This starts in the last moments of "Last Knight," and assumes that readers know that episode.

Eve of All Saints
By Mary Combs

Chapter 1

Nick took Natalie's chill hand in his, closed his eyes, bowed his head and waited. Somewhere deep in his soul he struggled to shape a prayer, but the litany going through his mind was chiefly directed at her. "I'm coming, Nat. I'll keep my promise."

He waited.

And nothing happened.

"LaCroix..." he begged hoarsely, his head still bowed.

No answer.

He heard footsteps, agonizingly slow, heard the rustle of fabric as LaCroix walked around him and dropped to one knee. Nick lifted his head and, through eyes blurred with tears, peered into the old vampire's expressionless face.

Then his master reached out with his left hand and clasped the back of Nick's head, in precisely the same gesture he had used all those centuries ago when he had commanded the fledgling to his first kill.

Nick gasped at the shock of his touch, a hand of ice against his flesh. He felt the adrenaline rush, the energy surge like fire to his limbs, the roar of blood in his ears. They stared at each other in silence -- a silence thundering with the sound of Nick's heartbeat..

LaCroix spoke first. "So, Nicholas. You have found death." In one fluid motion, he stood, broke the walking stick in two and tossed it into the fireplace. "It is one thing to take back the gift of immortality. It is quite another to put a mortal out of his misery." He looked down at his erstwhile child. "I will leave you to it, then, this dying that you have longed for. For a while, at least. And in a few years, if you haven't destroyed yourself, I'll come back -- and we'll talk."

Nothing warm and living could have heard that icy, silken voice without shivering in reflex, and Nicholas de Brabant was now no exception. He felt the hair rise at the back of his neck.

"I'll finish this for you..." In a movement too swift for Nick to follow with mortal eyes, LaCroix bent down and, with one hand, snapped Natalie's neck as easily as if it were the stem of a flower. He turned back to Nick. "This must be dealt with. An automobile accident, I think. I will return in 15 minutes." He silenced Nick's protest with a hiss. "Either I provide Dr. Lambert with a suitable demise, or she disappears without a trace. It is your *choice,* Nicholas...." He made the word sound like an obscenity.

With a rush of air, he was gone.

Nick gathered the corpse of his true love into his arms "He's right Nat." he whispered into her temple, kissing her there as he had so often. "It isn't the same. I can't come to you yet." He kissed her gently on the lips, as he had so rarely. "Forgive me. Forgive me." He buried his face in her hair and wept.

Eve of All Saints
Chapter 2

He had been prepared to be crucified. To be nailed for the circumstances of Tracy's death by IA. To wake up in the middle of the night with an Enforcer at his throat. To be accused of Nat's murder -- the last an admittedly irrational fear, since LaCroix had arranged everything impeccably. A great tragedy, such a terrible accident, a sign blown down at a highway construction site so that the road seemed clear. A miracle only the one car went over the edge. Such a waste, she was so young....

Miracle was the wrong word, Nick thought bitterly as he accepted the sympathy of the few people who, like Reese, dared to get close enough to speak to him about anything except police business. It was a blessing however, not to be able to hear what was being whispered around him. The pity was hard enough to take as it was.

Time passed. Nothing happened. Nothing dramatic, that is. He moved mechanically through his days and nights, learning how to live as a mortal. Some things had been surprisingly easy, perhaps because he had been playing the role for so long. Other things.... Other things were not easy at all.

Sunlight, for one. In the end, his longing for the sun and its warmth had merged with his longing for her. Being able to stand in daylight without imploding made his life less complicated, but it gave him no joy. He had yearned to be able to be with other people, free of the perpetual temptation to feed. The siren call of their heartbeats was gone, but now everywhere he saw reminders of what he had lost, and what he had taken from her. Marriage, a home, children, growing old together.

And he had a serious problem with food.

He lost weight.

He lost a *lot* of weight.

After a while the jokes about his lean and lanky Jimmy Stewart look faded and were replaced with real concern. Reese threatened to put him on sick leave and send him to the psychologist.

Leave was the last thing he wanted. He had almost literally buried himself in his work. To stop would mean to think, to remember. As for seeing a psychologist... He laughed bitterly to himself, thinking of the nightmares that awaited any explorer of his soul.

In the end, it was Grace who saved him.

The Coroner's Office brought her back two months after Natalie's death. She took one look at Nick and made him her full-time project. With ruthless persistence, sheer force of goodwill and an occasional gentle arm-twisting (she was a strong woman in more ways than one) Grace forced him into the land of the living.

She began by never missing an opportunity to insist that he keep her company while she ate, even if she was brown-bagging it. Somehow, there was always enough for two. Nick would find himself distracted by some story about her family or friends or some juicy piece of gossip, and the next thing he knew they were cleaning up and he had eaten. He didn't always know *what* he had eaten, but whatever it was, he thrived on it.

After a while, he not only noticed what he was eating, he enjoyed it. . And slowly, so slowly, the impossible happened. He was building a new friendship. A very precious friendship, because she was the one person left who shared so many of his memories of Nat.

His memory was, to his horror, just as good as ever.

Eve of All Saints
Chapter 3

Nick stood on the balcony, looking down at the street below. The trees cast long shadows along the sidewalks. Soon it would be dark. Here and there, on porches and in windows, jack o'lanterns sprang to life. Across the street, two small ghouls attempted an early escape and were retrieved by their laughing mother. The wind carried her words to Nick. ".... dinner first, *then* trick or treat."

Hallowe'en. The Eve of All Saints. The night belonged to the children now, to the make-believe monsters of their fantasies. It was a topsy-turvy image of the real world, where monsters immortal and otherwise strolled the streets looking like ordinary people.

He had centuries of grim memories of this night, of horrors visited on humans by their own kind -- and his. But there were a few good memories as well: A precinct Hallowe'en party.... Natalie, holding onto his arm and laughing so hard that her "Bride of Frankenstein" hairdo threatened to topple over while Don Schanke, improbably dressed as the young Elvis, offered a surprisingly good rendition of "You Ain't Nothin' But a Hound Dog....."

Tomorrow was All Saints, the next day All Souls. Two nights and days to remember the dead. He wasn't sure he believed in Purgatory any more, but saints.... Well, he'd met one, hadn't he.

He closed his eyes and he was standing in the church where he had first met her. Joan's serenely defiant face swam before him in candlelight, then in flames. The blaze flared up and consumed her, and the flames died down to reveal a bombed-out building smoldering in the aftermath of an air raid.

London, more than 5 centuries later, and he was digging through rubble, helping rescue workers, straining his vampire senses for the sound of a heartbeat, a cry for help. Through the noise and confusion, a faint thread of absurdly cheerful music reached his ears -- a boy choir, gamely practicing a sentimental little children's hymn in the midst of hell.

"I sing a song of the saints of God, patient and brave and true...." The song went on, a bizarre counterpoint to the grim work in the street. LaCroix would enjoy the irony, Nicholas thought. It only made him feel terribly sad. "...and one was a doctor, and one was a priest, and one was slain by a fierce wild beast, and there's not any reason, no not the least, why I shouldn't be one too."

".... and one was slain by a fierce wild beast..."

The abyss opened up in his mind and he fought against it, clenching his hands around the railing before him. The vampire was gone, but his battle with darkness wasn't over.

He had never expected that mortality would wipe all his sins away, or end his sense of guilt. He had expected to continue to atone for his sins until the day of his death. It was Natalie who, all unknowing, had given him the courage to hope that some small happiness might be vouchsafed to him along with his penance.

Instead of the dream, his worst nightmare had come true. No, the second-worst. His mortality had been purchased at a price that increased the burden of guilt a thousand fold, that emptied the word "happiness" of all meaning.

The beast was gone. He was no longer a killer by nature. But the lust for blood had been replaced by temptations less melodramatic but no less dangerous. Despair beckoned him with open arms. It would be so easy. There were other comforts than the blood, other doors to oblivion.

"I'm not willing to live a life of endless pain," he had said to Natalie that night. Well, there would be an end. Someday. But not now. Not by his own hand. "God, help me," he whispered, as he wrestled with his new demons.

The despair wasn't the worst of it. The worst part was the anger.

He loosened his grip on the railing, winced, and looked ruefully at his left thumb. He pulled out the splinter and sucked at the wound, feeling with his tongue for any remnants of wood. Another injury to add to his collection from packing and moving. They were all minor -- paper cuts, bruises, scrapes and scratches. All signs of his humanity. But it made him feel like... what was the word? A klutz. If Natalie were here, she would tease him mercilessly, all the while bandaging his hurts as carefully as if they were mortal wounds. Mortal wounds....

He briefly closed his eyes against the darkness and felt.....something. A sound, a scent, a touch... he couldn't define it. It was ephemeral as a cobweb. He tried to focus his awareness....

An indisputably solid, warm and insistent presence made itself known around his ankles. Nick opened his eyes and smiled. "So there you are. I was afraid you'd decided to go back to the loft and bach it on your own. Have you got the moving-day blues too?" Sydney meowed as if in agreement. Nick bent down, scritched the big gray and white cat under the chin, and turned back into the bedroom. "C'mon, Syd," he called over his shoulder. "Grace will be here any minute, and we'd better be ready." Sydney followed at his own pace, wending his way through the piles of cardboard boxes, pausing occasionally to rub his head against a packing case, impressing his scent a little more thoroughly into his new domain.

Nick opened the front door to let Sydney out and found Grace standing there with her hand poised over the doorbell. They both burst out laughing. <'That's a good sign,' Grace thought.>

"Okay, I give up," Nick said, looking her up and down in mock dismay. "Is this from some movie I missed?" She was shrouded in a floral print cotton sheet, with a blue and white striped pillowcase draped over her head and a large shopping bag clutched in one hand.

Grace chuckled. "Of course not. But I'm certainly not going to show off my costume to every kid on the block. They want to see this, they are going to have to ring the doorbell!" She bustled into the house and disappeared down the hall.

Nick didn't bother to follow her. She knew the house better than he did.

She had found it for him.

The loft, she had said, was too grim, too far away from life, and his work was too close to the ugliest, darkest parts of it. "If you can't bring yourself to be with people, at least be where you can see them."

In his heart, he knew she was right. He admitted as much. And there was another reason to move. The memories were too painful. He was barely living at the loft anyway. In and out, to shower or grab a change of clothes. He avoided sleeping there at all costs... He caught himself before he said too much.

Grace nodded, understanding. He just didn't have the time or the energy to think about looking for another place. She offered to help, and when he confided that he had a small "legacy" to supplement his cop's salary, he saw a gleam in her eye that was normally reserved for a forensic challenge.

"This," she said. "is going to be fun."

Two weeks later she had driven him to this house. It was close to a century old, with deep porches and balconies and a wide yard shaded by tall trees, on a street lined with similar houses, all filled with people -- with families -- living their lives in relative peace.

The kind of house, the kind of life he had dreamed of sharing with Natalie.

They were early for the realtor, so Grace shooed him away, told him to walk around the neighborhood. "It's just as important as the house, Nick." So he had strolled along the sidewalks, exchanging a nod here and a "Good Morning," there, watching children at play and eavesdropping on life in general.

It was like water in the desert.

He retrieved a toy jettisoned by the occupant of a passing stroller and was amused by the depth of the mother's gratitude.

He obeyed an imperious summons from an elderly gentlemen with a pair of spectacles perched on his forehead, and was then treated to a lecture on how to take better care of the roses in his front yard. Obviously a case of mistaken identity.

And he apologized to a driver who stopped to ask for directions. "Sorry, I don't live around here....." <Yet.>

By the time he made it back to the house he was ready to move in, sight unseen. Grace caught the manic look in his eye and trod firmly on his foot before he could say a word. Under her severe gaze, Nick stifled a yelp, stepped through the front door and, limping slightly, into his future home....

"Nick, help!" There was as much urgency as laughter in Grace's voice, so he dropped the basket of candy on the floor by the front door and sprinted down the hallway to the studio, where he found her struggling with her bed-sheet cocoon.

She emerged not unlike a butterfly, a vision in rose and blue and glitter, her wings askew. She had removed the pillowcase to reveal an elaborate hairdo topped with a silver crown. A star-tipped wand rested on the nearest packing crate. Choking with laughter, Nick straightened her wings and presented the wand with a graceful bow he would have reserved for royalty in a previous century.

"Milady Fairy Godmother, I presume?"

She curtseyed in reply, then put her hands on her hips and eyed his elegant but somber outfit with a look of mild disapproval. "And just what are you supposed to be? The Shadow?"

He tried to think of something funny to say, and failed miserably. His smile faded and he shook his head. "I...I'm sorry Grace. I just couldn't..."

She reached out quickly and patted his cheek. "Never mind....." There was a sound of chimes. Nick bowed again and offered her his arm, and they proceeded to the door.

Three exhausting hours later, Nick decided that Halloween was great fun. He was already making plans for next year.

They had barely had time to close the door, much less sit down, as a steady stream of children flowed up the steps. A few parents followed at a discreet distance, smiling and waving at their new neighbor.

The fairy godmother was a tremendous hit, waving her wand with panache. Nick made a point of admiring all the costumes, with occasional whispered promptings from Grace. (He had a very hard time keeping all the super heroes straight.)

Nick's costume, or lack thereof, turned out to be no problem. The majority of their young visitors confidently identified him as Prince Charming, with James Bond coming in a close second.

Sydney observed the proceedings from the branch of an ancient cherry tree, enveloped in an aura of dignity. He knew from long experience that there was nothing resembling tuna in the small paper packages that filled the humans with such delight.

The stream slowed to a trickle and then stopped, and Nick and Grace retired to the studio, the one space in the house that was relatively free of boxes. It was a recent addition, a two-story-high space with vaulted ceiling and high arched windows. "I love this room," Nick said.

"I knew you would. The moment I saw this part of the house, I knew it was meant for you."

"I haven't painted in months, Grace."

"You'll know when you're ready." She eased off her shoes. "Now I know why fairy godmothers have wings," she said, wiggling her toes in relief. "Granting wishes is hard on the feet. Thanks.."

Nick handed her a steaming cup of cocoa and sat down on the sofa beside her. "I can't think of a costume that would suit you better," he chuckled softly. "Except maybe, an angel." He took a cautious sip from his own mug. He had a tendency to burn his tongue on the stuff. He felt suddenly shy. "Grace, I don't know how to thank you for this..."

"No need," she said, brandishing her wand. "I had a great time."

"I don't just mean tonight. I mean everything......" The sound of the door chimes echoed through the house.

"Saved by the bell...." Suddenly serious, she reached out and gently clasped his wrist. "You're welcome." She grinned at him. "Now let's go see who's at the door... Whoever it is, I hope they don't mind a fairy godmother in stocking feet."

It was a witch. A very small witch, perhaps 4 years old, holding the hand of a weary-looking young man with red hair. Her father, judging by the flaming curls that peeking out from the brim of her pointed hat.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I know it's late. But the other kids were raving about the fairy godmother, and she just wouldn't go to bed until she saw you for herself."

The little witch let go of his hand and addressed Grace with the poise of Queen Victoria. "You're the fairy godmother." Grace curtseyed and smiled graciously. The little witch turned to Nick. "You're the handsome prince." Nick bowed, trying to look dignified.

She peered into the hall beyond them. "Where's the princess?" She looked up at Grace. "Is she sleeping?"

"Yes, honey, she's sleeping," Grace said with a smile. She heard a sharp intake of breath from Nick. . The little witch didn't notice the stricken look on Grace's face. Her attention was focused on Nick. "Why don't you kiss her and wake her up?"

He knelt down, blinking back the tears and giving her the best smile he could muster. "She was very, very tired. She needed a good rest."

"So you'll kiss her in the morning." He nodded, unable to speak.

"And you'll live happily ever after." She yawned and held her arms up imperiously to her father. He scooped her up and carried her down the steps, whispering "Thank you!"

Nick slowly shut the door behind them and leaned his forehead against it, breathing deeply. He felt Grace's hand on his arm. "Are you okay?" He nodded, shrugged his shoulders and smiled faintly at her. <'It's enough to break your heart,' she thought.> "Would you like me to stay for a while?"

He shook his head. "No, thanks. It's late. You have to work tomorrow....And I have to learn to live with this."

He helped her gather her things together and carried them out to the car. She gave him a hug and a kiss on the cheek, and drove off into the quiet night. Nick stood in the yard, staring at the stars glittering through the tree branches, a silent figure in black with the moonlight glinting on his hair. Somewhere, a clock struck 10. He turned and walked slowly into the house and went to bed.

For the first time in months, sleep came easily....

A sudden gust of wind blew through the balcony's open door, scooting a few dry autumn leaves into a pool of moonlight on the floor.

Sydney uncurled himself from his place next to Nick, stretched luxuriously and walked to the end of the bed. Nose twitching avidly, he scented the air above him. He arched his back and turned, and arched and turned again, meowing softly. Then he tilted his head to one side, closed his eyes and stretched out his chin, purring. He twisted his head to the other side and slowly settled down to a comfortable crouch, his purring growing louder and louder as the fur on his back rippled at the touch of an invisible hand.

Eve of All Saints
Chapter 4

A year passed. Nick found it surprisingly easy, settling into his new life, getting to know his neighbors and, cautiously, letting them know him. He was building a past for himself that was more detailed than any he had tried to maintain before. He was careful not to toss around too many verifiable facts, but he found himself more and more recasting a memory or an experience from his past, the better to hold up his end in conversation. He was now often grateful that the vampire's legacy included a near-perfect memory.

It turned out that Mr. Symington, the rose expert, was originally from England, and the two spent many hours reminiscing about London in mid-century. Of course, Mr. Symington thought that Nick was sharing the recollections of a favorite uncle. He turned out to have a knack with children. All the kids in the neighborhood, and a lot of their friends, knew Nick's place. A few considered it a second home, among them the little witch, whose name turned out to be Margaret Mary O'Brien.

He took their problems seriously and was often employed as an arbiter in arcane disputes and as a source of first aid. By some mysterious process, his yard became a safe haven, a sanctuary when a game got too rough. The Highlander contingent pronounced it "Holy Ground."

He spent Thanksgiving with Myra and Jenny Schanke.

On Christmas morning, he went to church and stood in a congregation for the first time in 769 years.

In February, he had the measles and was utterly miserable.

In March, he took a week off and went to Vancouver and got himself immunized for everything. His reaction to the tetanus shot was almost as bad as the measles.

In April, he surrendered his back yard to Kathleen O'Brien (Margaret Mary's mother) for an Easter Egg hunt.

In May, he bought a new lawnmower, with three guys from the block along as back-up.

On Victoria Day, he got a black eye playing softball.

In June, he took sailing lessons.

In July, he bought a boat.

He dreamed of her every night.

He still couldn't paint.

And work was hard. Work was very hard indeed.

There was nothing he could put his finger on. No specific problem he could take to Reese.

At first he thought it was part of his grief for Natalie. He had even taken the astonishing (for him) step of talking to a counselor about it. The experience had been intensely frustrating, since he could not even begin to tell the woman the truth. Still, he had learned something from it, just as he had learned from going undercover in the 12-step program.

After a while, he accepted the fact that he could be a good cop even without the vampire.

He made a point of reminding himself constantly that he was neither as fast nor as strong as he had been, although he was in fact a match for many "younger" men. Physically, the vampire had left him very much as it had found him. By 20th century standards, he was in fantastic shape. Not that he would stay that way if he didn't do something about it. So he'd started working out. He tried running, but didn't like it. It reminded him too much of the hunt.

There were one or two close calls. Nothing that anyone else would notice. Only he knew how near he'd come to risking too much, stepping into a danger that any mortal man would avoid, pushing negotiations with a perp just a bit too far, as if he could force the man to obey....

It wasn't perfect. He wasn't perfect. This was his life. He lived it. He battled his demons in secret. Time passed.

And it was Hallowe'en again.

Grace showed up in her fairy godmother costume, with a few extra frills and furbelows. "Back by popular demand," she laughed. Kids had been asking Nick for weeks if she would be returning, and he had promised faithfully, keeping his fingers crossed that no emergency at the Coroner's Office would keep her away.

"You've been busy." She surveyed the house, which was festooned with artificial cobwebs. Jack o'lanterns grinned from every window, and a large spider made out of trash bags crouched on the porch roof, eyes glowing green.

"Lets hope the batteries don't run out," Nick chuckled.

It was even more fun this time. This time he knew the names and faces of many of the people who came to the door, although he carefully maintained the fiction of not being able to recognize any child who was deeply disguised.

He still couldn't manage the idea of getting dressed up in anything except basic black, but as before, the kids had no problem identifying his "costume." This year, Prince Charming took a narrow second to Luke Skywalker, Jedi Knight.

The 6 O'Briens approached en masse, Mac keeping a discreet paternal distance behind an assortment of characters from the Wizard of Oz. Nick tried desperately to keep a straight face as Margaret Mary, a diminutive vision in pink, marched up the steps and planted herself at the head of the line.

"I am Glinda the Good Witch of the North."

"Very pleased to make your acquaintance," Nick gave her his best court bow and held out the basket of candy. She scrutinized his offering and made her selection, then stepped regally to one side and indicated that her older brothers and sisters could now proceed. In the melee that followed as the quintuplets debated the relative merits of Mounds and Almond Joy, she disappeared into the house.

Fortunately, her father saw her go. "It's all right," Nick said. "She probably went to use the bathroom. Or to see if I've started a picture yet. She's merciless."

Mac, who was having major writer's block on the penultimate chapter of his latest novel, nodded in sympathy. "Muse still giving you the cold shoulder?" Nick nodded.

"Well, I've got a suggestion. Sometimes, when I'm stuck, I try working at another kind of writing. Anything to keep the juices flowing. So Kathy and I were talking and we were wondering....would you be willing to paint Margaret Mary's portrait? I mean, as a commission, of course."

Nick thought about it for a moment, then smiled and nodded. "Yes, I'd like that. But I want to make it a present." He stopped Mac's protest with a look. "I mean it."

"Okay. Thanks. Now where is my good little witch? Margaret Mary?" He called down the hallway.

Her voice came from the studio. "I 'm here."

"It's time to go, sweetheart. We have to catch up to the rest of them."

"I'm talking to the princess."

Nick and Grace looked bewildered, but Mac seemed to take the statement at face value.

"Well, say goodbye to her and come along," he called, then turned to whisper to the other adults. "I can't very well complain about her having too much imagination. That's how I started, and look at me," he chuckled. "The princess is new. Maybe she can give me a few tips on my plot line."

Margaret Mary emerged from the house humming to herself. She turned and smiled up at Nick. "I'm glad you woke her up. She's nice." She took her father's hand and headed next door.

Grace started to say something, but was interrupted by a small flock of Xenas of various sizes and shapes, all requiring recognition and candy. Nick left her to it.

He walked slowly to the back of the house. The studio was quite empty and silent, except for the faint susurration of the wind against the windows. There was a small, warm depression in the sofa where Margaret Mary had been sitting.

And there was something else... a familiar fragrance.......

Nick's beeper shrieked madly and every phone in the house began to ring.

Eve of All Saints
Chapter 5

"Sorry, Grace. Are you sure you don't mind staying?"

"No problem Nick. Go on ahead. I hope it's not too bad." A futile hope, they both knew. Any situation that had Reese calling Nick back from a weekend's leave was not good......

He could see the flashers lighting up the sky long before he reached the scene. It looked as if every police car, fire engine and ambulance in the city had been called in. He picked his way through the maze of vehicles and found Reese staring at a pile of twisted metal that had once been some kind of station wagon and shaking his head. Behind the station wagon stretched a nightmarish pileup of cars, one of them burnt out.

"Cap?"

"Nick." He nodded toward the wreckage. "We have a hostage situation. It started with a car jacking turned kidnapping. Two punks, higher than kites. The woman wouldn't leave the car without her three kids. Someone saw what was going on and phoned it in. The chase led here." He took a deep breath. "They plowed through the intersection, broadsided this car. It set off a chain reaction. People driving in the oncoming lane got out of their cars to help and.... the bastards ran them down."

He closed his eyes and shook his head. "We've got them cornered at the next intersection. There's no way out. As far as we can tell, one of them is hurt or dead. We think two of the kids are badly hurt, too. The other creep has the mother and the baby at gun point."

Reese looked at him, "Thing is, Nick, he won't talk to anyone but you."

"Me? Do I know him?"

"Name's Fred Thompson. You and Don Schanke busted him as an accessory 4 years ago."

Nick nodded. "The convenience store robberies. They killed the clerks, even when they cooperated. Schank had to shoot his partner.... it turned out to be his kid brother."

"But you managed to get this guy to give up his gun and surrender." Nick nodded, wondering what Reese would think if he knew that he owed the collar to his vampire's power of hypnosis, not any special negotiating skills.

Reese took him by the arm. "I've got to be honest with you Nick. Maybe the psychologist is right. Maybe this guy asked for you because he's hoping you can talk him down now, show him a way out. But maybe..."

"Maybe he thinks he has a chance for revenge. A chance to take me with him."

"Yeah."

"Well, there's only one way to find out." They walked down the shoulder toward the floodlights.....

...It wasn't working. If Fred Thompson's subconscious had ever been subtle enough to see Nick Knight as a means of escape, panic, pain and the effect of whatever drug was running through his body had erased that scenario.

In the space of an hour, Nick had managed to make his way close enough to the battered van to determine two things. One, Thompson's partner was most definitely dead. The view through the shattered windshield made that absolutely clear. Two, the surviving half of the team was losing it. Fast.

Nick's attempts to persuade Thompson to take him hostage instead had fallen on deaf ears. The man was enjoying himself. Crouched on the asphalt, his back to the van, he would occasionally turn to the terrified woman kneeling in front of him and whisper something in her ear, running the muzzle of his gun along the edge of her face in a hideous caress or pointing it at the head of the toddler clasped in her arms.

There was no way to get a clear shot as long as he was so close to them..

So Nick tried to turn the man's attention entirely to him. He reminded Thompson yet again of the past. Talked about his brother, trying to fuel his anger. Anything to get him to point the gun at Nick and away from the hostages.

Somehow, he pressed the right button, and Thompson launched into a bitter and obscene tirade about injustice and revenge. He sprang to his feet and brandished the gun at the unseen crowd of police, swinging back again and again to put Nick in his sights. Meanwhile, Nick edged slightly closer each time Thompson turned away. He waited for his moment, and hoped Reese and his people were doing the same.

The moment came. Nick lunged for the gun -- and knew instantly that he had misjudged the distance and his own speed.

"No." The word was the faintest of whispers, a sigh of warm breath on his right cheek. He felt a light blow, as if someone had punched him, gently but firmly, in the middle of his chest. It was just enough to throw him off balance.

It saved his life.

Everything happened in slow motion. He felt the searing thud of each bullet as it entered his body -- one, two, three, four. He fell sideways toward the pavement and saw the back of Fred Thompson's head explode away in a vivid burst of red, like an obscene aureole. He heard a woman's voice sobbing, "Oh God, thank you, thank you." and the world faded away......

He woke to the faint beeping of monitors and the prospect of his lower body, firmly trussed up in what appeared to be a combination of bandaging and the superstructure of the Brooklyn Bridge. His left arm was immobilized for the IV, but seemed to be working properly otherwise. He slowly raised his right hand and flexed the fingers. There was a dressing across the palm.

His mouth was dry and tasted of blood.

A woman's light footsteps came down the hall and he suddenly flashed on the memory of Natalie, standing by his hospital bed the night he was shot in the head. Confused, he looked at the figure silhouetted in the doorway. "Nat?" he whispered.

"No, detective, it's Nancy Martin. I'm the night nurse. I came to see if you were awake. I know it's against the rules but....." her voice went oddly flat "... you have a visitor." She stepped back into the hall and a tall figure in black entered the room.

Nick sighed. Somehow, he was not surprised. "I thought you said 'a few years,' LaCroix. Eternity must have warped your sense of time. It's not even two yet."

"I could hardly miss the opportunity, Nicholas. Surely this little object lesson in the precarious nature of your present existence has had an effect?"

He fought back the anger, the irrational desire to throttle the vampire or goad it into rage. As if he could have any effect on that infuriating, icy self-control.

"My, my. This is promising. I heard mortality had made you unbearably sentimental. This rage is most becoming. And you know what they say about hate...."

He bent and whispered into Nick's ear. "Come back to me...."

To his horror, he was tempted. He would not have believed it. Somewhere, some unfathomable part of him was still willing to consider the offer.

He closed his eyes and drew on his small but growing arsenal of mental tools to dismiss LaCroix' presence from his awareness and focus on fighting back the darkness. Gradually, he felt the fury subside. He opened his eyes and saw LaCroix observing him with displeasure. "I don't need your permission, Nicholas."

"If you try it, I won't come back. I'll step through the door."

"Step through to what? To the waiting arms of your *beloved*? To judgment? Or to oblivion?" Nick looked away and said nothing. "Still the foolish, brave crusader then, still clinging to illusions..... Don't you dare to tell me that you are not afraid," he hissed.

"Yes, I'm afraid." Nick said evenly. "Almost everybody is. It's part of being human. It's how we live with the fear that matters."

LaCroix smiled and took Nick's right hand in a grip like iron. "My will is strong enough to bring you back. After all, you did it to Janette."

The blow hit home and left him with nothing to say. There were times when he believed that, despite the hundreds of thousands of deaths to his account, including Natalie's, betraying Janette was in fact his worst sin. Whether it had in fact been the sheer force of his own strength that had brought her back across against her will or whether he had stirred some remnant of darkness in her that was more powerful than her denial, mattered not.

He kept his voice unemotional, his face expressionless. "I can't stop you from trying."

LaCroix stood silent and unmoving for several minutes, eyes locked with his one-time child's. Then he sighed and raised his eyebrows slightly, and let go of Nick's hand. "Very well. Tonight is not the night."

He started to leave, then turned back with a faint, ironic smile. "Perhaps we should make this a tradition, Nicholas. An annual event, in honor of.... well, so many things. Yes, I like that idea very much. It will give you something to look forward to. Until next year, then."

Nick wiped the burning tears from his eyes with the back of his hand, turned his head into the pillow and willed himself to sleep.

Something was tickling his nose. He opened his eyes and saw a pair of sparkling gold stars, slightly out of focus. They moved away from his face and merged into one. "Hi Grace," he chuckled, then bit his lip against a jab of pain. "I see you left the wings at home."

"Yeah. I'm undercover." she said, flourishing the wand. She was wearing street clothes, but she'd slipped on her fairy godmother's crown. "How are you doing?"

"I bet you know more about that than I do...." He raised an eyebrow at her attempts to look innocent. "Grace, your network of contacts in this city makes the CIA look like the Little Rascals."

"All right. You got me," she smiled gently. "But I wouldn't say I know *more* than you do."

There wasn't, in fact, a lot to know. Multiple bullet wounds. Severe trauma to muscle and bone. There would be surgery and physical therapy and more surgery. He was young and in excellent condition and it was not unreasonable to expect a significant recovery.... It was all a way of saying that they had no certain answers.

"I do know it will be a while before you can come back to work."

"I'm not coming back, Grace. I've resigned."

"Nick, it's too early to decide something like that. It takes months..."

"It wouldn't be fair. Not to Reese, not to anyone in the department. I know I won't be back, even if they promise to have me ready for the Olympics." He shook his head and gestured at his bandages. "It isn't just this. I've been thinking about it for a long time. Call it burnout if you like. Nat and I talked about it once -- a cop who loses his focus is a danger to himself and those around him. I've lost my edge, Grace. At least for this."

She nodded, understanding at last. "Do you know what you're going to do?"

"Actually, I was thinking of going into your line of work."

"You want to become a pathologist?" she asked, bewildered.

"No." He reached out and took her magic wand. "How do you think I'd do as a fairy godfather?"

Eve of All Saints
Chapter 6

New York City, Oct. 31, 2046.

Lucien LaCroix stood across the street from the townhouse, waiting for the departure of a few goblins clustered at the entry, shadowed by their parents.

The modest brass plaque beside the front door said simply, "de Brabant." As far as passersby were concerned, if they concerned themselves at all, it could have named a law firm, a think tank, the chancery of some unfamiliar foreign country, an historical landmark -- or that rare being, an individual wealthy enough to own a townhouse in Manhattan.

Built at the turn of the 20th century by a robber baron blessed with taste as well as money, the house was a masterpiece of stone work, contriving to be graceful and massive at the same time. A large, cheerful jack o'lantern perched in a second story window peered through the elaborate iron railing, inviting trick-or-treaters.

The children left. He considered his options, then decided to take the conventional route -- the front door. The house reminded him of days long gone, and he was feeling a wave of nostalgia. He would not have admitted it, and would in fact have throttled anyone who dared to suggest it.

If there had been anyone with him to suggest it. If he had not been alone.

The young man who answered the door was a far cry from the butlers of old. He was dressed in perfect neo-preppy, right down to a pair of retro spectacles. The lenses were undoubtedly plain glass, the latest defiant fashion statement in a world where contact lenses or surgery could correct any vision problem. He held a large bowl of candy in one hand and only just managed to keep from thrusting it into LaCroix's solar plexis. He quickly wiped the grin from his face and recovered his poise.

"Good evening, sir. Please come in. He's expecting you."

One of the few things that LaCroix approved of in the present age was the resurgence of more formal manners. He preferred his civilization well-veneered -- however depraved the heart of things might be.

The house was as handsome inside as out, with fine woodwork, high ceilings, and remarkably beautiful windows. Unlike many of his contemporaries, the architect had used stained glass with a sparing hand, giving the place an extraordinary sense of light and air.

The foyer was simply furnished with a few antiques and some oil paintings from the period. The offices to the right of the foyer were shut and locked. No one looking at those paneled doors would guess that this was the heart of the most extensive charitable operation in the world.

"Please go up." The young man gestured to the elevator.

"Thank you... Mark, isn't it? I'll take the stairs." He walked slowly up to the second floor. There was no reason to hurry. He had all the time in the world.

The second floor landing opened into a broad hallway that stretched to his left for the width of the building. The walls here were covered with a mix of artwork that could only be called "eclectic."

There were a few extremely fine and valuable paintings spanning several centuries.

There was a smattering of Nick's own work -- sketches, watercolors, oils and line drawings. An oil sketch of a little girl with curly red hair. Landscapes from the four corners of the globe.

There were cheerful children's drawings in crayon and poster paint, carefully framed, most with painstakingly printed messages, in a score of different languages. Several featured a figure with a round smiley face topped with curly blond -- or in the more recent ones, white -- hair.

There were photographs and 3D cubes. Like the drawings, a rainbow of children from every conceivable part of the globe. Kids in front of houses; in fields, hospital beds and schoolrooms. Kids waving from palm trees, knee-deep in jungle streams and snowfields, squinting into desert suns, perched on mountainsides. Kids with families and friends, doctors and nurses, teachers and favorite animals. Some were carefully posed portraits, others were candid snapshots.

All the pictures with Nick in them fell into the latter category.

Nick in a wheelchair, being pushed up a ramp to the old house in Toronto by a mob of laughing red-haired children.

Nick dozing on a beach somewhere in Southeast Asia, about to be doused with a pailful of water by a trio of giggling boys.

Nick, in a wheelchair, dressed in white tie and an opera cape, sitting on the porch of the house in Toronto, a jack o'lantern at his feet, a large dark-skinned woman with a beautiful smile, dressed in sparkling gold and blue, to his left, and a small red-haired girl in a glittery pink dress that was a bit too small for her to his right. The ladies wore crowns and all three were wielding star-tipped wands.

Nick on a stepladder, hanging Christmas lights.

Nick backstage at an amateur theater, dressed as Cyrano, gently trying to wrest his nose from the grip of a fascinated toddler.

Nick in the morgue at the Toronto coroner's office, pretending to struggle under the weight of a huge birthday cake bearing the message "Happy 50th Birthday Grace" while getting a hug from the recipient.

Nick, in a wheelchair again, at a university commencement, applauding five red-haired men and women dressed in black robes, all mugging for the camera and apparently trying to toss their baccalaureate caps into his lap. Nick on crutches, consulting with builders at a site somewhere in the Indian subcontinent.

Nick dancing with a beautiful red-haired bride, clearly the little girl in the pink costume, all grown up.

Nick, beaming at a solemn baby in a christening dress, this one signed "To the one and only Godfather, with love, Margaret Mary, John and Nicholas." There were several variations of this scene, Nick at different ages with different babies.

LaCroix passed the open bedroom door and looked in. The room was unchanged since last year. White and gray and pale blue, complimenting the stonework of the window and, coincidentally, the fur of the large gray and white cat curled up on the bed. Raising his head, Sydney VI briefly surveyed LaCroix over his shoulder with regal indifference and went back to sleep.

LaCroix averted his gaze from the ancient cross of bound branches hanging on the wall facing him and looked instead at the large oil painting on the wall facing the bed. The composition was reminiscent of an old Maxfield Parrish fairy tale illustration, but the execution was bolder, the colors more vibrant, the effect of intense immediacy rather than ethereal distance.

The far background, seen through high-arching windows, was a night sky -- blue, not black -- brilliant with stars and a sliver of moon. Yet despite the setting, the painting was full of light. On a long, low couch draped with green flowered brocade, a woman and a very little girl were engaged in earnest conversation. The child, her hair a mass of fiery curls, sat with her feet tucked up under the skirts of her frothy pink dress, leaning on the back of the sofa. On the floor beside her, forgotten, lay a crystalline crown and a star-tipped wand.

The woman mirrored the child's pose, so that their fingertips seemed only a hairsbreadth apart. The folds of her long, brilliant blue gown flowed over the edge of the couch and pooled on the floor. She was the source of the light in the picture, as if the unseen dawn were waiting inside her, lighting up her smile, her deep blue eyes and the honey-colored hair cascading over her shoulders. LaCroix bowed wryly toward the painting. "Good evening, Doctor."

He continued down the hall to the office.

LaCroix stepped into the room at the end of the hallway. He was greeted by the familiar scents of wood smoke, leather, old books -- and Nicholas.

To his right, a row of floor-to-ceiling windows opened on to an ironwork balcony overlooking the rose garden, long-since faded into its winter's rest. To his left, a pair of wing chairs and a table carrying a chess set were placed in front of the fireplace. The room was lined with bookcases, the walls covered with more photos and children's drawings.

Directly ahead, behind a large cherry desk, Nicholas sat with his back to the door, talking either into the telephone or to a computer. Something about babies and immunization. LaCroix cleared his throat. Nick swiveled in his chair, beckoned and spoke into the phone. "Srini, I have to go, I have company..... No," his eyes twinkled for a moment, "it's family."

"Nicholas, when will you learn?" LaCroix asked with a well-practiced, world-weary sigh. "Save them in the cradle and they'll only die from something else later.. or kill each other... or worse." It was an old habit, baiting Nicholas, and old habits die hard.

"Good evening to you, too, LaCroix." Nick said mildly.

It had been many long years since the old vampire had been able to get a rise out of his former protégé.

In fact, he didn't want to. In a moment of crystalline lucidity, LaCroix admitted to himself that he no longer came here to shatter Nicholas' illusions. Like a wanderer drawn to a fire in the cold desert night, he came here to bask in the warmth of his spirit.

<'Has it always been this, from the beginning?' he thought. He had spent a dozen lifetimes trying to snuff out the light in Nicholas' soul. Had it all been a lie? Had he been trying to destroy the very thing that he loved most?>

Nick rose to greet his old friend, smiling. And Lucien LaCroix had to use every ounce of control to keep his customary mask in place, as that smile touched the heart he claimed not to have.

In many ways, the years had been kind to Nicholas. The hair was white instead of gold, but still thick -- and unruly. The blue eyes were still clear and the smile bright. The face had borne the passage of time well, and the voice was still vibrant for a man whose body was somewhere in its eighth decade of mortal life.

Yes, the years had been kind -- to Nicholas' face. His body was something else again. The arthritis he had battled for so long had accelerated drastically in the past year. There simply were limits to what medicine could do, particularly when the spine was involved. The last time LaCroix had seen him, he had walked with a slight limp. Now his once-tall frame was stooped and bent, and LaCroix did not need the bond of a sire to feel the tremors of pain that pulsed through him as he made his slow progress to the fireside.

Nick eased himself into a chair with a sigh, leaning his cane against the table beside him.

And they settled into the familiar pattern of chess and conversation.

LaCroix had kept his promise. Every year, without fail, no matter where Nick was, in Chicago or Calcutta or camped on a mountainside in Wyoming, the old demon had appeared promptly an hour after sunset on the Eve of All Saints.

The first visits had been short and acrimonious, always ending in bitter words and, on one occasion, bruises that Nick carried for several weeks afterward.

After a few years, Nick had taken refuge in a studied courtesy as a way to keep the meetings from degenerating into conflict. LaCroix had matched his tone, and for awhile all was, if not well, at least relatively peaceful.

Then, somewhere along the way, it had changed. Nick had changed. LaCroix had... No, he would not admit to that. Despite his supposedly perfect vampire's memory, LaCroix was never able to look back and see exactly when it had happened, but he realized one day that Nicholas' anger was gone.

At first he had found the serenity annoying, and had resigned himself to wait for the old conflict to return. But it had never resurfaced. And he, the cynical, expert student of human behavior, had been incapable of analyzing the situation. The truth was that he did not want to know the reason. He only wanted to enjoy the results.

And now he would have to face the consequences of letting his cold heart be warmed by this man.

"You're in pain, Nicholas."

"Yes."

"Constantly...... And not just from the arthritis."

Nick gave him a sharp look, then nodded and smiled and tapped his nose. "I forgot about that."

LaCroix had smelled it the moment he entered the room. Faint, musty, like moldering roses. "I can put an end to that."

"Would you care to be more precise?"

"I can bring you back across, give you a new life."

Nick smiled at the familiar ritual. LaCroix knew the answer, but he would never, ever stop asking the question. He shook his head "No."

LaCroix looked at his son's serene face. "Or... I can *end* it."

Nick was honestly surprised. "You're offering to kill me? Why now? Why .... 'put a mortal out of his misery'?"

"That was only the second choice."

"You know I won't accept the first."

LaCroix sat staring into the fire, in silence.

"You haven't answered my question," Nick said gently.

"I'm not sure I know the answer. Perhaps a passing wave of altruism." LaCroix waved a hand disdainfully. "It's of no matter."

"I can't complain, LaCroix," Nick said, as if trying to reassure him. "I've had my 'three score years and ten' several times over. I'm lucky. I can still get around and look after myself reasonably well -- with a little help from Mark. God willing, that will be true almost until the end."

They finished the first game and started another in companionable silence punctuated by some light verbal sparring and Nick's mild laughter.

LaCroix attempted a complicated gambit calculated to frustrate one's opponent and throw him off guard. It failed. "What *does* it take to get a rise out of you?" he asked.

"Whatever it is, you'll have to do better than that," Nick chuckled. "Checkmate."

LaCroix tipped over his queen and rose to wander around the room, observing, commenting and asking questions, which Nicholas answered with enthusiasm or amusement as warranted.

On the desk there was a beautiful faceted crystal paperweight. In its heart floated a delicately sculptured golden sun. LaCroix picked it up, turning it so the firelight caught the points of the sun. With considerable effort, he kept his voice even. "And how is Janette?"

"She's well. She's moving back to the Paris office. It's been long enough. She's trying to decide whether to be the granddaughter or great-niece of 'Janette du Charme.'"

LaCroix balanced the paperweight in his hand and remembered.....

Paris, France, 2011

His meeting with Janette had been the purest coincidence. He'd stepped into a small antique store on the Left Bank, attracted by the display of Roman antiquities in the window. Remarkably, all but one of the objects was authentic. And there she was, discussing the relative merits of three paperweights with the shop owner, who was clearly smitten.

She was still exquisite. She was still a vampire. He had not expected to find it otherwise.

They had greeted each other formally, like the old Parisians they were, and as he took her hand in his and bowed over it, he felt the echo of Nicholas in her aura.

"Your timing is impeccable, as always, Lucien. You can help me decide on Nicholas' Christmas present."

She had caught him completely off balance, and the mask slipped. He stared at her in astonishment, then with a Herculean effort, composed himself. "Nicholas? My dear, you amaze me. Are you two speaking again?"

She shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly and nodded.

"I must confess to some surprise, Janette. I assumed you would still be contemplating some suitable revenge."

"La meilleure revanche, c'est la revanche," she whispered, her eyes focused on another time and place. "I thought of it." She looked up at him. "That's why I left without a word."

"And now all is well between the two of you? I'm fascinated. What miracle of diplomacy is responsible for this? Or, rather, What price did you exact for reconciliation?"

An enigmatic smile curved her lips as she looked down at the paperweight in her hand, at the golden sun floating in its depths, and shook her head. "That is between Nicholas and me and....." She fell silent

"And whom?"

She looked at him evenly, still smiling faintly. "Someone else." Before he could make a suitable retort, she put her hand on his arm. "Let us not quarrel. Come have a drink with me. I know a charming little bistro around the corner. A truly fine cellar."

She turned to the elderly shop keeper, who had been oblivious to the conversation, content to stare dreamily at her. She smiled. "I shall take this one, M'sieur Girard. As always, you have been most kind. Please have it delivered to this address." She opened a silver card case and gave him her card.

"May I?" LaCroix reached out, but did not take the case from her hand. She smiled and slipped out a card. He read it with exaggerated care.

Janette du Charme
Vice President
Brabant Foundation
11 Rue des Chevaliers
Paris, France

"So, in the end, he's infected you after all."

She smiled warmly -- like a flash of sunlight through ice -- and put away the card case, elegance in every motion. "Yes. And I shall die of it one day. God willing."

LaCroix made a faint noise indicating disgust.

"Are you quite sure you are immune?" she was mocking him, but tenderly. "Don't glower like that, Lucien. We have witnesses." She gave him her most charming smile and tilted her head toward the shopkeeper, who was still staring at her dreamily.

"My dear," he sighed and kissed her hand. "this fellow wouldn't notice if I were to grow as many heads as the Hydra."

"You're probably right. But please don't do it."

They left, arm in arm, and spent a pleasant hour over a truly delicious (though undoubtedly donated) vintage. LaCroix kissed her hand, and watched her as she walked off through the lamplight.

He felt as if the universe had tilted infinitesimally on its axis.

LaCroix returned the paperweight to its place on the desk and returned to his seat by the fire. The conversation turned to human foibles in general, notably the Neo-Spiritualist movement. Nick was full of pity, LaCroix of scorn.

"The last time this happened, Nicholas, they at least had an excuse -- the so-called Great War. But this is not a matter of families seeking spurious comfort for the loss of a generation of young men. These are....." and LaCroix went on to express his contempt for the naive susceptibility of mortals. Nick listened to the tirade with a faint smile on his face.

"Fake mediums aside, then, you don't believe in ghosts at all, LaCroix?"

"I dismiss the question as irrelevant. What has a wraith, a wisp of smoke, to do with true immortality? If there are such things, they require the susceptibility of a weak mind in order to be seen. I have dispatched countless thousands to Hades, Nicholas, and *I* have never been haunted."

Nick was silent for a moment. "There is a theory that we are the wraiths, and all this supposedly solid matter around us ephemeral as fog," he mused. "Does a 'ghost' -- for want of a better word -- pass through a wall because it is 'merely spirit,' or because to it the wall is as insubstantial as air?"

LaCroix was silent, staring into the fire, his mask impenetrable. Nick smiled at him. "Sooner or later, I'll have an opportunity to test the theory."

"My offer still stands."

Nick smiled again and shook his head.

"Very well, but I will miss this annual rendezvous.... I am always interested in new experiences, Nicholas. Perhaps, when the time comes, you will do me the courtesy of haunting me." Nick burst out laughing. LaCroix looked at him with a raised eyebrow. "I intended the remark to be amusing, but this is somewhat excessive."

Nick wiped his eyes. "Sorry. It's... a private joke. And a long, long story."

"We'll save it for next year then. I must be going soon."

Nick looked at him, eyes twinkling. "LaCroix," he said softly. "If you really want it, and assuming I have some say in the matter, I will be honored to haunt you. Would you prefer a surprise visit, or shall we pencil it into your schedule now?"

"I see no reason to change the present arrangement. Of course, our positions would be reversed. You would have to come to me."

"Very well. It's agreed. Hallowe'en does seem to be the traditional night for such things." For some reason, Nicholas was finding the whole idea tremendously amusing.

LaCroix, on the other hand, was only half-joking. The thought of life without this man's presence filled him with an emotion that could only be described as dread. For some reason, this ridiculous exchange had left him with a vague sense of hope.

It was ludicrous, and he dismissed it, choosing instead to focus on the present moment.

"Agreed." La Croix reached out to cover Nick's hand with his own, the gesture an odd mixture of a miser's grasp and a friend's comfort. He hissed and snatched back his hand.

"What is it?" Nick looked at him in shock and genuine concern. "Are you all right?"

"It must be that ring you're wearing." LaCroix looked with distaste at his singed fingertips. "I realize you've become disgustingly devout in your old age, Nicholas, but you might have the consideration to keep religious objects away from me."

Nick looked dubiously at the ring. "I promise you, I didn't know that this had any history of that kind. Myra Schanke sent it to me when she moved in with Jenny. It used to be Don's."

"That explains it," LaCroix said disdainfully. "Considering the family history, if it's not some forgotten saints' relic, it's probably one of those souvenirs the popes used to bless by the thousands....." He launched into another erudite discursion on mortal frailty.

Nick settled back to listen, not to the words, which were unimportant, but to the flow of the voice. He was very much aware of the conflict in LaCroix's heart, and the cause. But he also knew that there was nothing he could say to ease it. There was nothing he could say to make him admit it in the first place.

So he simply held the image of his old friend in his mind, surrounding it in good will.

When LaCroix was finished, Nick shook his head. "Lucien, you're hopeless. How's your hand?" LaCroix held up it up, pale fingertips completely healed. "A passing annoyance, merely."

"Good. Shall we start another game?"

"I think not."

They sat for a while longer, in companionable silence, until the clock struck 11 and LaCroix rose, in a ritual as old as these meetings, to take his leave. He had never confided in Nicholas that at these moments he always felt an inexplicable compulsion, as if he were being politely but firmly told by an unseen host that it was time to go.

"Until next year."

"Until next year, my friend."

LaCroix reached down and gently placed his hand at the back of Nick's head. For a moment time pivoted like a carousel, rolling back to the night he had first done this, drawing his fledgling to the first kill, and again to the night of Nicholas' return to mortality.

There was a flicker of emotion in the pale face, but Nick, without the speed of vampire observation or the link with his old master to guide him, was unable to decipher the expression. "Good night, Nicholas," the ancient vampire whispered, and was gone.

He landed silently in the shadows of the almost-deserted street, stepped into the lamp light and stood for a long time, unmoving, staring at his blistered palm.

Then he whirled and strode down the sidewalk, swooping through a family of weary trick-or-treaters like a winter wind through autumn leaves.

A little girl pointed after him from her perch in her father's arms: "It's Dracula, the real Dracula.... but... He's crying, Mommy. He's crying."

Eve of All Saints
Chapter 7

"Do you need anything, sir?"

Nick smiled at the formality. These youngsters. He had tried his best to get to a first-name basis, but had failed -- so far. "No, thank you Mark, you're off-duty now. I'll don't think I'll be going to bed tonight."

"I'll put the alarm on when I go up then. Good-night sir."

"Good-night."

Mark closed the door softly behind him, and Nick closed his eyes against a wave of pain, bowing his head and clenching his hands. For a moment it filled all his awareness, and then, slowly, the agony eased, and he became aware of his surroundings again.

He felt a hand brushing the hair out of his eyes and the pressure of soft lips against his forehead.

"Alone at last... I was afraid he'd never leave."

He smiled. "Nonsense sweetheart, you have him well-trained."

As always, she was even more beautiful than he remembered.

"I wish I could take the pain away."

"It's not so bad. There are worse things. And it won't last forever."

"No, it won't last forever."

He looked up into the familiar blue eyes and smiled. "I'm glad you came."

"I always do. How is LaCroix?"

"A little odd. Not his usual self. Actually, I'm a little worried about him." He grinned at her. "We had a very interesting conversation about ghosts."

She laughed. "Not himself? Didn't he ask you come back across? "

"Oh yes," Nick dismissed the idea with a wave of his hand. "Actually, this time he had a backup plan. Now he's offering to kill me."

"Did you consider it?"

"No. I've too much left to do."

She laughed and kissed him. "You'll never get it all done, Nick."

"I know. But everybody dies with a full in-box, doctor. You know that."

"Yes darling, I know...."

He reached up and twisted a lock of her hair around his finger. "It's our 50th anniversary. Half a century, Nat, since you came back to me."

"But it took you five years to figure out that I was there," she said, socking him very, very gently in the chest.

"Ah well," he chuckled softly. "I'm only human."

October 31, 2000

He had been sitting at the piano in the studio, savoring the feeling of being out of the wheelchair, playing whatever came to mind. The last of the trick-or-treaters were gone and Grace with them, issuing a departing warning about not staying up all night -- a warning he would not heed.

LaCroix had come and gone, his visit briefer than usual, no more than a quarter of an hour. They had managed to fill the short time with the equivalent of two hours worth of conflict, and Nick had turned to music in an attempt to capture some shred of peace to carry him through until dawn.

He never slept on Hallowe'en anymore, not since the night he'd been shot. He didn't know why, and he never felt unusually tired afterward. Sleep just never came. Instead, he was filled with an expectation that never left until an hour after sunrise. "Like a kid on Christmas Eve," he thought, shaking his head at himself.

He played with his eyes closed, recalling times past and letting the music flow through his hands. The strains of "Fur Elise" filled the room, and he remembered playing a phrase for Natalie the night she had brought him back from the hospital, his memory in shards and her presence the one solid reality in an unfamiliar world.

He paused, dropping his clenched fists to his knees.

"Don't stop." It was the faintest whisper.

"What?" He didn't dare open his eyes.

"Keep playing."

He raised his hands to the keyboard and finished the sweet, melancholy piece. As the last chord died away, he opened his eyes and saw her.

She was sitting next to him on the bench, her back to the piano. The candlelight caught the highlights in her hair and shone in her eyes.

"Nat." His voice broke. He reached out slowly with his right hand, hardly daring to touch her. Smiling, she took his hand in hers and brought the back of it to her right cheek.

"You're so warm," he whispered.

"I'm dead." There was teasing laughter in her voice.

He nodded. "My fault."

"And mine."

"If only.."

She folded her hands around his. "It's done. It's certainly not the worst thing that could have happened that night. And it worked. Look at you." Her face glowed with joy.

He nodded, tears in his eyes. "Forgive me."

"Yes. Forgive me?"

"Forgive you? For what? For loving me? For giving me back my life? For letting me k..."

Laughing, she silenced him by putting her hand over his mouth, then clenched her fist and punched him lightly on the chest. "No fair. Let's try this again. Forgive me?"

"Yes."

They gazed at each other wordlessly for a while. Then Nick remembered his encounter with Alyssa, and felt suddenly bereft. "Nat, does this mean I won't see you again?"

She knew instantly what he meant. "No. As long as you want me, I'll be here for you."

"You've been here before, haven't you? The night I was shot."

"Yes. And the year before that -- and every year since."

He got up from the piano, leaning on his cane, and shyly offered her his other hand. "C'mere. There's something I'd like you to see." He led her over to a table covered with papers and pulled out a portfolio filled with sketches of Margaret Mary O'Brien, sitting on the sofa in her Glinda costume, talking to a faceless fair-haired woman in a blue dress.

Natalie laughed as he spread them out before her. "It *was* you, wasn't it, Nat? The princess?" She nodded, sorting through the pictures. "I didn't think she'd remember me. Nick, these are really good."

"I know. It's the best work I've done in years. I just haven't been able to make any headway on it without..... Nat., would you....?"

She laughed and stepped lightly up onto the model's dais, striking an exaggerated pose. "Oh my, a whole new career. Artist's model." She dissolved in giggles. "I think I'm going to have a problem with this, Nick. Isn't the whole point to keep still?"

"Don't worry. I'll manage. Just sit in the armchair and relax. Just be..." His voice caught for a moment. "Just be yourself."

She looked at him with eyes full of love and curled up in the chair. "How's this?"

"Beautiful. Just beautiful....."

"Nick, can you talk while you work?"

"Yeah, although I can't promise to be completely coherent."

"So tell me, what have you been doing this last little while?"

"*Not* the usual."

"Tell me about it."

They talked for hours while he sketched. Eventually, he put aside his work and they sat on the couch. She slipped into his arms, and he let her rest against him, marveling at her warmth, the scent of her hair. He held her very gently, already aware that clasping her tightly would be too much. And for the first time, he let the sense of awe overwhelm him.

"Nat....."

"Mmmmm.. mmm."

He struggled for words... "How can I know if you're real and not just something that I invented because I can't live without you?"

She picked up the echo ...."Are you afraid?"

He shook his head. "No... When do you have to go? The sun's almost up."

"I can stay until an hour after dawn."

"Keep tomorrow night open?"

She smiled sadly and shook her head. "My dance card is..... full. Until next year."

"But you will come next year?"

"And the year after that and the year after that. As long as you want me. As long as you believe."

"And if I stopped believing, then you'd stop coming?"

"No. I'd still come. You just wouldn't notice much. Or, you'd think it was a dream. That's what most people think anyway, even the ones who do believe. You're special."

He looked at her skeptically. "Me? Why. Because I used to be a vampire?"

"No," she said simply. "Because you have so much faith."

That left him speechless.

They sat in silence and watched their first sunrise together.

"I didn't keep my promise, Nat."

"Shhhhhh." She put her fingertips to his lips, and then gently wiped the tears from his cheeks. "That's the wonderful thing about eternity, Nick. No matter when you come to me, we'll still be together forever."

She had been as good as her word. Each year, he tried to accept her presence as a gift, unquestioningly. But he was no saint, and it had taken time to master the discipline he needed to keep from losing touch with her. Too much insistence, too many of the wrong questions, and she would fade. Not leave, simply fade from sight and touch. Bitterness and anger would also cloud his awareness of her -- but not, to his grateful surprise, sorrow or even despair.

In the early years, there were a few times when his rage at LaCroix had stood between them for hours, although never long enough to keep them completely apart. After those terrible nights, her visits had indeed seemed like dreams.......

Eventually, it occurred to him that she might already know the substance of his life. He finally dared to ask her. "Am I telling you stories you already know, Nat.?"

"No." She had looked out towards the ocean (he had been in Bombay that year), her forehead furrowed and her nose wrinkled. How many times had he seen that expression when she was wrestling with a forensic problem?

"It's a little hard to explain. I could know a lot of it, if I wanted to, but I don't, because I like to hear it from you, so I won't." She burst out laughing. "Was that confusing enough?"

"Actually, I understood every word." He had walked over to the window and very carefully wrapped his arms around her. If he did it just right, without too much pressure, he could feel her warmth filling his embrace.... (end flashback)

"You have some new pictures," she said, nodding toward the wall of photos. "Tell me about them."

They walked slowly around the office and through the hallways, arm in arm. They talked of this and that, the year past and the year to come. He told her about the children's clinics in Marseilles and Chicago and Jakarta, the small research group with a lead on a new treatment for melanoma, and the latest adventures of the O'Brien family -- all the bright bits and pieces that made up the mosaic of his year.

She asked him no questions about his illness. He asked her no questions about her life. There were few answers she could give, and by now he knew them all.

They settled back in front of the fire, Nick in an armchair, Nat seated on the floor, leaning against his knee, his hand resting lightly on her head.

Eventually the conversation wound its way back around to LaCroix. He told her about their pact, and when she had finished laughing she shook her head. "Just like a man. The moment you think you're going to get some time to yourself with him, he starts planning to hang out with the guys. And on our steady night, too."

"Actually, Nat, I am worried about him."

"Not without reason." She was serious now. "You mean a great deal to him, Nick. It would be hard to lose you altogether."

"He thinks it's all ridiculous, of course," Nick said, absently pulling at the ring on his finger.

"Well, the man deserves to be surprised every few decades. There's something else bothering you," she added, "You're fidgeting."

He nodded and gave her a sheepish grin "It's the strangest thing, but I can't get it out of my mind...."

"What?"

"He touched me and... he burned his fingertips." Nick shook his head, mystified. "It must be the ring." he held out his hand to show her. "But I don't know of anything in its history that would explain it."

She took his hand gently in hers and smiled. "Well, sometimes there's more to a history than meets the eye."

"That's certainly true." He looked at her with a curious smile. "You wouldn't happen to know anything about this?"

"As a matter of fact, I do. But it's a long story, and it's almost time for me to go. I'll save it for next year."

His face fell as she mentioned the time, but he recovered quickly and mustered his most charming smile for her. "Stay until I fall asleep?"

"All right."

"Sit here." he patted his knee.

"Sure I'm not too heavy?" she laughed softly.

"Like gossamer. Like moonlight."

She kissed him and eased his head onto her shoulder.

"I miss you, Nat," he whispered..

"I miss you, too, Nick."

Eve of All Saints
Chapter 8

She stayed in his lap until his breathing eased and then slipped gently out of his embrace and stood looking down at him.

"Yo, Nat? You about ready to go?"

She turned toward the window and smiled at the familiar face.

"Almost. How's you're family?"

"Jenny's youngest has another kid on the way. And Myra's great. As usual," Schanke added gloomily. "At this rate, we'll be celebrating our 75th wedding anniversary in her subconscious. You guys are lucky. At least when he wakes up in the morning, he won't think you're just a dream."

"Not *just* a dream, Schank," Nat said with a smile, holding out her hand to him.

He took it and came to stand beside her, putting his hand on Nick's shoulder. "Hey pardner," he whispered. "I know you can't hear me, but it's good to see ya." He looked up to see tears on Nat's face. Schanke frowned at her. "Hey 'hon,' what's all this?" She grinned and aimed a shot at his chest. Schanke ducked and feinted, then threw one arm around her and hugged her. She leaned her head on his shoulder.

"I do miss him so," she whispered.

Schanke patted her arm sympathetically and looked down at his friend. "Yeah, me too. But it won't be long now, Nat. Bet ya he'll be home before Christmas."

"I know. But he doesn't. I wish I could tell him."

Schanke said nothing, but gently kissed her on the temple, the way Nick used to back when he was still pretending they were just good friends.

"I wish I could tell him the truth about this, too," she said, reaching down to trace the outline of the ring with her finger. Schanke hooted with laughter. "Hoo boy. Mr. It's-never-enough? He'd never believe you, Nat."

"No, he'd never believe me. And that's part of it, isn't it?" She knelt down beside the chair and looked up into Nick's sleeping face . "I'll tell you about the ring now, Nick, because you're so deeply asleep you can't hear me. It *is* a long story, and an old one -- more than eight and a half centuries old. It's the story of a kind and brave man who made a terrible mistake and stepped into hell, and how he took the ruin of his soul and built something beautiful out of it." She put her hand over his.

"LaCroix knew. He knew he'd lost you to the light forever. It wasn't the ring that burned him Nick. It was you...."

The dawn breeze lifted the curtains at the half-open window, blew a scattering of fall leaves across the floor and ruffled the hair of the sleeping man like a caress. He stirred in his sleep and smiled.

In the garden, Natalie paused on her way. She closed her eyes and reached out to feel the flow of life in the sleeping roses and in the city awakening beyond. There was darkness there, but it had no more power to touch her than the wisps of morning mist on the river, and she ignored it, letting millions of bright sparks of light and love dance in her awareness.

She nudged the edge of time ever so slightly, and around her the garden returned to the glory of high summer, dew-covered roses blooming in profusion, lifting their faces to the morning light, filling the air with their fragrance.

Distracted, she only dimly heard the patter of footsteps on the balcony stairs, the sound of someone running swiftly down the path behind her. Before she could turn, strong arms had embraced her from behind, and she felt his cheek pressing against her hair.

"Hey Nat...."

She turned her head to speak and he captured her mouth in a kiss. She looked up into laughing blue eyes and a smile that matched the radiance of her own.

".....Wait for me."

Finis