Chapter 6
Nick took a step forward and placed a longing hand on the cold metal of the elevator door. He listened to the grinding of the machinery as it carried Natalie safely away from him. He also heard the beating of her heart. It had almost settled back into its normal rhythm. He closed his eyes as he leaned his forehead on the door beside his hand. "Nat. Dear God, how I love you. I'm so sorry."
The inner voice of disdain taunted. If you really loved her, you would let her go. Stop her torture and leave her alone. She deserves so much more than you can possibly give her, and you know it. How very selfish you are, Nicholas de Brabant. She deserves a normal life. A life shared with one of her own kind. Do you honestly believe that you'll be able to make it back across and become that person?
Turning slowly, Nick walked back into the living room. Yes, he believed. Of course he believed. He thrust the scathing self-incriminations from his mind. The truth that resonated in the harsh words was becoming harder and harder to ignore, but he continued to shy away from it every time it reared its head. And although the battle was becoming more and more difficult, he was determined to fight the penetrating doubt that increasingly poisoned his thoughts.
But he was so drained. So weary of the combat.
Wouldn't it be easier for everyone involved if you ended this farce of a mortal existence? What have you truly accomplished? You're no closer to mortality now than you were 100 years ago. Be what you are and have done with the struggle.
The voice was very persistent this morning, but he continued to wrestle against the crippling uncertainty. No.
No, he had to keep trying. For his soul. For Nat.
Nick stopped by the end table where he'd laid the flute. A wave of nausea overcame him as the protein drink stirred uncomfortably in his stomach. He staggered around the table and dropped to the couch, trying to ride out the onslaught. Resting his head on the back of the couch, he closed his eyes. Considering how much he had drunk and how quickly he'd finished it, he was surprised the concoction had stayed down this long. He couldn't remember ever being that gung ho before and now he was paying for his recklessness. Even though he wanted to go to the refrigerator and drown the sickness, he refrained. It was a very minor victory, but any victory was to be savored at this point.
Any victory. And that's what he chose to call the fact that Natalie left the loft this morning without incident. But he thought it much more than a minor victory. Unlike his earlier betrayal, he had been able to keep himself in check even as he had ventured too close to Nat. His control was shaky, but it hadn't deserted him this time. He'd resisted the temptation he had unthinkingly pushed into his path. He had helped Nat do something he'd seen her do a hundred times. And as Nick allowed the satin curls to fall freely down her back, he'd been unable to resist the few extra seconds of sensation as the waves danced around his fingers. At that moment, the desire to feel her close to him had resurfaced, but he'd been successful in beating it back before the beast had joined the need. Natalie's tender expression had told him that she understood, and he cherished her all the more for that understanding.
It was a shame he couldn't have made the success more significant by finding the courage to answer her inquiry about what was bothering him, by overcoming his fear of her reaction and confiding to her just how great his struggle had become. Warn her of his teetering control. Ask her forgiveness for his betrayal and weakness. His unwillingness to convey his feelings had hurt her. It had shown so clearly in her eyes. But his dread of her reaction had stopped him from opening up to her. Her disappointment would be profound. Would she really be able to understand? Could she continue to love him? If she knew what he'd done, she would probably fear him, not love him. He didn't think he would be able to stand seeing fear of him in her eyes. His faith in Natalie and her steadfastness was strong. It was probably the only thing in which he had faith. But could she forgive him this horrendous stumble? He had been too frightened to risk finding out. What he'd done was unforgivable, and he doubted even Nat's ability to abide this lapse. But she had the right to know. Wasn't his silence endangering her more?
Nick laid down on the couch as another surge of nausea rumbled in his gut. He rolled on his side as he wrapped his arms around his midsection. He again fought against the urge to find relief in blood. Natalie's encouraging words echoed in his head. 'We have to have faith and keep striving.' Faith. Faith in what? In himself? That this goal was reachable? In the beginning, he had believed, but now he wasn't so sure. Regaining a soul was an impossible proposition, wasn't it? The doubt, like an insidious cancer, kept spreading. And without the core belief, what chance did he really have? Trust in Natalie and her belief was all the faith he seemed to be able to muster, and he knew, in the end, it wouldn't be enough. He had to somehow stem the tide of uncertainty that threatened to wash the chance for everything he dreamed of, longed for, away.
Striving. What did it mean? For Nat it meant garlic pills, protein drinks, vitamin pills, tanning beds and hamburger. It also meant emotions, friendships and dealing with everyday life. But above anything else, it meant staying away from the blood. But would starving himself accomplish anything more than making the beast harder to control? The last time he'd stopped drinking blood had resulted in near tragedy, as the vampire raged against the denial and sought relief. He couldn't afford to let that happen again. The blood, even cow's blood, brought with it guilt, but it also brought strength. Strength to function among mortals and serve them as a police officer. Strength to try to make up for all the human blood he had spilled over the centuries. He couldn't risk pushing his composure further toward the breaking point by denying himself the very substance that made that composure possible. But if Nat believed the blood was what kept him from coming back across, how could he not keep trying what she believed to be the right thing?
The vampire brought his knees up toward his chest and hugged his stomach a little harder. The turmoil continued to batter his thoughts until the nausea slackened and exhaustion blanketed his mind with stillness.
"Nat! No!" As the words broke from his lips, Nick bolted up into a sitting position on the couch. The dream had been so true to life that it took him a second to get his bearings and realize he was at the loft, not at Natalie's apartment. Taking a deep breath, he wiped the blood sweat from his forehead. He blinked, clearing the sleepy haze from his eyes, and looked around the room to double check that he was really at the loft. He sighed his relief as he swung his legs around and put his feet on the floor. With his elbows on his knees, Nick rested his head in his hands.
As a foreboding shudder of anguish and guilt ran through his body, Nick closed his eyes against the horror of the dream. It had been so real. Not new--he'd been jolted out of sleep before by disturbing, forbidden images of Nat and himself, but frighteningly real. He struggled to stop the troublesome images, but they flashed through his mind's eye once again. Her hand caressing his. The love shining in her eyes. His hand on her cheek. Her lips on his palm. The warmth running through his body. The silky feel of her hair. Her gentle kiss on his chin. The need on her face. His mouth on hers. His whispering of her name between kisses. Her encouraging fingers feathering through his hair. His lips exploring the enticing softness of her neck. The beating of her heart. The beast fighting for freedom. Her heated call of his name. The taste of her skin on his tongue. The urgency of her hands as they moved along his spine. The change coming over him. The growl from his throat. Her body tensing in his arms.
Nick's body stiffened and a groan of agony escaped his lips as the picture of Natalie's horror-filled face appeared before him once more. He shook his head in an effort to somehow physically banish the torturous picture, but to no avail. His hands moved to cover his ears in a futile attempt to block her frightened, anguished plea as it echoed in his head. "No, Nick! Please! How can you betray me like this?"
Even as he tried to halt it, the replay of the dream continued. His inability to stop himself. The feel of his fangs as they penetrated her tender flesh. The heavenly warmth of sensation that assaulted his body as her life flowed into him. God help him...it had all been so unbearably real.
His immortal body's need took precedence over anything else at that moment, and he went to the refrigerator to find relief, the accomplishment of the early morning forgotten as the necessity for control took charge. Blood was the only thing that would restore it to him, and he downed half a bottle without a second thought. Its soothing effect took only a moment to spread through him as he quickly felt a steadying calm seep into his troubled mind. He looked down at the bottle.
I'm sorry, Nat. Damn, he'd been saying that a lot lately. He finished the blood and threw the bottle in the trash. Noticing the dried, red sweat on his hand, he headed upstairs to get a shower and prepare for work.
Ready for his shift, but still with a little time before he had to leave, Nick descended the stairs and walked into the living room. Picking up the flute, he tried to think if he had any kind of a box he could put it in. A box? Hell, he didn't have the paper to wrap it in, much less a box. Elliot's birthday was tomorrow, so he would have to pick up a box, paper and a card tonight. He had an hour before he had to check in at the station. He should be able to make a quick stop and grab what he needed on the way without being late. He went to the table behind the couch and got the car keys out of their hiding place. As he turned toward the door, Nick felt the familiar vibration of 800 years. He turned around to find his master standing behind him.
The jumble of emotion LaCroix had sensed this morning still radiated from his son, but the intensity had decreased considerably. The strain of the conflict, however, showed on the younger vampire's face. The struggle was making its mark, and LaCroix cursed Nicholas' stubbornness. It was all so unnecessary, so futile. As the ancient immortal's eyes traveled over his creation, the wasted potential slapped him in the face. He hated waste, and this was waste in the most vile form. It angered him beyond measure to think how his son's power floundered under the restrictions placed upon it by the foolhardy quest. But as he stared at his beautiful offspring and remembered the growing indecision, LaCroix couldn't help but feel optimistic. Maybe, just maybe, the misguided search was coming to an end. A half smile tugged at his mouth. "Good evening, Nicholas. Have I come at a bad time?"
Detective Knight took a step toward his visitor. "Well...yes, actually. I was just headed out the door. Is there something you wanted, LaCroix?"
Lucien noted no hostility in the inquiry. There was no displeasure in the eyes that questioned him, no hardening of the handsome features. His son didn't appear to be upset by his visit, only inconvenienced by the timing. The truce Nicholas had silently declared some months ago pleased his master no end. The smile on the elder's face widened. "I brought you a little something." He held out a bottle of the Raven's special stock. "It's been a few weeks since the last time I supplied you with something drinkable, so I thought I'd drop off another bottle." LaCroix recalled the thrill at sensing, and later seeing, Nicholas' renewed furor for his vampire nature only weeks earlier. The cause had been nothing more than a silly mortal game, but it had had the most delightful influence on his son. At the time, Nicholas had accepted the offered blood, human blood, and relished every drop.
LaCroix watched the hesitation come into his creation's eyes. Nicholas' gaze fell from his master, to the bottle and back to LaCroix before he answered. "No. No, I don't need it. I don't want it."
He didn't sound very convincing, and the general couldn't help the little jab. "My dear Nicholas. You do need it, and I'm afraid you really don't know what you want."
Lucien felt his son's irritated reaction to the statement. He didn't want this meeting to go badly. It had been a mistake to push too hard. If he wasn't careful, he would undo all the good that had been done. As Nicholas opened his mouth to respond, LaCroix cut him off. "I apologize, Nicholas. I spoke out of turn." He walked over to the kitchen table and set the bottle down. "I'll just leave it here, and you can do with it as you please."
As he looked back at his child, he focused on the instrument in his hand. "Taking up the fife, Nicholas? I would have thought you had plenty to keep you busy already." He stopped and looked more closely at the flute. "Wait a moment. It looks familiar. It was around 1700, in London, was it not? The old man and his grandson. Ah...Philip and...Michael. Yes, that's right."
Nicholas followed his maker's gaze as he nodded. "It was a gift from Philip."
"For saving the boy's life." LaCroix finished the thought. "Yes, I remember. One of your good deeds." Distaste crept into his voice with the last words. He made an effort to remove it as he continued. "It's been almost 300 years, Nicholas. Reminiscing about the good old days?"
"No." He looked back at his creator. "I'm giving it to a friend for his birthday."
LaCroix saw, and felt, Nicholas' pleasure as he told him what he had planned for the flute. Giving the gift was making him happy. The positive feeling that radiated from Nicholas was a pleasant change, but it was for an inappropriate reason as far as LaCroix was concerned. He knew the recipient of the gift was the little mortal Nicholas had befriended several months back, and the bond between the two made Lucien uneasy. More than uneasy, he was displeased with the relationship, or perhaps jealous was a better word, although he didn't like to admit to such an irritating human emotion. He worked to keep the disdain out of his voice. "Ah...the little Simmons child." The look of surprise on his son's face brought a short laugh from LaCroix. "Oh come now, Nicholas. There aren't many things you can keep from me. You are well aware of that. I've known about the boy and his family almost from the beginning."
Distress and concern pushed the satisfaction from the detective's expression. His features became stern with conviction as he took another step toward his immortal father. "Leave them alone, LaCroix. I'm warning you. I won't stand for your interference."
The general did not take kindly to intimidation, and a menacing frown crossed his face as he heard the threat. But what bothered him more than the threat was the steadfast loyalty his son continued to feel toward mortals. He never could understand it, and he didn't think he ever would. They were inferior creatures that provided nourishment, nothing more. But Nicholas had never really seen them as such, and, so far, this was one aspect of his protege's view that had been unaffected by recent events. More's the pity. But the perfect light through which Nicholas saw the mortal world had been blinding him for so long that LaCroix doubted if it could ever be completely snuffed out, even if his offspring gave up his search and chose to accept his true nature. It was discouraging.
His frown dissolved as LaCroix tried to look past the anger the warning had evoked and set the record straight. "I have no intention of interfering in any way, Nicholas. If I had wanted to, I would have acted long before now. Neither Elliot nor his father and mother will suffer by my hand. You need have no fear of that." He meant every word he said. Oh, he'd thought about it to be sure, but had quickly dismissed the action as unnecessary and counter productive.
Nicholas appeared skeptical of his father's response at first, but after a few seconds, seemed to accept that his master's word was good. "Thank you." The relief was evident in his voice and face.
LaCroix toyed with the idea of pointing out to Nicholas the futility of his relationship with the Simmons family, but decided against saying anything. He had been privy to his son's thoughts and feelings on the matter already. Nicholas felt himself unworthy of the friendship, but was grateful for it nonetheless and continued to participate in it even as he chastised himself.
Stubborn, so stubborn. Hearing his master's opinion on the subject, of which LaCroix knew Nicholas was already well aware, would only serve to jeopardize their growing closeness. The Roman would do anything to keep that from happening.
Unworthy, indeed. LaCroix scoffed at the very idea. Truly absurd.
It was not Nicholas who was unworthy, but the mortals who were undeserving of the attention he insisted on showering upon them. They were not worth his son's attention or concern unless they were being sized up as a mealtime diversion. When would Nicholas learn? LaCroix had been asking himself that question for many years now, and, unfortunately, 'never' always seemed to be the answer.
The elder bit his tongue and smiled at his son's gratitude. It was nice to hear. "You're welcome, Nicholas. Now I think I'd better be on my way and let you be on yours." He looked sideways at the bottle of human blood sitting on the kitchen table and then back to his creation. "Take care of yourself, Nicholas." In the blink of an eye, he was gone.
Nick stared at the empty space where his master had stood. The knowledge that LaCroix knew of his relationship with Jacob and his family shouldn't have been a surprise, especially now. The blood he had received from his maker while in the hospital had strengthened greatly the connection between creator and creation. LaCroix was right. There wasn't much Nick could keep from him.
A relieved sigh left the detective as he turned back toward the door. The Roman would keep his word. Nick had nothing to worry about. He'd not only heard it from his father's lips, but he'd felt it through their bond. Elliot and his parents would be left alone.
As he walked by the kitchen area, Nick's eyes were drawn to the bottle sitting on the table. Stopping, he looked at it intently for several minutes, LaCroix's parting words running through his mind. 'Take care of yourself, Nicholas.'
Then, as if the bottle silently called to him, he slowly walked to the table. Picking up the blood, he held the cork under his nose. His eyes closed as the delicious scent of the bottle's contents sang along every nerve in his body. Again he heard LaCroix's words. 'Take care of yourself, Nicholas.'
Caught up in the exquisite experience the human blood was creating, Nick answered the statement with an unconscious, whispered "Yes." It was not until he felt the sharpness of his fangs on his bottom lip that he pulled himself back from the abyss. Another whisper came from him as he opened his eyes and pushed the vampire back into hiding. "No...no."
With a resigned determination, he took the bottle to the sink and pulled out the cork. But just as he started to pour the nectar down the drain, the evening's dream intruded. He couldn't control himself.
Nat. No. He had to control himself. He replaced the cork before any of the precious liquid had been lost.
'Take care of yourself, Nicholas.' He heard the words again.
Take care of Natalie, Nicholas. He adjusted LaCroix's advice as he put the bottle in the refrigerator.
He left to get his shopping done before his watch.
End Chapter 6