's one from a lawyer offering a settlement, and several from someone warning Thorn not to put on the show he planned about vampires."
"I got the same. Two letters from a lawyer, an Amanda Gray, and a bunch about vampires, but those had no name or return address."
"Yeah, same for me."
Schanke pickled up one of the letters and read aloud, "'You're a fraud, Thorn. Your lies won't save you if you start unveiling vampire society. Only she can reveal their secrets. The darkness will consume you.'" Schanke snorted. "Vampire society? Only she can reveal? Darkness will consume? Total nut."
"What about the lawyer?"
"That is good news. I reached her earlier and she's agreed to come in with her client, one Geoff Horner." Schanke glanced at his watch. "Should be here in about ten minutes."
— — —
"Evan Thorn stabbed me in the back," Geoff Horner asserted from his seat, flanked by his lawyer, Amanda Gray, in the interview room.
"In what way?" Schanke asked from his position across the table, while Nick stood near the door, arms folded.
"'Beyond the Veil' was my idea. I did all the research and planning for it, but we developed the show pitch to CERK together. He had a background in radio and understood the business side," Horner explained, voice simmering with resentment. "Then he went and made a deal with the station and cut me out of it entirely."
"Sounds like you had reason to be very, very angry with him," Schanke said, "I know I would be."
"Angry, betrayed, we were business partners, he owed me," Horner growled, his voice tense, and he fell silent when his lawyer shot him a cautionary glance.
"Detectives," Gray interjected calmly. "Feelings aside, Mr. Thorn profited off my client's work and he did, indeed, owe him."
"Seems to me," Nick stated, "that if Thorn were out of the way, you'd get your shot."
"Detective…" Gray started to say.
"It wasn't like that!" Horner replied. "I just wanted what he owed me. He was my partner. I believed in him. Haven't you ever believed in someone?"
— — —
London, 1872
"Lord Caldwell and his sister speak highly of you, Mr. de Brabant," the woman behind the writing desk observed, her dark eyes assessing Nick. The black color of her dress spoke of her status as a widow while its fine fabric hinted at wealth.
"Just as they speak of you, Mrs. St. Claire," Nick said with a polite smile.
"The difference is, I know who they are. I know nothing about you, other than what they've told me, which is surprisingly little." An undercurrent of skepticism ran through her words. "Who are your people? What do you do?"
"My family was originally from the Continent, but I've been living in London for many years now," Nick explained. "As for my occupation, I have many business interests that I prefer not to delve into." He could see that his deliberate vagueness was not sitting well with her. He reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out two £100 notes and set them on the desk.
"I'm willing to compensate you generously for your services, Mrs. St. Claire."
Her eyes flicked to the notes on the desk and then back at him, the scrutinizing, skeptical look in her eyes remaining.
"It is perhaps this occupation of yours that keeps you so preoccupied and that pulled you away from your family?" After a moment's pause, she added. "This occupation or another." She furrowed her brow. "But there's more to it than this, isn't there?"
Taken aback by her insight, he nodded slowly. "Yes, you're correct. My occupation, at the time, separated us. There were… other circumstances as well."
"And they're gone and until now, you assumed it was forever."
"Yes," he said in a hushed tone, the hint of the longing in his heart carrying into his voice.
She leaned forward in her chair, her gaze intent. "I'm sure you're aware, Mr. de Brabant, that I've built my reputation working with the finest noble families."
He started to reach into his pocket again for more bank notes, but she held up a hand.
"It's not about your money," she said.
"Ah, I see," Nick said, understanding. "Offering your services to someone outside the aristocracy would tarnish your reputation."
"You understand perfectly, Mr. de Brabant. It's not about whether I want to help you," she said with sympathy in her words. "But as you see, I am a widow and must make my own way in the world."
"I understand your dilemma, Mrs. St. Claire. I assure you, I value my privacy, and a discreet séance would be my preference. You may certainly tell the Caldwells that you declined my request." He nodded at the bank notes on the desk. "And keep those as a gesture of my goodwill, regardless of your ultimate decision."
"I shall carefully consider your proposal," she said, eyeing the notes. "Leave your address with my servant, and I will send you word of my decision."
— — —
Nick blinked his eyes and focused back on the interview.
"Look," Gray said. "With Thorn dead, my client's case got harder and he may get nothing."
"Did you listen to the show, Mr. Horner?" Nick asked, ignoring Gray.
"Sometimes, but usually no. I still have a regular day job so I'm asleep during the broadcast," Horner replied.
"What about last night?" Nick asked.
"Home alone, asleep," Horner responded.
"No one can corroborate that?"
Gray held up a hand and interrupted, her tone firm, "You know what, I think we're done here. He's provided all the information about the dispute with Thorn. If you want to speak with my client again, get an arrest warrant." She stood up and gestured for Horner to follow her as she exited the interview room.
Schanke sighed as he pushed back from the table and stood. "Well, that wasn't very productive," he said.
"If it were about the money, the lawyer is right, why kill him?" Nick asked.
"Maybe it's not about the money," Schanke replied. "Nick, I think we should split up. I'm going to go talk to Horner's neighbors, see if anyone saw anything last night… this morning, whatever. You know what I mean."
"And what will I be looking into?"
"Pay a visit to the CERK broadcast engineer, Ms. Banks. See if there were any vampire-obsessed callers that we might be able to connect to those weird letters. Maybe we'll find something useful."
— — —
"I'm sorry to disturb you, Ms. Banks," Nick said as she opened as the young woman from the night before opened her apartment door to him.
"It's all right, Detective, I want to help if there's anything I can do. Please, come in."
Nick followed her to the dining area, where she indicated a chair for him to sit. Once he was seated, she took the chair opposite him.
"You helped Evan run his show," Nick said, "Did that include screening callers?"
"Yeah, most of the time," she confirmed. "Occasionally, Evan would take callers live on air without prior screening, but that wasn't the usual practice."
"He got a number of odd letters, particularly about the upcoming vampire show. Do you know anything about those?"
"Nah, I didn't read his letters. He read his own mail and filed it. As Carlos–you know, our station manager–said, the station kept them all. I don't know if anyone other than Evan read them."
"When did Evan start promoting the vampire episode?"
"About a month ago. Remember when that author Emily Weiss was in town for her book tour for The Denied?"
Nick nodded and his thoughts briefly wandered to Emily, a sense of loss weighing down his heart. She had been more than just a passing acquaintance on a case; there had been a connection, something deeper that had ignited between them and drawn Nick in. But LaCroix had interfered, cajoling Nick to take Emily, to kill her or turn her. His heart ached at the memory of having to do the only thing he could think to protect her in the moment: force her to forget Nick's affection and quit writing her vampire novels.
Under his heartache, the electric thrum in Nick's blood started to burn, a reminder that he was still being watched, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Banks continued speaking. "Everything that went on with her book tour was so strange. Attacks and murder and her suddenly retiring, it all got a lot of press. Amidst the controversy, Evan announced the vampire episode to drum up more interest in the show. It worked, we've had more listeners than ever leading up to the episode."
"After that announcement, did you get any unusual callers?"
"Detective, there were always unusual callers."
"Were any threatening or at least persistent and also focused on the vampire episode?"
Banks thought for a moment and said. "Yeah, yeah, there was this one guy who kept calling. It got to the point that when I'd see his number, I just disconnected the call. Kept saying exposing vampires was wrong, Evan had no right to do the show, that sort of thing."
"Do you remember a name?"
"Called himself Christian LaSalle," she said.
Nick sighed. "It's a made up name. Taken from characters in Emily Weiss's books." He paused. "You said you started disconnecting his calls when you saw his number. Do you have that number?"
She thought for a moment and said, "No, I recognized it when it came up, but I don't remember it off the top of my head. He called frequently though. I'm sure it's in the station's call logs. I can call Carlos, I'm sure he could bring them to your police station."
"That would be helpful, Ms. Banks, thank you."
He bade her farewell and exited her apartment as she made the call to the radio station manager.
As Nick stepped out of the front door of the building and onto the sidewalk, the vibration in his blood intensified into a burning anger that he wasn't sure was LaCroix's or his own. Speaking aloud, aware that LaCroix would be close enough to hear, he said, "I know it was you."
— — —
Back at the police station, Nick found Schanke at his desk.
"Any luck with Horner?" Nick asked.
Schanke sighed and leaned back in his chair. "Just that we can probably rule him out. One of the neighbors took her dog out around 3:15 a.m. and saw Horner's car in his driveway. I mean, it's not like our perp could have exactly taken a taxi home without raising suspicion. He must have been covered in blood.
"What about you?" Schanke asked. "Anything from the broadcast engineer?"
Nick recounted his conversation with Leticia Banks. When Nick got to the 'Christian LaSalle' alias, Schanke snorted and said, "Are you serious? Like the characters from The Denied?"
"The very same. The station manager is going to bring the call logs by. Just need to track down the most frequent caller."
Their discussion was interrupted when an office assistant approached Nick and handed him a folder. She informed him, "Forensics report for the Thorn case."
Nick took the folder and nodded in acknowledgement. "Thanks," he replied before turning his attention back to Schanke. "Let's see if there's anything in here that can shed some light on this." Though, in his heart, he felt that was unlikely, not if his instincts were right.
Nick opened the report and scanned through it before saying, "No prints. No fibers. Nothing."
"It's too clean," Schanke said. "Either the culprit planned this meticulously, or got incredibly lucky."
Nick could feel the trill in his veins growing more electric and agitated. His thoughts drifted momentarily as he said absently, "But the crime itself... it's a message."
Schanke responded, "Yeah, the message is 'I hated Evan Thorn.' When we get those call logs, we should be able to track down the address for the guy who wrote those threatening letters."
Nick, still absorbed in his own thoughts and the sensation in his blood, replied distractedly, "Yeah, okay."
"You all right?" Schanke asked with a touch of concern.
"Schank, I have to go for a bit. Cover for me."
As he walked away, Schanke called after him in frustration, "Knight! Are you serious right now? We're in the middle of an investigation!"
— — —
Nick hovered near Natalie's lab and then entered. She was in the midst of dictating notes at her desk and looked up in surprise as he walked in. She quickly pressed the stop button on the tape recorder.
"Two visits in one night," she said. "What's up?"
"We've got no physical evidence from the scene. We interviewed a possible suspect, but there wasn't anything there. There's maybe another suspect, but…" He paused before saying, "It's him. One of us could easily ensure there was no physical evidence. It has to be him and he wants me to know it."
"This is really getting to you," she said. "If, and I do mean if, it's LaCroix, it will turn into a cold case. Cohen will be annoyed and you'll move on to the next one."
Nick paced, agitated. "He'll keep doing it though."
"What are you saying?"
Nick threw up his hands. "I don't know. He's going to force my hand, one way or another."
"You said it was a message," Natalie said. "But what is it? Why slash Thorn's arms?"
Nick shook his head, and then, a surge of electricity coursed through his arteries, like a live wire sparking. His senses heightened, and he straightened, walking purposefully toward the closed lab door. He placed his palms on the door's surface, but did not open it.
"Nick what are you…" Natalie started to say.
He held up a hand to silence her, his focus fixed on what lay beyond the door. With a voice that sounded steadier than he felt, he said, "I know you're there."
He heard Natalie's heart rate quicken, and she took a nervous intake of air, her anxiety palpable in the tense silence that followed.
After several moments, Nick asked, "Why are you doing this?"
From the other side of the door came a voice, silken and soft, belying the seething resentment that underlined every word and ran hot in Nick's blood. "I have given you everything. And you…"
The voice tapered off, leaving a heavy unspoken accusation hanging in the air: Nick had given him nothing.
Nick closed his eyes, his hands pressed against the door, feeling paralyzed under the scorching intensity surging through his veins.
He heard Natalie say resolutely, "I won't have this."
Nick opened his eyes to see her pushing her way out the other door and into the hall.
"Nat, no!" Nick cried, but she was already in the hallway. She paused halfway in the opened door, looking around before stepping back inside the lab.
"No one is there," she said.
"He was there, Nat."
"I believe you. Do you have any idea what he wants?"
Nick shifted uncomfortably. "I know he's angry." He thought back to this conversation with Janette. "Nat, the night that he… died, or so I thought..."
"There was a fire at your place. You said he died in the fire."
"It didn't happen exactly like that," Nick confessed and cast his gaze downward for a moment. "There was a fire. I drove a flaming stake into his heart. And he did burn, but none of it killed him."
Natalie's eyes widened in shock. "How…"
"The older we become, the harder we are to kill. And he's ancient," Nick explained. His eyes drifted, lost in painful memories. "I really thought he was dead."
"Does he want revenge?"
Nick considered her question carefully. If LaCroix wanted revenge, he would have acted on it already. Unless... he was toying with Nick like a cat with a mouse. But then Nick recalled some of LaCroix's words to him from their recent encounters: "I've decided to take you back. To give you a second chance." "Nicholas, I'm doing this for you."
Shaking his head, Nick replied, "No, I don't think so. In his own twisted way, I think he believes he's helping me. The problem is, we have very different ideas about what that means."
"Do you want revenge?" Natalie asked.
He looked sharply at her. "What do you mean?"
"You tried to kill him. He didn't die. He's been meddling in your life. People have died. Bridget Hellman died. Are you looking for revenge?"
"That's not what's going on. I don't need revenge."
"What do you need then? From him?"
"I need him to back off, to let me live my life."
Natalie rubbed the bridge of her nose and said, "I swear I'm not trying to be obtuse here Nick, but have you told him that?"
"I don't need to tell him. He'll never do it."
"There has got to be a compromise," she said.
"You sound like Janette."
A surprised smile tugged at her lips. "Then maybe you should consider listening to the women in your life on this."
Nick shook his head. "He isn't the compromising type. And there's too much unfinished business between us."
"Sounds like you need to finish it," she said. A few moments of silence passed before she changed the subject. "Speaking of unfinished business… the case?"
"Schank and I will have to keep working pointless leads until the case turns cold, as you said," Nick replied, his voice tinged with frustration. "I know who did it, but I can't do anything about it."
"Have you considered that you might be wrong?"
"I'm not wrong. LaCroix is the only one who makes sense. The punctures in Thorn's neck, the clean crime scene, the fact that he's been following me…"
"You've reached a conclusion and found the evidence to support it. But that's backwards. You have to look at the evidence first. Have you chased down every lead?" Natalie questioned, her voice gentle but insistent.
"LaCroix is the only vampire with a motive to do something like this," Nick replied, holding to his conviction.
"But if it isn't about you…" she pressed.
Nick gave an exasperated sigh.
"If it isn't about you," she reiterated, her voice firmer now, "then it's about Thorn, the victim.
"Look, Nick," she continued. "I'm not saying you're wrong, but that you don't actually know that you're right. You're a cop. Follow the leads, follow the evidence." She put a hand on his shoulder. "You can believe something entirely and be wrong about it."
— — —
London, 1872
Victoria St. Claire's parlor was dimly lit by candles, which cast flickering shadows on the walls. Nick sat opposite her at a small, round table, the dark wood polished to a high shine that reflected the candlelight. Nick rested his hands upon the table's smooth surface, a blend of excitement and trepidation swirling within him. She had emphasized the significance of trust and openness for the séance to be successful, but there were aspects of his existence that he could not divulge.
St. Claire's intense, dark eyes locked onto Nick's, and she extended her hands towards him. "Mr. de Brabant, in order for the spirits of your lost loved ones to establish a connection through me, we must join hands."
Nick took St. Claire's hands into his own, and he sensed a subtle shiver course through her.
"Your hands are cold, are you quite well?" she inquired.
"Just poor circulation," he answered. "It runs in my family."
She nodded and gripped his hands. "Close your eyes," she said and he complied.
He heard her say solemnly and slowly, "Spirits of the departed, hear us. Reveal your presence to us."
She fell silent for several moments before her grip suddenly tightened on his hands, and she said, "There's someone here."
"Who?" he asked in a hushed voice.
"It's difficult to hear her… like sound muffled by water. But oh, she wants to be heard."
"Can you see her?" he asked.
"No, I don't have that gift. I can only hear. She's… I think she's saying your name, but it's not quite the same… French?"
He sucked in a breath.
"She's… she's asking…" I'm sorry, my French is not as polished as I'd like and there is still some distortion. "I think she's asking about a promise you made… she asked something of you, but you didn't do it… or…"
"Fleur," he said softly. Long had he wanted to make amends for failing to keep his promise to look after Andre. The boy, and later the man, had wanted for nothing, save for an uncle, his only blood relative, who had been conspicuously absent from his life. But providing for Andre had not been the same as looking after him. "Please, tell her how sorry I am. Can you let her know? Is she able to hear me?"
"Oh yes, she can hear you," St. Claire replied earnestly. "She says she's standing behind you. Can you feel her presence there?"
Nick sensed something, a stirring within his blood, almost like an ethereal presence. "Yes," he whispered.
A low, mocking chuckle suddenly punctured the atmosphere, and Nick's eyes flew open. St. Claire looked startled, her gaze darting to the doorway. Nick followed her line of sight, and his heart sank. There, leaning casually in the threshold of the room's door, was LaCroix.
"Dabbling in the occult, Nicholas, how quaint," LaCroix remarked with condescending amusement before adding acidly, "I really did not think you were this foolish."
St. Claire's composure remained unwavering as she stood her ground, asserting, "You are trespassing, sir, and interrupting a private event." With a deliberate air of authority, she reached for a bell on a nearby side table and rang it emphatically. "I must insist that you leave immediately."
LaCroix chuckled again and the sound sent a shiver down Nick's spine.
"I shall have to decline," LaCroix said to her. "You see, it is my responsibility to protect Nicholas, even from himself, and certainly from the likes of you. This charade has come to an end."
Unfazed, Mrs. St. Claire rang the bell again.
"Ringing for your servant?" LaCroix said. "I'm afraid he's left your employ and this mortal coil."
Nick rose from his seat and demanded angrily, "Leave, LaCroix! How dare you interfere!"
LaCroix turned his gaze coldly to Nick as he retorted, "How dare I? You are such a fool, Nicholas. For days, this woman's servant has been talking to our own, seeking out information, not that there was much they could usefully provide." He glanced at the stack of bank notes on the side table. "I suppose she just planned to use her manipulations on you without much information, the pay off was more than she could pass up. I'm embarrassed for you that it was working."
"She made contact with my sister."
"Nonsense!" LaCroix hissed. "She led you to what you wanted to believe, nothing more."
Nick turned his gaze to St. Claire whose face had blanched and Nick could see there must be something of truth in what LaCroix had said. He locked his eyes on hers, her heartbeat echoing in his mind, "Did you trick me?"
"I…" she began, her voice faltering.
"Did you?!" Nick pressed.
"Yes," she admitted, her voice dazed.
In an instant, Nick was upon her, sinking his fangs into her neck. As he drank her blood, he tasted the truth of it, a strange mix of both avarice and goodwill, as if she had genuinely believed that orchestrating a false séance would be mutually beneficial. Her blood revealed that such events had brought peace to some and had also attracted wealthy and generous patrons to line her coffers. He continued to drink until she went cold in his arms, then dropped her lifeless body to the floor.
He stood silently, his back to LaCroix, feeling as much the fool that LaCroix had said he was.
He felt a touch on his shoulder and whirled around to face the other vampire. "I suppose this amuses you," Nick said harshly, trying to mask the pain and sorrow churning in him.
LaCroix shrugged and said, "Yes," but then his eyes and tone softened. "And no."
"I thought…" Nick's voice wavered, and he swallowed hard. "I thought this was my chance to make peace with some of my past, with my family."
LaCroix sighed, his eyes holding a hint of weariness. "Nicholas, that is not something you or I will ever have. I've warned you time and again about this guilt that you let infect you. And for your own good, I must break you of this incessant trust you've placed in mortals of late."
He placed an arm around Nick's shoulder, and Nick, disheartened, cast his gaze downward. "Come," LaCroix said, not ungently, "Let us go from this place. Your true family is still living. And Janette will be most put out if you keep her from the Caldwell siblings any longer."
Nick nodded and, leaning on LaCroix, allowed himself to be led from the room.
— — —
Nick returned from the morgue to the station and as he entered the bullpen, he saw that Schanke's desk was empty.
"Anyone seen my partner?" he asked the general vicinity.
"Detective Knight!" Captain Cohen's voice came from her office, laced with disapproval.
He stuck his head in her office, and she looked at him, annoyance in her eyes. "Schanke said he's following up on a lead. Said you've been pretty distracted. That you had something urgent to take care of."
Nick met her gaze, feeling guilty.
She leaned forward and tapped her pen on her desk. "And did you have something urgent?"
Nick swallowed and shook his head. "I'm sorry, Cap, no. He's right, I have been distracted."
"He's covering for you and I don't like it. He's your partner and you're supposed to have each other's backs when it counts, not to cover for slacking off."
"Got it, Cap, you're right."
She handed him a piece of paper with an address written in Schanke's handwriting. "He managed to track down the address for that guy who was writing all those letters. He hasn't been gone long. Maybe you'll catch up."
— — —
Nick arrived at the address as Schanke was ringing the bell to the small house. He came up behind Schanke and tapped him on the shoulder, causing his partner to jump in surprise.
"Nick! Geez, you startled me," Schanke said as he turned to Nick, clutching a hand to his chest as if to calm his racing heart.
Nick nodded apologetically, "Sorry, Schanke. I got the address you tracked down from Cohen. We should have tackled this together. Sorry I let myself check out for a minute there."
With a mixture of relief and exasperation, Schanke said, "Yeah, yeah, okay. I just wish I could have filled you in on who this guy is. We've picked him up before, he–"
But before Schanke could finish, the door opened and Nick recognized the robed man who opened it. It was the obsessed fan who had written thousands of letters to Emily Weiss and, for a brief time, was considered a suspect in a series of attacks surrounding the author.
"George Tansy?" Schanke asked.
"Yes," the man replied cautiously. "What's this about?"
"We'd like to come in and talk to you," Schanke said and flashed his badge.
"Well, I… I'm busy right now." Tansy started closing the door.
"It's about Emily Weiss," Nick interjected, and the bluff was enough to cause Tansy to pause.
"Yeah," Schanke said, affecting a weary tone. "Look, man, I just want to get home. The boss said we had to come talk to you. Remember when we arrested you last month? You kicked up just a little fuss at her book signing. We reacted too strongly and that was a mistake. Now the boss says we have to apologize, or it's gonna leave a black mark in our record."
"We were just trying to protect Ms. Weiss," Nick added with a conciliatory tone, "which I'm sure you can understand."
Tansy hovered for a moment at the door and then opened it wider, "Yeah, okay then."
As Nick and Schanke entered, Nick's gaze darted around the room, scanning the surroundings. The front of the house consisted of a small living room, dining area, and kitchen. His attention was drawn to the dining table where tools were neatly arranged, a leatherworking project in progress.
Tansy directed them to the living room and gestured for them to sit on the couch while he sat in an easy chair. Schanke took a seat on the couch, but Nick remained standing behind his partner.
"So, Mr. Tansy," Schanke said, adopting a placating tone. "As I said, we apologize for our mistake. Will you accept our apology?"
Tansy nodded. "Yes, I accept. I'm glad you recognize your error. I just wanted to make sure she got my letters was all. I would never have hurt her. Like you guys, I see that she is special, she needs to be protected."
"And speaking of letters," Shanke said, "we were hoping you could tell us about some letters you wrote to Evan Thorn."
"What letters?" Tansy asked and there was a nervous inflection in his tone and he shifted slightly in his seat.
"Come on, man," Schanke said, "we know about the letters, we know about the phone calls to CERK. You told Thorn not to do the vampire show. What was that about?"
"I…" Tansy hesitated. "I think you should leave."
He started to rise from his chair when Schanke said, "I just do not understand why Thorn wouldn't listen to you."
Tansy paused and then sat back down. His expression darkened as he said, "That man was talking about things he shouldn't have."
"What do you–" Schank started to question, but Nick cut him off.
"We agree with you Mr. Tansy," Nick said and Schanke glanced back at him and gave a slight, almost imperceptible nod.
"Yeah," Schanke said. "We definitely agree with you. The man was–"
"He was too close to the truth," Nick interjected. "He was going to expose vampires, but Ms. Weiss is the only human allowed to reveal vampires."
Tansy leaned forward, a glimmer of eagerness in his eyes. "Then you do understand."
"Emily Weiss has a unique perspective," Nick continued and then from his place behind his partner, he let his eyes shift to gold before continuing, "she has a special insight into our society."
Tansy's eyes widened. "I knew it. I knew there was a vampire authority. Well, I couldn't be entirely certain though so I had to take care of the Thorn problem myself."
"Of course," Schanke chimed in, smoothly playing along with Tansy's delusion that Nick was reinforcing. "In fact, my partner and I are in a special unit sanctioned by the vampire authority. We've been sent because the human cops…" he paused, searching for something to say.
"Because the human cops think it was one of us," Nick said and flashed his fangs at Tansy, his eyes still golden. "It's drawing unwanted attention."
"Oh no," Tansy said with dread. "I thought Thorn would serve as a warning to others. I've made a mess of it."
"How would he be a warning to others?" Schanke asked, leaning forward.
Tansy's eyes darted nervously between Nick and Schanke before stopping to linger on Nick's golden gaze. He appeared visibly conflicted before he said, his voice barely above a whisper, "You have to understand. I had no choice. I couldn't let him undermine her."
Schanke nodded. "We get it. But now, it's our responsibility to ensure things don't get out of hand. Tell us what happened."
"I went to see him after his show, to give him a final warning."
"Final warning?" Schanke asked.
"All he had to do was cancel the show. That's it! I warned him. He wouldn't listen." Tansy was becoming agitated.
"He wouldn't listen," Schanke commiserated. "So you did what you had to do."
"That's right! Everyone heard him promoting the vampire episode of his show. If he wouldn't listen, he would be an example. Now anyone with similar ideas for a show would know that gets you dead."
Schanke stood immediately and pulled out his handcuffs. "George Tansy, you're under arrest for the murder of Evan Thorn. You have the right to retain and instruct counsel without delay. You do not have to say anything, but anything you do say may be given in evidence. Do you understand?"
Tansy looked dazed as he stood up and Schanke cuffed him. His bewildered gaze locked onto Nick, who blinked his eyes back to their normal state and retracted his fangs. Tansy stammered, "I… I don't understand."
"Well, I'll explain it to you again while we wait outside for a squad car," Schanke said. "Nick, can you phone dispatch and see if there's anything to find in plain sight while we wait?"
Nick nodded. "No problem, Schank."
As his partner exited the house with Tansy in custody, Nick called dispatch from his cell phone. A squad car was nearby and would be around shortly. He pulled a pair of gloves from his jacket pocket and started looking around, first in the kitchen. He noticed a butcher's block with an assortment of knives. While it was clear that forensics would need to collect and bag these as potential evidence, a knife would not have inflicted the rounded puncture wounds found on Thorn's neck."
He went to the dining area and looked at the tools neatly arranged on the table, his gaze drawn to an awl. Although the metal surface appeared clean, Nick's heightened vision detected traces of blood residue along its length. Carefully, he retrieved an evidence bag from an inside jacket pocket, placing the awl inside.
As he held the incriminating evidence, he swallowed. He had been wrong. Very wrong. Deep within, he felt the frayed nerve of his connection to LaCroix jolt.
— — —
After Geroge Tansy was secured in the back of a squad car and en route to lock up, Nick and Schanke left a uniformed officer outside Tansy's house to secure the scene until they could get a search warrant. They returned to the precinct and Nick booked the awl into evidence while Schanke typed up a statement for the warrant.
Captain Cohen came out of her office to stand next to their desk. "Knight, Schanke, good job," she commended them. "This was tricky, but you put it together."
"Thank you, Captain," Schanke replied, visibly pleased with the praise. "This guy's going to need a psych eval, but he's definitely our guy."
"I'm also glad your partner caught up with you," she said. "Good partnership is what we need in this precinct." The phone in her office started ringing and she stepped back inside and closed the door.
"Hopefully, she'll remember the 'good job' when I put in a leave request on short notice."
"Going somewhere?"
"Myra won a weekend getaway in the mountains. Some mail-in contest."
"Schank, I'm sure Cohen will give you the time, and I'll cover your shift if she's hesitant."
"Great, thanks!" He stood up from his desk. "I'm going to print this statement and get that warrant so we can turn over Tansy's place and his car. There's no way we won't find Thorn's blood in his car and on some clothes."
"If you don't mind, Schank, I'm going to step outside for a few and just get a little air. But I'll be ready to go when you get that warrant."
As Nick stepped outside the station, he felt the vibration under his skin and in his blood. He had been so convinced LaCroix had killed Thorn, even accused him of it, stoking greater discord between them. There was this and there was that fateful night in his loft over a year ago, unaddressed but ever present.
He waited until the coast was clear of any witnesses and then flew up to the roof, searching, but LaCroix was still hanging back. He pulled on that intangible cord that connected them and said into the night, "I want to talk about that night."
Their connection flared, and on the breeze, he heard LaCroix's voice say, "Tomorrow."
— — —
"I must confess, it is a strange feeling," LaCroix said the next night as his gaze slowly trailed around the loft before settling on Nick. "Being here with you again in this place."
"Thank you for coming," Nick said, handing LaCroix a wine glass filled with cow's blood.
LaCroix took the glass, sniffed at its contents, and frowned. Setting it on the kitchen table, he said disapprovingly, "I am not drinking that."
Nick poured a glass for himself, raised it to his lips, and swallowed the contents in one gulp. It was not satisfying, but at least it was somewhat fortifying. He needed all the strength he had to get through this conversation.
"We haven't talked about it," Nick said, forcing his voice to remain even.
Nick set his glass down in the sink, harder than he'd intended, the loud clink reverberating in the too quiet space. He turned back to LaCroix, their eyes locking in a momentary silent exchange before LaCroix asked with a pointed edge, "Talked about it?"
"About..." Nick hesitated, his gaze dropping for a fleeting moment before he looked back at LaCroix. Under his skin, Nick could feel the tension in their strained connection throbbing. "About what happened."
"Oh dear, yes, that little incident," LaCroix's voice was playful, mocking. Then it turned to ice. "As if it was a thing that just so happened to occur."
In a moment, LaCroix closed the gap between them, their faces only inches apart, his eyes glittering with red. The tension inside Nick electrified as LaCroix continued speaking. "Like misplacing your keys or stepping into a puddle." A dangerous undercurrent flowed under LaCroix's words. "These minor things, they just happen, who knows why."
Nick took a breath and stepped away, putting distance between them and holding his hands up in a placating gesture. LaCroix, he knew, demanded confession, acknowledgement. "No, it didn't just happen. It was me," Nick said, keeping his voice steady. "I tried to kill you."
LaCroix closed the physical gap between them once again, his presence like a vice grip Nick couldn't pull away from.
"And?" LaCroix pressed, the red in his gaze intensifying.
"And now..." Nick began, his voice catching slightly before he forced the words out in a rush. "And now it's in the open. Now we're not fighting about it, we're talking about it." He could feel his throat tighten as he struggled to find expression. "And I don't know what to say. I don't know how to talk about it." His voice dropped lower, frustration in his words. "I don't know how we move past it."
"Maybe we don't," LaCroix seethed, his anger casting a shadow over any chance of resolution.
Defiance and desperation flared in Nick, his tone rising as he demanded, "Then what's the alternative? You dog my every step. Why? Should I just bide my time," his voice faltered, "waiting for you to kill me?"
"If that were my intent, you would have met your end already," LaCroix growled.
"What then?" Nick entreated. "What do you want from me?"
LaCroix's eyes bored into Nick's with an unyielding intensity, a challenge laid bare, "You know exactly what I want."
Of course, Nick knew. The stakes had heightened, but the game itself was all too familiar. It was a game LaCroix always won in the end. This time though, Nick refused to concede. "I'm not leaving Toronto," he asserted. "I'm not giving up my pursuit for my mortality. I'm not returning to you." Nick searched LaCroix's eyes. "So what's your move?"
Nick waited for LaCroix's response, he felt as if the very air in his lungs were choking him under the weight of their history and the uncertainty of their future.
Then the crimson in LaCroix's eyes receded, replaced with cool blue. The older vampire sighed and turned his attention away from Nick and walked purposely over to the elevator and then halted in front of the door. Nick watched him reach with his pale fingers, grazing the scorch marks that Nick had not been able to wash away.
"Strange," LaCroix observed, his voice calm, "That you did not paint over this."
"The scar would still be there even if I had," Nick responded, tone matching LaCroix's.
LaCroix turned to look back at Nick. "Tell me, Nicholas," his voice held a measured, almost academic, curiosity, "how did you feel after you thought I was dead?"
Although LaCroix maintained an outward facade of composure, Nick felt threads of conflict and betrayal constrict around the link that bound them together in blood.
"I felt…" Nick paused. He stood on the edge of a move from which he feared there would be no going back. But then, he realized, there already was no going back. The question demanded an answer. Swallowing his apprehension, he admitted the truth, "I felt free."
Nick closed the space between them before he added, "And yet, I still thought of you."
"Is that meant to give me some kind of solace?" LaCroix asked, a hard and bitter edge to his words.
Nick shook his head. "It's just how it was."
They stood together in the silent unease of their fractured relationship. Nick could feel LaCroix pulling at that tense wire inside, tightening it further, intensifying the pressure.
"Do you regret it, Nicholas?" LaCroix asked, cutting deep into the wound and baring it raw.
"What does it matter?" Nick asked softly. "It's done, it's over."
"And yet you invited me here to talk about it," LaCroix said, almost amiably, though the taut undercurrent in Nick's blood did not slacken. "I can leave if you've changed your mind."
"No," Nick said quickly, fearing there would not be another opportunity to have this discussion he didn't want, but that they needed to have. "Don't leave."
"Then answer me: do you regret it?"
Nick supposed that with the feeling of freedom had also come a certain sense of loss and perhaps even guilt, but regret…? Nick let out a nervous breath before saying, "Under the circumstances then, that night, everything that led up to it…" Nick paused and said quietly, "No, I don't regret it."
The internal vibration became painful, a jarring note stricken off-key. Nick extended a hand, his fingers coming to rest on LaCroix's shoulder. LaCroix's body stiffened under the physical contact as Nick said softly, "But I don't want to do it again. I don't want us in that place again." He paused for a beat. "For whatever that's worth."
LaCroix shook off Nick's hand sharply and locked Nick under his gaze with that withering scrutiny that seemed to see right through him. Finally, LaCroix responded in a tone that suggested even he was surprised by his own answer, "It is worth something."
Nick sensed a subtle slackening in that tense wire between them. Was it enough for these truths to be out there? The truths that Nick had given and LaCroix had taken. Nick stepped away from his master and walked to the living area, thinking.
He grabbed the fireplace remote and flicked it on, flames springing to life in the hearth. He leaned on the mantle and stared into the fire. Everything with LaCroix was transactional and so far, Nick had received no answers in return. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply, taking comfort from the warmth of the fire on his skin before asking, "And you, LaCroix, do you regret what you did that night?"
Nick caught the sound of LaCroix's derisive snort. "I assume you want me to say yes, that I wished I'd done something different. If only and all that."
Nick opened his eyes and looked at LaCroix, but remained silent. A quiet determination settled over Nick as he himself started tensing that intangible bond that stretched between them.
LaCroix strode to the kitchen table and retrieved the glass he had abandoned. He held it up to the light, inspecting it before bringing it to his lips. He grimaced as he took a sip. Lightly, he mused, "How you manage to subsist on this is beyond my comprehension."
Glass still in hand, LaCroix crossed to the living area and joined Nick next to the fire. An almost companionable silence enveloped them save for that ever-present electric vibration.
"That night," LaCroix said, a faint echo of fatigue in his voice, "unfolded in flames and blood and ash. In the end, neither of us got what we desired."
"And?" Nick pressed.
LaCroix was silent for a beat and then responded, his tone unapologetic, "And no, I do not regret my actions."
LaCroix turned his attention to one of the figures carved in the mantle and traced a finger along its contours. "I remember this piece," he murmured. "Another scar? You do keep such odd mementos."
Nick's eyes followed LaCroix's movement and his own hand drifted absently to the mantle's polished surface. "I keep them to not forget things I've done that I can't undo."
Indeed," LaCroix commented, his gaze shifting from the carved figure to fix on Nick. "The wounds of what you can't undo run deep."
Nick's jaw clenched and his voice carried a sharp edge. "I'm not alone in inflicting such wounds."
A look of impatience played across LaCroix's feature and his gaze flitted up to the open skylight. Nick's heart sank, he could feel the opportunity for resolution slipping away. Janette's advice reverberated in his mind, "Know your limits, mon cheri, but more importantly, know his."
"Wait," Nick implored his hand reaching out almost involuntarily to rest on LaCroix's forearm as if to anchor him in place. "Please wait."
"Why are we here, Nicholas?" LaCroix asked with irritation, glancing down at Nick's hand and shaking it off. "You didn't bring me here to make a conciliatory offering. Quite the opposite, it seems."
Undeterred, Nick's resolve steadied his tone as he responded, "There has to be a way for us to coexist without tearing one another apart. A way where we both get at least something of what we want."
"Really?" LaCroix asked, mocking disbelief in his voice. "That's the conclusion you've reached from tonight's exchange? Your eternal optimism would be endearing if it weren't so annoying."
"We're both still standing, aren't we? Despite it all."
"But what have we gained? Nothing."
"Honesty," Nick replied. "Openness. It's more than we started with."
LaCroix sighed. "For all your aspirations for a new beginning, Nicholas, you must understand that our history is not easily cast aside."
"We're not casting it aside. But acknowledging our past doesn't mean it has to dictate our future." Nick felt a surge of determination course through him. "We don't have to absolve one another, just find a way to move forward."
"Let's say I humor you," LaCroix replied. "What do you propose? What does this peaceful coexistence look like in your eyes?"
"I want you to stop meddling in my life here. Stop trying to force me to move on. Stop endangering my mortal friends. Stop the killing."
A scoff escaped LaCroix's lips, a wry amusement twisting his expression. "Stop the killing? Now you're just getting greedy." The humor dissipated from his tone as he continued. "You can't seriously expect me to agree to this."
"No killing mortals in my circle," Nick clarified. Taking a deep breath, he pressed on, his voice resolute. "I'm not asking you to leave town. I'm not asking you to change who you are. I'm not even asking you to stay out of my life, just stop interfering in it and give me the space I need to live it."
Silence hung in the air, but Nick could see contemplation evident in the furrow of LaCroix's brow. Hope flickered within Nick as he waited for the elder vampire to respond. Finally, LaCroix demanded, "And in return for this, what are you prepared to give?"
"What do you want?" Nick asked, allowing his cautious optimism to flutter along that frayed cord between them before he added, "Within parameters you know I won't reject out of hand."
LaCroix's eyes held a hint of something calculating and unreadable. With measured deliberation, LaCroix said, "I want you to listen to me."
"I am listening," Nick said seriously.
LaCroix's lips curled faintly, a ghost of a smile playing across them. "No, not solely at this moment," LaCroix said. "When I speak to you in the future, I want you to listen, really listen."
"Just… listen?" Nick's asked, doubt woven into the question.
"Just listen," LaCroix confirmed.
The elder vampire wandered over to the piano and brushed the keys with a gentle touch before moving to stand next to it. "It's good you've maintained your musical pursuits, Nicholas. You always were the most creative of my progeny."
Nick followed LaCroix to the piano. Nick absentmindedly tapped a few of the keys, releasing soft notes into the air before he asked, "Do we have an agreement?"
LaCroix studied Nick for a few moments and then said, "Subject to any prior agreements, which may supersede, I give you my word. I shall not interfere."
Wariness threaded through Nick's response, "Prior agreements?"
"Surely, if a promise is to mean anything, past promises must also be kept," LaCroix insisted.
"What prior agreements?"
"Is it really a concern, Nicholas?" LaCroix asked with a touch of exasperation. "Only you could get 99 percent of what you want and think it's not enough. Snatching defeat from the jaws of victory as it were."
Nick could sense the delicate balance between them poised to tip one way or another. He hesitated only a moment before saying, "We are agreed."
Nick tapped again at the piano keys, the notes echoing. LaCroix set down his still barely touched glass on the top of the piano and said, "Play something?"
Nick's brow lifted in surprise. "You want me to play?"
LaCroix gave a small smile as he said, "We have agreed on something. Peaceful coexistence is nigh. I suspect Hell has frozen over. Doesn't that call for at least a modicum of fanfare?"
"I suppose it does," Nick said, allowing himself a cautious smile in return. He settled onto the bench, fingers hovering over the keys. "Any requests?"
A wistfulness softened LaCroix's expression. "You know what I like. Surprise me."
Nick was introspective for a moment as he contemplated his options. Deciding, his fingers started to dance across the keys, the first notes of Tchaikovsky's Pas de Deux filling the air.
LaCroix's eyes lightened. "I recall you dragging me to a performance in 1950-whatever it was. Frightful winter weather. New York City, as I recall," he said, a fond nostalgia in his tone.
"Yes." Nick chuckled. "You absolutely loathed the ballet."
"It was dreadful. But I loved the music, as you seem to remember."
As Nick continued to play, the world around them seemed to fade, leaving only the piano, the music, and the connection between them. LaCroix closed his eyes and a moment later, Nick followed suit.
The percussive melody rippled from the piano, resonating along the taut wire that bound them. A new thread of camaraderie tentatively started coiling around it. The discordant vibration started to harmonize and gather strength. The strain that had defined them since LaCroix's return began to ease, replaced by a fragile but undeniable sense of accord.
"Est-ce que tu sens ça?" LaCroix asked in a hushed tone. Do you feel that?
Nick didn't respond aloud, but poured more of himself into the music, letting the piano be his voice. Each strike of the keys became an answer in and of itself. That sharp, electric thrum under his skin mellowed into a soothing hum.
As Nick concluded, his fingers playing out the final slow and quiet notes, he heard LaCroix's voice echoing in his mind, "Bravo, Nicolas. Bravo."
With a relaxed exhalation, Nick opened his eyes, but LaCroix was gone. In his wake was only a soft, lingering vibration and a small piece of paper set next to the undrunk glass. Nick reached for the paper and read in LaCroix's neat, elegant handwriting: CERK Radio, 490 AM, 1:00-3:30 a.m.
Underneath this message was a single underlined word: Listen.
— — —
Notes:
A million thanks to TheFruitBat for beta reading this and sticking with it when it morphed from a short, single-scene story into a longer, case fic type story.
Season 2 of Forever Knight raised some questions for me. Specifically:
- When LaCroix returned at the beginning of season 2, wasn't it strange that he just let the whole "Nick trying to kill him" thing slide? Particularly given that LaCroix looked super pissed at the end of season 1, and Nick was not exactly receptive to his presence when he returned.
- In the first few episodes of season 2, LaCroix actively meddled in Nick's life. But after iBad Blood/i, he suddenly backed off. Why?
- In "Capital Offense", we heard our first Nightcrawler monologue of season 2. While the show broadcasts throughout the city, it seems designed for an audience of exactly one: Nick. And Nick, for his part, tunes in regularly. Why?
- Finally, later in season 2 in the restaurant scene in "Be My Valentine", Nick quarrels violently with LaCroix and accuses him of violating "our agreement," but we've never seen them come to any kind of agreement. What was Nick talking about?
This story is my answer to these questions.
