A Week At The Bed And Bloodfest - Forever Knight Fan Fiction

							Here's the adult cleaned up version of B&B
This is a LaCroix story. Except for a flashback, he is the only
Forever Knight character appearing in this tale. LaCroix, of
course, belong to James Parriot, Sony Tri-Star, etc. I appreciate
them making him available to me. No copyright infringement
is intended.


This story takes place immediately after the events described in
my previous story--LOST KNIGHT--Elmore version. In that
story, due to incidents recently occurring in his life, Nick
Knight has decided to leave North America, at least
temporarily.


LaCroix, as per his decision voiced in that fiendish "last
episode," has left Toronto and relocated to New Orleans. He
has resumed his radio career at KDRK, under the pseudonym,
Devil's Advocate.


Much of this story is a romance, and should be considered
PG-13 at the least. Some segments will be posted as adult.    It is
an adventure story also, but with definite NA overtones. ~~p.e.


Many thanks to Jules and Bonnie betaing; I can't say enough
about these wonderful ladies and their help, encouragement
and honesty. This is a work in progress, so it may take quite a
while to finish posting. Those of you who know my work will
understand; others, I beg your patience.


Permission is given to archive at Mel Moser's FKFanFic site and
the FTP site. Others, please ask permission. Note: I do not
have a personal website.


This story is for Jules, my inspiration, my mentor and my
friend.


This version includes ADULT chapters 16, 22 and 38.


*************************************



A WEEK AT THE BED AND BLOODFEST
A LaCroix Story


By Patt Elmore

Part 1 - 10/64



Lucien LaCroix felt as ancient as his chronological years.


Forefinger pressed against his tightened brow, LaCroix rubbed
the skin stiffly, trying to force the muscles to ease their tension.
On the floor below, a figure arched once then fell still. LaCroix
opened his eyes and looked idly at the body.


<Thirty-five percent of the gross, indeed,> the vampire
thought. <And only twenty percent of the residuals.
Obviously, they did not know who they were dealing with.>


A choked, mewling sound caught LaCroix's attention and he
looked across the hotel room to see the second man crouched
against the wall. The small human's face was as pallid as
LaCroix's own, his fingers torn and bloody where he'd tried to
claw his way into the wall's plaster--trying to escape the fury of
the fiend in front of him.


LaCroix smiled.


The human groaned. His eyes darted furtively, seeking an
avenue of departure. They finally met LaCroix's.


And this time held. They held in a grasp as secure as frozen
chain.   Caught in the depths of those cold, blue eyes, the man
moaned softly.


LaCroix smiled again. Slowly, the vampire walked toward the
human.   A stray drop of blood began to irritate the corner of
LaCroix's mouth, and he brushed the back of his hand against it
absently. The human shuddered, but he could not break free of
the gaze.


"Mr. Wheelton," LaCroix began easily, reasonably.   "I'm afraid I
have some bad news to tell you."
Wheelton shrank within himself, gasping as LaCroix drew
nearer.   LaCroix raised his hand in placation.


"Please, don't be alarmed, Mr. Wheelton." LaCroix continued
to smile as he advanced, towering over the huddled
figure. "You will not suffer bodily harm by my hand, if you
cooperate."


Wheelton's frightened eyes now also held curiosity.   LaCroix's
lips pursed in satisfaction.


"In fact, as I see it," LaCroix drawled, "the only bodily
harm perpetrated here today appears to have been dealt by
your hand."


Wheelton's eyes widened and LaCroix snared them, along with
the man's quaking heartbeat. LaCroix lowered his voice, his
words precise, slowing the human's pulse.


"How unfortunate that you and your partner had such a heated
disagreement regarding certain financial matters," LaCroix
said, his voice deep, barely above a whisper. "So vehement, in
fact, that you felt an uncontrollable urge to stab Mr. Kosmitis in
the throat."


LaCroix leaned in, staring levelly at the frightened human.
"Shame on you, Mr. Wheelton."


Wheelton, eyes glazed, nodded.   "Shame on me," he murmured.


LaCroix watched the human a few more seconds and then, with
a satisfied sigh, turned and walked to the wetbar. Glancing
quickly across the surface of the bar, LaCroix found the
particular implement he sought and picked it up using a
cocktail napkin. He moved back easily to Kosmitis' prone body
and, lifting the corpse's head by its dark hair, stabbed the
corkscrew's tip into the site of the bite wound.


Grimacing, LaCroix gave the corkscrew a twist, effectively
eliminating the marks of the vampire with a gouging tear. He
let Kosmitis fall back to the carpet and turned once again to
Wheelton.


LaCroix approached the human and knelt.   He grasped the
man's right hand and thrust the corkscrew into his grip,
clasping Wheelton's fingers around the 'weapon.'


Wheelton looked down stupidly at his hand, now holding the
bloody corkscrew. He looked back at LaCroix, confused.


LaCroix leaned into and just past Wheelton's face, his lips
hovering near the human's ear.


"Shame on you for murdering your business partner, Mr.
Wheelton," LaCroix hissed softly. "And . . . I was not here
tonight."


"Not here," Wheelton nodded, but by this time LaCroix was
halfway into the hallway.


There was a very good chance that LaCroix's 'suggestion' to
Wheelton would be of a permanent nature, but it was best not
to tempt the fates. At the end of the hall, LaCroix paused at a
payphone. He retrieved a business card from his pocket,
smiling slightly at a remembered thought. LaCroix inserted the
required coinage into the telephone box and quickly punched
in a local number.


"Police department.   Ebarb here," a voice answered after the
third ring.


"Yea," LaCroix offered his best vocal interpretation of a 'thug.'
"Dere's been a moider over in the Pallas. You better check it
out."


"Who is this?" the detective demanded, but LaCroix had
already wiped any evidence of prints and dropped the receiver
to the soft carpet below. At the end of the hall, LaCroix paused
once to look for observers, then he opened the window and
flew into the night.


Back in his own quarters, LaCroix poured a snifter of his
private vintage and seated himself on the soft leather sofa. He
took a sip and began replaying the night's events in his mind.


LaCroix had no fear of being suspected in Kosmitis' murder,
but he was sure to be included in the investigation which must
follow. Knowing the efficiency of the New Orleans police
department, they'd be inquiring into all the business dealings
that Kosmitis and Wheelton had been involved in.   They
would find LaCroix's name on that Rolodex, and perhaps
on an appointment schedule.


That meant that Marquand Ebarb would most likely be coming
to call.


LaCroix sighed. Ebarb's proximity might trigger memories in
the Cajun detective which LaCroix did not wish to deal with,
especially after making a promise to Nicholas regarding the
safety and well-being of Knight's 'friend.' LaCroix sighed
again, just as a knock announced someone at his door.


LaCroix looked at the door skeptically.   Too soon for the police.


"Room service," a muffled voice said.


LaCroix placed his drink on the bar and strode toward the
door.   Outside, a perky teenage girl, clad in black trousers and
a white dinner jacket, held a small silver tray with an
assortment of envelopes.


"I didn't order anything," LaCroix smiled down benevolently at
the child. The girl visibly melted as she looked into the tall
man's eyes, her mouth opening in awe.


"No . . . no you didn't." The girl caught herself in a
stammer and reddened. She averted her eyes and began
fumbling with the letters on the tray. "This is your mail.     You
haven't picked it up in a couple of days, Mr. LaCroix."


"I was not expecting any personal mail," LaCroix replied,
accepting the envelopes and thumbing through them. The girl
turned to leave, but LaCroix caught her with his voice. "Young
woman . . ."


The bellperson froze and turned back to the tall figure in black.
Despite the prematurely white hair, the man in front of her was
absolutely striking. <Especially the eyes,> the girl thought. <I
could drown in those eyes.>


LaCroix reached into his pocket and pulled out his wallet and,
in turn, pulled out a ten dollar bill. He handed it to the girl,
who accepted it with a warm, grateful smile.


"University student?" LaCroix inquired politely. She nodded,
too stricken by the man to find her voice. LaCroix nodded also.
"Good luck in your studies, then. What is your major, if I might
ask?"


"History," the young woman found her voice at last. Seeing a
flicker of amusement cross the vampire's face, the girl quickly
added, "Please, no lectures about the uselessness of a Liberal
Arts degree. I get enough of that from my father. I happen to
'love' history and hope to do museum research someday. I
especially find the ancient Roman Empire a fascinating time
period."


"Ahhh, yes," LaCroix looked at the child again, her youthful
features so fresh, her life so new.   "'Ancient' Rome. And, what
fascinates you so about that particular era?"


The young woman thought for a moment, then grinned
mischievously at the older man. "The men wore togas," she
suddenly quipped and, before LaCroix could respond, she
turned and practically skipped down the hall in her haste to
leave. LaCroix chuckled slightly at the girl's impertinence and
made a mental note to check back on her activities, several
years hence.


Back inside his apartment, LaCroix sat down on the sofa and
began perusing the correspondence. To his disappointment, it
was all junk mail of sorts. Not that he had expected to receive a
personal note from either Nicholas or Janette, but one could
always hope. LaCroix prepared to throw the entire bundle into
the trash bin when a bright picture postcard caught his eye.


The picture depicted a tidy white Acadian-style building set
amongst colorful blooms on a cool green lawn. The sky above
was crystal blue--a blue now only remembered from the
vampire's youth.   LaCroix flicked the card over and read the
advertisement:



+++ Hello, hotel resident! As you live in a residence hotel, we
believe that you most likely consider yourself a permanent
visitor in our fair state. Therefore, we'd like you to come visit
our part of the country--Cajun Country! We'll show you
southern hospitality as you've only been able to dream about
before--all with a spicy South Louisiana accent. Come, stroll
through history at one of the South's most prestigious
addresses. Come, stay with us at Chenes Pointte Plantation in
scenic Arnaudville. We guarantee you the best Bed and
Breakfast experience of your life. Your privacy guaranteed.
+++



LaCroix fingered the postcard thoughtfully for a few more
moments before placing it, face up, on his writing desk. He
made a few telephone calls, the last of which was to the front
desk, advising them that he would be away from his residence
for at least a week. A vacation in the country had suddenly
become a choice idea.


Traveling bags in hand, LaCroix allowed the door of his
apartment to close behind him with a soft click. <So many
goings of late,> he mused, sadness enveloping him suddenly.
The feeling was brief, though, for he willed it away.


But, he did miss Nicholas.   Terribly.


*****************************************


End part 1/64


*****************************************


The drive to the small town of Arnaudville was swift and
without incident. From New Orleans to almost Lafayette, the
passage was entirely on Interstate 10, then north on State 31.
The highway paralleled the meandering path of Bayou Teche, a
flatland area.


LaCroix watched from the rear windows of the private
limousine he'd commissioned, noting the swampy areas and
dwellings with vague interest. The area gave an appearance of
poverty, where a shack owner's wealth could best be
determined by how many portable buildings had been erected
on the property.


Reaching the Arnaudville limits, the limo passed quickly
through the darkened streets and then turned back east,
crossing the Teche. The night here was deeper, unlit by the
harsh artificial lights erected for the driving needs of the human
population. LaCroix's eyes had no trouble seeing the passing
scenery--dense vegetation, crooked barbed wire fencing, an
occasional home.


Approximately fifteen miles outside Arnaudville, the driver left
the main road, turning under an overhead metal sign which
proclaimed their arrival at Chenes Pointte. The sign was ornate
and newly painted.


The gravel driveway extended some three-hundred feet from
the main road, crossing over a small wooden bridge which, like
the sign, was painted white. The bridge was old, but in good
repair, and held the weight of the vehicle without groaning.


The actual home did not come into view until the traveler had
made more than half the journey along the gravel drive. When
it did, LaCroix could not suppress a small smile of approval.

It was built in the traditional Acadian style, an almost
plain looking, flat-faced two-story frame structure. It was
raised up from the ground on short pillars. Its true grace was
its porch, a wide, roofed attachment which wrapped all the way
around the main building.   Here, the early residents of this
area could seek what respite might be available on those sultry
days and nights when even the mosquitos refused to stir
because of the heat.


Further down the road, the vehicle turned slightly, and LaCroix
had another view of the home. The rear of the original
structure had been enlarged and modified, not following the
earlier style of architecture.   It looped back and to the left, in an
"L" shaped pattern. Where the original was plank, the rear
addition was hand-kilned brick, at least one hundred years old.
Like the frame, the brick had been whitewashed.   At the
joinder of the frame and brick, the Acadian porch had
been chopped off.


Even in the darkness, LaCroix could see that the grounds were
immaculate. The lawn was St. Augustine, thick and virtually
weed-free. The house was accented by azalea hedges, which
had long since cast their spring blooms. An abundance of
flowers were present, though, including hot red salvia,
white and blue petunias, dianthus and bright yellow marigolds.
Where the house curved left, a large clump of cannas bloomed,
their yellow, orange and red flowers almost as tall as LaCroix
himself.


The limousine crunched to a stop in front of the home's main
entrance.   Stepping out into the humid night, LaCroix's nose
caught the faint fragrance of honeysuckle. Cicada songs
buzzed in the air.   LaCroix counted at least five heartbeats, not
including his driver's, within a few minutes walk.


LaCroix retrieved two matched leather and cloth bags from the
trunk of the limousine, one containing his clothing and
personal items and the other holding a weeks supply of his
exclusive "vintage." He tipped the driver and, slinging one bag
across his shoulder, walked toward the wide wooden porch
steps.


In front of him, the single green entrance door opened, issuing
forth a middle-aged woman. She was of medium height and
not-quite slender, with once dark hair now peppered with the
beginnings of silver. Her skin tone was olive, and her face
was thinnish, but very pleasant. The woman's eyes were her
most striking feature. They were small and dark, almost
almond in shape, and sharp with intelligence. She wiped her
hands on her apron and walked forward to meet LaCroix as he
reached the edge of the front porch.


"Mr. LaCroix?" she inquired. When LaCroix nodded, she
nodded once back to him and moved slightly to the right,
allowing him entrance to the domicile.


"I am Mrs. Simmoneaux," she said, moving past LaCroix,
pulling him deeper into the entry room. "This your first visit to
Chenes Pointte, yes?"


"Yes." LaCroix acknowledged her question as he looked
around the large foreroom. It was open, with no sign of a
stairway that would lead to the upper floor. To his left was a
doorway which, if the architecture was true, LaCroix suspected
would lead to a hidden staircase. When originally constructed,
there was a very good chance that this stairway had been on
the outside of the home, accessible only from the veranda. To
his right was a wall. To the rear of the home was a huge open
fireplace crested by a rough hewn cypress mantle. To the
left of the fireplace was another door which, presumably, led to
the old kitchen area.


LaCroix accessed the room and found it quite satisfactory. The
furnishings were sparse, but suited the period of the house. If
the cane chairs were not original, they were, at least, tasteful
reproductions.   The long table across the right wall was
constructed of cypress and resembled the mantle in its rough
texture. The wall sconces, which had been converted to
electricity, were highly polished antiques, and the bulbs cast a
soft yellow glow reminiscent of gaslight.


The most striking feature of this front room was the framed
print on the right wall. It was a large picture, probably four
feet by thirty inches. It was an artist's sketch of the house as it
must have originally appeared, probably drawn in the early
1900's and color washed in an attractive mauve shade.

"When we began renovating the home five years ago, we were
lucky enough to find this original drawing among those kept in
the archives at Tulane University," Mrs. Simmoneaux had
followed LaCroix's eyes to the painting. "We tried to hold to
the original feel of the home and I hope we succeeded. I just
wish that you had arrived during the daylight so that you could
have seen our efforts more clearly."


"We?" LaCroix inquired, still studying the sketch.


"My late husband and I," she replied. LaCroix turned his
attention to the woman. She wavered slightly under his
scrutiny and, catching himself, LaCroix smiled in reassurance.


"I assure you, Madame, that I was well able to see the beauty of
your home when I arrived. You and your husband's efforts
deserve commendation."


At the compliment, Mrs. Simmoneaux blushed slightly and
smiled back, just a hint of sadness at the corners of her mouth.
"This was our dream, Lawrence and I. To give rebirth to this
beautiful home."   She reached for one of LaCroix's bags but he
shooed her hand away with a glance, then a smile. "Well, then,
let's get you settled for the night."


Mrs. Simmoneaux led the way toward the rear of the home and,
as LaCroix had suspected, the back door led to another large
room which housed the kitchen. As they entered, they passed
the fireplace, which opened again in the kitchen area. A large
preparation table was the centerpiece of the room. The floor
was of laid bricks and the windows were small and high on the
wall. The room had been modernized to allow indoor
plumbing, a refrigerator and freezer unit, but the old world
origins were still evident by the lack of cabinet space.


Upon entering the kitchen, Mrs. Simmoneaux turned sharply to
the left and went through another door.   This led to a small
hallway with a door at the opposite end. In the middle of the
right wall was another door.
This was the more modern part of the house, LaCroix affirmed.
"The dining area," Mrs. Simmoneaux indicated the door on
the right as they passed it. She reached the far door and
opened it, leading into another large room.


LaCroix looked past Mrs. Simmoneaux into the brightly lit area.
Unlike the rough whitewashed planking of the old part of the
home, this part of the structure was plastered and painted. The
hardwood floor was polished to a high sheen and partially
covered by a very old Persian rug. The furniture, except for
two petite winged chairs, was overstuffed and comfortable
looking. The outdoors was accessible by a pair of large French
doors cut into the right wall, midway through the room.
LaCroix could hear humans just on the other side of the glass.


A grand piano dominated the far right corner. A staircase had
been erected flat against the far wall, ascending from the left,
over the piano and disappearing into a hole cut through the
ceiling.


"We have four guest rooms upstairs," Mrs. Simmoneaux
explained as she led LaCroix across the room towards the
staircase. "With your arrival, all the rooms are occupied this
week. Please be careful when you climb these stairs," she
cautioned, taking the lead.


At the top of the stairs, after passing through the
claustrophobic ceiling notch, the house opened into the second
floor. The bedrooms were long and narrow, each gained entry
by the equally long and narrow middle walkway. At the far
end of the hall was a huge plate glass window, an anomaly for
such a house. LaCroix looked at the window in interest. It was
religious in nature, depicting the crucifixion in heavy primary
colors. The cross, though covered by the human form of the
Christ, was clearly visible.


"An addition to the house made in the 1920's by the then
owner, Mamie Cression," Mrs. Simmoneaux informed him,
noting LaCroix's studying of the pane. "She was a bit eccentric
and remained in the house alone until the late 1940's. She was
also a poor judge of character, which resulted in the
mismanagement of much of her family's fortune. It was
essentially during Ms. Mamie's residence here that the house
fell to ruin."


"Indeed," LaCroix said dryly, removing his eyes from the
window and letting them rest on Mrs. Simmoneaux's much less
painful visage.


"I would be more than pleased to tell you more of the history of
Chenes Pointte, but I am sure that your journey has tired you
and we have a week to discuss such matters," Mrs.
Simmoneaux said, moving to a far door. "At your request, I
have placed you in the room farthest to the back of the house,
on the west side."


She took a key from her apron, inserted it into the lock and
turned it until the tumblers fell. She then handed the tool to
LaCroix and gently pushed open the door. LaCroix moved past
her into the room, noting the simple, comfortable furnishings
and the tidy appearance.


"And you understand that I am not to be disturbed during the
daylight hours for any reason," LaCroix said firmly, noting that,
as per his telephone instructions, the window shutters had been
closed and latched. Mrs. Simmoneaux nodded as LaCroix
turned to face her. "I cannot emphasize to you how important
it is to me that my rest not be disturbed. My employment
requires me to work into the morning's early hours, and my
sleeping patterns must not be disrupted, even for a vacation."


"Understood, Monsieur," Mrs. Simmoneaux said
unconsciously.   LaCroix noted her ease in speaking the
language and smiled inwardly.   Mrs. Simmoneaux lifted her
head slightly and addressed LaCroix, "And your meals?"


"My appetite is sparse," LaCroix replied. "I require only one
meal per day, usually an early supper. I will most likely take
my meals in one of the surrounding villages, so you need not
concern yourself in this matter."


Mrs. Simmoneaux nodded. "Then I bid you goodnight, Mr.
LaCroix," she said simply. "If you should require anything else
this evening, please do not hesitate to call me. You may
summon me by using the bellrope next to the lavatory."


"Thank you, Mrs. Simmoneaux, and good evening,"
LaCroix said. "You said that the other three rooms were
occupied. Might I ask as to the number of guests you have
staying here?"


"Thirteen, including yourself,"   the dark woman replied.   At the
lift of LaCroix's eyebrow, she hastened to explain. "We have
three couples, one with a child, staying on this floor and a party
of six are occupying the stable quarters."


"Stable?" LaCroix looked at the woman in interest.


"Yes," Mrs. Simmoneaux said. "One of Lawrence's first projects
when we became the proprietors of this plantation was to
convert the old stable into a private residence. That was our
home for several years until the main house was habitable. It is
now let to groups too large to be housed in the main living
quarters."


"I see," LaCroix said with interest.   "And, I assume, it is very
private."


Mrs. Simmoneaux nodded, but then realizing his reason for
interest, slowly shook her head.


"I am sorry, Monsieur, but the stable is spoken for and those
arrangements cannot be altered."   LaCroix noted the conviction
in her words and accepted her decision, for now.


"I assure you, Mrs. Simmoneaux, that this room suits my needs,
as long as I am not disturbed," LaCroix smiled.


"May me heart be ripped from my chest if your slumber is
disrupted," the woman promised him. LaCroix, smiling, took
careful note of her words. She turned to leave, then turned
back to her guest. "Mr. LaCroix," she began.


"Yes?"


"I believe some of my other guests have not yet retired for the
evening. If you would care to meet some of them, they are on
the back veranda."


"Thank you, Mrs. Simmoneaux," LaCroix said. "I may join
them after I freshen up a bit." The woman nodded curtly and
turned, moving away from him in swift strides and then
disappearing at the staircase.


Alone inside the room, LaCroix accessed it in more detail.   A
large four poster bed, an old steamer trunk, a secretary and
chair, a chiffonnier, a wardrobe--these were the articles of
furniture. The bedspread was heavy white chenille, its tufted
surface rough to the touch. The lavatory closet had been
renovated with a flush toilet and shower stall. The promised
bellrope dropped from the ceiling to hang by the basin.


LaCroix deposited his bags on the bed and unzipped the one
carrying his food supply. He twisted and removed the cork in
one motion, then tipped the bottle's lip to his own. LaCroix
drank deeply of the contents, finishing it in three healthy
swallows.


Placing the bottle on the secretary, he moved across the room to
the shuttered windows. They latched from inside, he noted in
satisfaction.   He lifted the window and unlocked the wooden
gates, pushing them aside to allow the night to flood into his
room. LaCroix breathed in the evening air and allowed his
senses to search for the humans congregated below. Four, no
five, of them.


LaCroix walked back to the bed and unpacked his luggage.
The secretary, he noted, had a locking filing drawer, so he
placed the bottles of blood within. Finished, LaCroix took one
more look around the room then smoothed his clothing with
his hands.

<Might as well meet the neighbors,> LaCroix thought wryly.
He closed the shutters and window, making certain that the
latches were secure, then drew the heavy drapes.


He was unaware that, from the ground below, eyes had been
watching him.   Closely.


*****************************************


End part 2/64


*****************************************


LaCroix retraced his steps to the great room downstairs. He
crossed the room to the French doors and gently pushed them
open. As promised, several of the plantation guests were
congregated on the veranda, enjoying the unusually mild
summer evening.
"Well, well, our new guest has decided to join us." A loud voice
greeted LaCroix's arrival. The vampire's eyes darted to the
source of the voice, and, seeing it, he cringed inwardly.


This was, perhaps, LaCroix's least favorite human-type. Large,
overbearing, pompous and able to inflict vulgarity because it
had a healthy bank account.   LaCroix had had to deal with
such humans during all of his existence, both mortal and
immortal. <Equestrian class,> LaCroix assessed the man.
<More properly, Equestrian ass.>


Smiling at his own joke, LaCroix accepted the man's
handshake. The fingers were soft and plump, the squeeze a
little too tight as if to demonstrate to the recipient who was the
stronger. LaCroix met the man's look and returned the shake
with equal firmness. He was rewarded by a slight narrowing of
the human's eyes, then a rather fake, beaming smile.


"Howdy, friend. Really didn't expect to see you until the
morning, what with your late arrival and all. I'm Aaron
Brackin. This here," he turned to indicate the woman he'd been
seated with, "is my better-half, Bunnie."


The willowy woman was not unattractive. Where LaCroix
might have expected her to be a garish display of Brackin's
wealth, she was casually dressed in flowered shorts and a tank
top. Her hair was frosted blonde and cropped short. Her tan
was healthy and, most likely, artificially obtained.


"My real name is Roberta," the woman chirped in a voice shrill
enough to shatter glass. LaCroix winced, but the woman did
not seem to notice. "But everyone calls me 'Bunnie' 'cause I
keep going and going and going and ..." She stopped only to
take another sip of her drink, giggling. LaCroix watched in
amusement as she inhaled the alcohol into her sinuses and
began sputtering. Brackin turned to his wife and began patting
her on the back.


"There, there, Sugar, ain't I told you to be careful about that?"


Seeing an avenue of escape, LaCroix turned to observe the
other guests. Two elderly women returned his look, but
offered no greeting.    He moved his focus to the last person
present on the veranda.
She was sitting away from the group. She was slightly past
young, perhaps in her early to mid-thirties. She sat at a small
cane table, her arms resting gracefully on its surface, a
magazine laid open before her.


She had been observing the interplay with quiet amusement.
Noting that LaCroix's eyes were now upon her, she met them
and smiled.


The smile had an affect on her features much like moonlight,
softening the sharper, darker areas of her face. She was fair in
complexion, with soft auburn hair and hazel eyes. Her lips
were full and brushed with just a touch of color. Her teeth,
when she exposed them, were strong and white.


Although hard   to ascertain from her seated position, LaCroix
judged her to   be petite. Her bearing was relaxed and
self-assured,   but her confidence was not without effort. She
was secure in   her environment, but only because of its
familiarity.


She was, by far, the most interesting guest that LaCroix had
met so far.


He moved toward her, and she alerted immediately, a slight
surge of controlled panic moving through her veins. LaCroix
smiled at his affect on her. Finishing his approach, he extended
a hand.


"Please forgive any impropriety, but it does not appear that we
have a mutual acquaintance to provide proper introductions.
Lucien LaCroix."


Hesitating only momentarily, she accepted the offered hand
and pressed it warmly. "Julia Sanford."


"May I join you, Ms. Sanford?"


She laughed. "Since you used the proper salutation of 'Ms.', I
guess that would be acceptable." She indicated a second chair
which LaCroix pulled to the table. "Please, Mr. LaCroix, do sit
down."


Neither spoke at first, a fact which pleased the vampire.    This
showed her to be thoughtful and intelligent--qualities he
appreciated. As she studied him, LaCroix studied her.


As LaCroix had surmised from a distance, Julia Sanford was
small in stature, perhaps five feet and several inches in height.
Her body was lithe and well-proportioned, but not that of an
athlete. Her heartbeat, which had raced slightly at LaCroix's
initial approach, had now steadied. It was strong and
intoxicating.


"So," she broke the silence,   "What brings you to this remote
little corner of the world?"


Their eyes met. LaCroix held her just long enough for her
pupils to dilate slightly, then released her. Julia blinked in
slight confusion.   Satisfied that the woman was not a 'resistor,'
LaCroix relaxed.


"Actually, it was an advertisement which I received in the
mail," LaCroix answered her question. "It offered me peaceful
tranquility in a country setting."


"But, it didn't tell you about Aaron and Bunnie Brackin," Julia
laughed. LaCroix glowered slightly but, noting her mirth,
relaxed his face again.


The vampire leaned forward to speak in confidence with his
companion. "They are rather hideous, aren't they?"


"Careful, Mr. LaCroix," Julia warned him with mock
disapproval. "They'll label you a 'snob' and make your stay
here truly miserable."


"No more miserable than I can make 'their' stay, Ms. Sanford,"
LaCroix replied, leaning back.


"Oooo," Julia's face glowed, "a man of danger as well as
mystery. Tell me, Mr. LaCroix, are you independently wealthy,
or do you have to work for a living like the rest of us?"


"I could answer your questions, Ms. Sanford," LaCroix's eyes
gleamed, "but then I would have to kill you."
Silence held for just a moment before Julia laughed again,
breaking the tension. LaCroix smiled and, at that moment,
decided that he would possess this women before the week had
ended.


Before times had changed, before the old hunting methods had
to be abandoned because corpses began arousing too much
suspicion, LaCroix had always enjoyed the seduction aspect of
his existence.   Finding the proper host, bringing the blood to
fruition and savoring it--these were the things that gave his
being life, rather than simple actuality.


"Should have known that you'd hook up with the only single
woman here this week, unless you count the crones over there,"
Aaron Brackin's voice boomed from behind LaCroix. Julia
lowered her head, shaking it slightly, as a frown spread across
LaCroix's face. "Bunnie and I came over to join you both, just
to make sure that Ms. Julia here is not being pestered against
her will. Kind of like chaperones, right, Bunnie?"


"Right," the tall blonde plopped herself in the chair she'd
dragged over to Sanford's table. "So, how you'all doing?"


"We were 'doing' fine," LaCroix began, but silenced as Brackin,
with a grunt, sat down opposite his wife.


"I never did catch your name when we first met, son.   What's
your handle?"


The vampire's eyebrow ticked slightly as he looked at Brackin.
"LaCroix," he said finally.


"LaCroix," Brackin repeated.   "What kind of name is that?
Frenchie maybe?"


LaCroix stared passively at the man.   "Maybe," he answered
slowly.


"Well," Brackin continued without abatement.   "I'm from
Texas."


"Indeed," LaCroix lifted an eyebrow, but then glanced toward
Julia when he heard her sniff. She was staring in disdain at
Brackin, but stopped when she noticed that LaCroix was
watching her.


Brackin continued,   taking no notice of this interplay. "Yup.
Born and bred, but   extensively traveled all over the world," he
said with pride in   his voice. "Bunnie, here, is from California.
Landed me a Yankee   girl."


"I am not a 'Yankee,'" Bunnie protested, playfully reaching out
and striking her husband's arm.   Brackin clutched at his
'wound' and screwed his face up painfully.


"Well you sure ain't 'Southern,' Sugar," Brackin said through his
'pain.'   "Even if you were born in Mission Hills. So, LaCroix,
what did you say you do for a living?"


"I didn't," LaCroix said simply.   Julia clutched her hand to her
mouth, stifling a snicker.


"Uhhh, huhhh," Brackin said, looking pointedly at LaCroix.


"Hey," Bunnie said, changing the subject abruptly. "we were
just discussing that, with all the guests we have here this
weekend, maybe we could play a game, you know, like those
role-playing mystery weekends where someone is 'killed' and
all the guests try to figure out who-done-it."


"And, which one of our guests would you like killed, Mrs.
Brackin?" LaCroix asked dryly. Julia shot him a quick glance,
but said nothing.


"Oh, it shouldn't be one of us, because that would eliminate a
player," Bunnie said. "No, we need an outside body to be the
dead person--a fictional corpse."


"You just say the word, Sugar, and I'll find you a body," Brackin
said, leaning forward and nuzzling the woman's throat. She
broke into another round of giggling.


Although he found the human's gesture disgusting, Brackin's
action stirred the vampire within LaCroix. He felt his fangs
budding.


Julia must have seen something in LaCroix's expression
because she chose that moment to place her hand on the
vampire's arm. LaCroix turned swiftly to her.


"Why don't we take a walk?" she suggested.   Her eyes held just
a hint of pleading.


LaCroix nodded and they rose as one, moving away from the
Brackins. They strolled along the veranda, giving LaCroix time
to collect himself and check the vampire's cravings. Julia was a
silent shade by his side. Upright, she seemed even smaller than
he'd expected, a mere wisp of a being.


They continued walking along the wooden porch, each
enjoying the evening and the silence of each other's company.
>From the far end of the veranda walkway, off in the distance,
they could hear music.


Julia laughed softly when she heard the sound, causing LaCroix
to look at her questioningly.


"It's coming from the stable quarters," she answered him.   "I'm
staying with the party housed down there."


"I see," LaCroix said.


"Do you?" Sanford looked up at the tall man through thick eye
lashes.   "What do you 'see,' Mr. LaCroix?"


"I see," LaCroix said, leaning into the young woman, "an
attractive woman who was just as annoyed by those Brackin
people as I was."


Julia hhruumphed and flexed her nose. "They give Texans a
bad name," she said. "I'm from Houston, by the way."


"New Orleans, at the moment," LaCroix offered.   "You're not a
native of Texas though, are you?"


"Actually, I am," she smiled. "I've just traveled a lot between
my birth and the present. What made you think I wasn't?"


"Your voice," LaCroix said.   "You don't intone your words as a
typical Texan does."


"And what does a 'typical' Texan sound like?" Julia countered.
LaCroix smiled, giving her the checkmate. She returned the
smile, humor lighting her eyes.


Julia moved away from LaCroix toward the edge of the porch.
She placed her hands on the railing and leaned against it, face
to the night.


"Hmmmm," Julia said, cocking her head and listening as the
strains of the music changed. "They're playing a 'Sonesta.' "


Turning and noting LaCroix's inquiring look, she laughed. "It's
a dance, the Sonesta. I think it's fairly new. The kids were
telling me something about it. As far as I can tell, the object is
to dance as close to your partner as possible, without actually
touching each other. If you touch, even by accident, you're
supposed to leave the dance floor."


LaCroix's mouth twitched, but he said nothing. Julia pushed
herself from the rail and stood before him, her eyes glittering.


"Care to try it?"


"I do not dance," LaCroix declared.


"Neither to I," Julia responded, "so we'd probably make good
partners."


Intrigued, LaCroix allowed the woman to approach him.
Within a whisper of his chest, she abruptly turned so that her
back was to him, her body moving to the rhythm of the music.
She leaned back, the top of her head almost touching his chin,
then shied away, only to turn again so that her shoulder almost
brushed his.


She danced away, like a fairy sprite, then came to him again,
arms curved and held above her head.   Coming close, she
extended a soft hand toward him, reaching for his face.
LaCroix felt the friction as the hand moved past his cheek, felt
the warmth of her closeness, but never her touch.
Julia was behind him now, her back almost kissing LaCroix's.
She extended her arms back and away from her, so that they
each appeared on opposite sides of LaCroix's shoulders. She
pulled back and turned again, her arms extended forward.
LaCroix felt the movement as she lifted her chin, the softness of
her breath blown upward, hot on the back of his neck. She
brushed a hand down each side of his face, past his neck and
over the curve of his shoulders. His skin tingled with the
passing of her flesh, the stirring of the air as she moved so close
to him.


Julia's hands continued their journey, moving past the muscles
of his upper arms and along their length. Her sexual
excitement was building, her breath coming in small gasps as
the dance continued.

LaCroix turned suddenly, careful not to touch her.


They were face to face now and he saw the small beads of
perspiration which had formed across her skin, giving it sheen.
He leaned down to her, moving his face past hers and
decending. Sensing his intentions, she leaned backwards,
giving him full access to her throat and breasts.


LaCroix lifted his   hands, palm out, and traced the lines of her
cleavage, his chin   almost touching her. His hands changed
position and moved   downward, along the lines of her hips,
then back as if to   clasp her buttocks.


Julia moaned softly as he enshrouded her. Her eyes were
closed and her heart was beating madly. LaCroix's response
was predictable. His eyes glowed golden with lust. He moved
closer, his lips a whisper from her throat.


The music stopped. Laughing, Julia opened her eyes and
moved back from the vampire. If she noticed anything odd
about his visage, she gave no indication, assuming the strange
glow in his eyes was a trick of the moonlight.


"My," she was gasping for breath, "but that was a long set.    And
we didn't even dance the whole thing."


LaCroix said nothing.    He simply stared at the woman.


"And you said that you couldn't dance," she chided him,
moving to the railing and leaning her back against it.
"More accurately, I said I 'do not' dance," LaCroix corrected her,
moving to stand by her side. He, too, leaned against the
railing, breathing her essence and willing the vampire under
control. He would take her, yes, but not until he was ready.


"Well you should, and often," she replied, moving a hand up to
brush sweat from her brow. "You are excellent at it--you move
like a cat."


LaCroix smiled. Her return smile was clear and inviting.    He
leaned in, prepared to accept her offer.


"MS. SANFORD!!" a young voice disrupted his plan and caused
both Julia and LaCroix to turn at once. A young girl, maybe
eight or nine years old, ran toward them from the darkness.
"MS. SANFORD!!


Julia sighed and called into the darkness.   "Yes, Theresa, over
here."


The child responded to the woman's voice and hurried over to
stand on the ground below the veranda.   "What's the matter
now?" Julia inquired.


"Corlie broke the cassette player," the child whimpered.   "Can
you fix it?"


Julia sighed again and turned to LaCroix, an apologetic smile
on her face. "Have to go now. Duty calls." She fell to a
sitting position and slipped under the railing, dropping to the
ground.   Julia paused, looking back at the tall figure watching
her. "Goodnight, Mr. LaCroix and thanks for the dance."


LaCroix nodded once to her. Julia took the child's hand and
hurried away into the darkness, knowing that his eyes never
left her.


Not knowing that another set of eyes had been watching them,
that another set of eyes had seen the golden glow in
LaCroix's eyes and knew that it wasn't a trick of the moonlight.
Another set of eyes which belonged to someone who now knew
a secret.
*****************************************


End part 3/64


*****************************************


After watching Julia Sanford retreat into the darkness, LaCroix
started to take flight, but reconsidered when the sound of
laughter reached him. Caution appeared to be in order.


He turned, instead, and strolled back down the veranda, back
to where the mortals had been seated earlier.


When LaCroix arrived, Brackin was the only one remaining on
the porch. His wife had not left long before, though, for the
scent of her was still present. The elderly women had also
disappeared, presumably retiring for the evening. Brackin was
opening a bottle of beer when he saw LaCroix approaching.


"So, LaCroix, you struck out after all," Brackin sneered cheerily.
"Could have told you that you didn't have a chance in hell of
scoring with her."


LaCroix bristled at the man's insolence. Brackin, oblivious to
the danger, continued. "Yep, she's too wrapped up in her
kiddies to pay too much attention to mere mortal men."


Much as he would rather have ripped open Bracken's throat
and watched him bleed to death, LaCroix found himself
wondering if the man might have useful information regarding
Sanford. Brackin, knowing he had LaCroix's attention, was
pleased. The human took a long swig from his beer and then
indicated with the bottle that LaCroix should join him.


LaCroix sat down opposite Brackin, taking care to repose
himself in an attentive, but languid manner. Brackin watched
LaCroix carefully, the process of mental dissection beginning in
earnest. Yes, Brackin had intelligence, the vampire surmised,
but his boorishness more than negated any respect LaCroix
might have had for the man.


Both men waited for the other to speak.
Brackin finished his beer and sat the empty bottle on the table
between the two men. The man's eyes flicked to LaCroix.
LaCroix met the look with indifference, noting with satisfaction
that the game of chicken was unnerving the human somewhat.


Brackin broke first, but with practiced grace.


"Yep," the human said casually, "she's too busy playing 'mama'
to those little brats to dare have a social life."


"I see," LaCroix responded.


"Yea," Brackin's tone was smug. "Julia's a regular here at
Chenes Pointte. She comes every summer and spends two
weeks out there in the stable with her little girls."


Brackin was rewarded by a lift of LaCroix's eyebrow. <He
plays it close to the cuff,> Brackin made a mental note to
himself, <but he still has his weaknesses. I am well on my way
to finding what pushes your button, Mr. LaCroix.>


"So, LaCroix," Brackin continued casually, "You got kids?"


LaCroix smiled.   "Not at the moment, no."


Brackin looked perplexed for a minute, then laughed. "Oh, I
get it.   The little ones are in mommy's custody, right? I bet she
hit you up for mucho dinero in the child support department,
didn't she?"


LaCroix said nothing, allowing the fool to prattle on. Brackin
leaned back and continued. "My ex pretty much tried to take
me to the cleaners, but my accountant did some 'creative
financing' and I came out of it okay. Only have two more
years to pay on that little mistake of my youth." Brackin's tone
was bitter, but then his good humor returned. "Bunnie's my
second wife. I would have been quite content to skip the
baby route again, but she wanted a little one, so I had to
oblige."


LaCroix smiled slightly, encouraging Brackin to continue.
"The kid's okay, I guess, but he's more of a weinie than I
thought my gene pool would produce. Too bad you can't just
go out and choose the children you want."


"Indeed," LaCroix nodded, "but, I have learned that *choosing*
your progeny might still not secure for you the child that you
seek."


Brackin was suddenly very interested.   "Voice of experience?"


LaCroix shrugged slightly. "A historical fact," the vampire
replied, noting that Brackin was displeased that he still had no
personal insight into LaCroix. "I am, you see, an observer of
human behavior."


"That your occupation, LaCroix? You some kind of
psychiatrist, psychologist or something?"


"Or something," LaCroix smiled.


Brackin waited, then realizing that LaCroix did not plan to
embellish, grunted a slight laugh. "I'll give you this, LaCroix,
you're the most closed mouth SOB that I've ever met. I just
wish some of those high priced *financial executives* on my
payroll had as much discretion about my business as you do
about yours."


LaCroix continued to watch as Brackin leaned across the table,
his tone lowered, "But, personal secrecy doesn't extend to Ms.
Julia Sanford, as far as you're concerned, does it? You're still
*dying* to know more about her, aren't you?"


Noting the faintest flicker in those cold blue eyes, Brackin
leaned back in satisfaction. "Well, friend, that little bit of
information will cost you."


Brackin leaned further back and called over his shoulder, "Hey,
Avonne! Bring me another beer, will you?" Brackin turned
back to LaCroix, smiling smugly. "And bring one for Mr.
LaCroix, while you're at it. It's going on his tab, after all."


The men waited in silence for a few minutes before Mrs.
Simmoneaux appeared from the shadows, carrying two frosted
bottles. She sat the beers on the table, one in front of each
guest, and left without words.


Once the proprietress had exited, Brackin reached for his beer.
He unscrewed the cap with expertise and took a long drink.
Finishing, Brackin noticed that LaCroix's beer remained
untouched.


"Oh, pleeaasssee," Brackin said with some disdain. "Don't tell
me that you're one of those white-wine-sippy types."


"Actually, I'm not," LaCroix replied politely.   "I prefer . . . red."


"Yea, and with cheese on the side, I bet," Brackin said with
disdain.   He took another swallow from his beer, his interest in
LaCroix fading with his disgust.


"You were going to tell me something about Julia Sanford that
you thought I might be interested in," LaCroix reminded
Brackin.


"Huhh, oh, yea," Brackin turned his attention back to LaCroix.
"She's some kind of paralegal or something. Works for a law
firm in Houston, big group, bunch of rich bastards. They do a
bunch of pro bono stuff for the poor Hispanic and elderly
population--looks good in their corporate newsletter, I guess.
They're also big into this mentoring program for
underprivileged urban *youths.* That's where our dear
Julia comes into the picture."


"Indeed," LaCroix said. "Then those children you referred to
earlier are not Ms. Sanford's biological offspring, I presume."

"Heck no," Brackin looked at LaCroix with a sneer. "Every
summer, the big guys at the law firm send Sanford out here for
a week or two with a group of crippled, excuse me, *special
needs* kids to give them a vacation in the country. She's really
into it--the mentoring thing--from what I understand."


"Is there anything else, then, that you have to tell me, Mr.
Brackin?"


Brackin took another long drink from the beer and, shaking his
head, said "No, don't think so."
"Then," LaCroix said, rising, "I will say good evening, Mr.
Brackin.   As you noted earlier, I did arrive late and morning
will arrive very soon."


"Well, we'll see you at breakfast then, LaCroix," Brackin lifted
his head and smiled narrowly.


"Doubtful, Mr. Brackin," LaCroix returned. Then, tilting his
head slightly to the side, LaCroix winked confidentially at
Brackin, "but, one can always hope."


Brackin watched at the dark stranger opened the French doors
and disappeared into the main house.   He reached across the
table, grabbed the beer meant for LaCroix, and opened it.
Brackin downed the brew quickly.


"Avonne," he shouted. In a moment Mrs. Simmoneaux stood
by the table. He leaned back in his chair, eyeing the small, dark
woman. "I'll just bet that this LaCroix fellow is your kind of
guest, isn't he? All manners and aristocratic airs."


Mrs. Simmoneaux said nothing, continuing to stare forward,
waiting.


"Well, Avonne, honey, I want to know some more about our
favorite guest," Brackin said.


"The privacy of guests is . . ." she began.


As quickly as a snake, he reached out and clutched the
woman's lower left arm. Mrs. Simmoneaux flinched under the
pressure of his hand.


"That little policy is in affect for the *paying* guests, Avonne,
honey," Brackin noted with satisfaction that the woman's eyes
reflected pain.   "Now my personal policy is to know about
everything that goes on and everyone who stays at Chenes
Pointte. Understand?" Mrs. Simmoneaux shot Brackin a look
of hatred, but nodded.


"Good," the man said with satisfaction, releasing his hold on
the woman. "Now, tell me something. What is Mr. LaCroix's
first name and where does he come from?"
A few moments later, Brackin was again alone on the veranda.
He reached inside his jacket and pulled out a cellular phone.
Brackin punched in the required numbers and waited
impatiently while the other end connected.


"Yea, Buddy. Aaron Brackin here. Yea, yea, I know what time
it is, but I have some work for you.   No, not in the morning--I
want you to get started on it *now* so you can give me a report
in the morning. I need you to do a little personal
investigating--I need you to get me the skinny on a *Lucien
LaCroix* from New Orleans. Okay. Yea, yea. Just remember
who signs your paychecks, hot shot."


Brackin closed the phone's cover and placed it back into his
pocket.


<Okay, Mr. Manners,> Brackin thought smugly, <enjoy your
*privacy* for awhile longer, 'cause by morning I'll know you
better than you know yourself.>


Sighing, Brackin lifted his bulk from the chair and headed
toward the French doors.


He did not hear the rustling of bushes beneath where he'd been
sitting. He did not see the eyes which had been watching him
through the flooring below.


*****************************************


End part 4/64


*****************************************


Aaron Brackin opened the door to his apartment as quietly as
possible.   He really didn't want to wake his wife unnecessarily.
She could be a real bear if she was disturbed and didn't want to
be.


Brackin looked around the room, letting his eyes adjust to the
darkness. His was the largest guestroom in the home--no less
than he would have expected. In addition to having a large
built-in closet, unlike the other rooms, his quarters also had an
anteroom--a ladies sitting area, they used to call it. That room
was being used for the kid's bedroom during their stay.


Brackin grunted and made his way to the bed. He sat down
easily on the edge of the side assigned him and turned so that
he could observe Bunnie. She was sleeping soundly, making
soft snoring sounds.   Brackin bent forward and tugged at his
boots, careful not to drop them.


In his sock feet, Brackin made his way to the lavatory and
splashed some water on his face. He had just finished
unbuttoning his shirt when he heard a sound from the other
room.


A creaking sound.


Silently, Brackin made his way to the anteroom's door and
grasped the knob. He tried it and found it locked.


"Little brat," he muttered to himself. Brackin retraced his steps
to the bedside and retrieved a key from the table. He'd gone
through this on his last trip, his son's secretive little hiding
ways. He wasn't going to put up with it this time. That's why
he'd made this key, just in case little Petey-boy tried one of his
tricks.


Brackin inserted the key, turned it and pushed open the door.


Poised by his bedside, ready to hop in, was Peter Matthew
Brackin.


"Dammit," Brackin cursed softly.   "What have you been up to,
you little brat?"


"Nothin," the boy hissed back. "I just took a pee out the
window, so I wouldn't have to come into your room, okay?
You told me not to wake up Mom, so I was trying not to."


"You lying little scum bag," Brackin approached the skinny
child with upraised hand. "You're standing there in muddy
shoes telling me that you just pissed out a window? I ought to
beat the living shit out of you."


"Aaron?" Bunnie Brackin's sleepy voice drifted in from the
other room.   "Is everything all right?"


Brackin stopped his advance on his son and called back to his
wife, "Yea, darlin', everything's okay. You go on back to sleep
now."


Turning, Brackin shook his finger at the boy and said, "I'll deal
with you in the morning, mister. Now keep your ass in this
room for the rest of the night."


"Yea, yea, yea," the younger Brackin replied after his father had
left the room. Pete shed the incriminating athletic shoes and
crawled, fully clothed, onto his bed. He lay on his back, wide
awake, for a long time, thinking.


A lot had happened to Peter Brackin tonight. Too much for one
twelve-year-old boy to digest in one sitting.


Pete rolled over and reached under his bed, sifting his fingers
through a stack of comic books. He finally settled on one and
began thumbing through a well-read old issue of "Terror Tales."


Around dawn, Pete finally fell asleep.


***************


Once the house was still, LaCroix reopened the shutters and
left his room.   He alighted on the lawn below and moved into
the embracing warmth of the shadows.


Careful to remain in the darkness, LaCroix began exploring the
grounds.


Behind the main house, connected by a stone walkway, was a
shed-like building used for storage. LaCroix guessed that this
must have been the original kitchen, which would naturally
have been set off from the main residence for safety purposes.
Any reminders of its origin, though, had long been boarded
over.    Adjacent to this was a cold, windowless structure--a log
building so tightly fitted that it was almost air-tight. This was
the larder. Several long discarded glass jars remained on the
crude shelving along the walls. LaCroix noted that the hooks
from which hams and sausages had once hung were still
attached to the ceiling.
Just past this, a bare spot on the ground indicated the former
site of an outdoor privy. Even though lime had been spread to
ease the scent, LaCroix's sensitive nose could still smell traces
of human waste buried deep within the earth here. He moved
on quickly.


The path here had not been cut, but worn into the earth by
many repetitious footsteps over the years. LaCroix passed a
good-sized building enclosed within a twisted wire fence.
Inside he could hear movement and soft clucking sounds.


Stopping beyond the poultry house, LaCroix surveyed the
landscape.   To his left, he made out the shape of a good-sized
barn with an attached out-building. To the right of the barn
was a cluster of seven or eight small one-room structures lined
in two rows, facing each other.   The buildings had not been
used for some years and appeared to be in varying states of
decay.


LaCroix allowed his eyes to go to the left again, beyond the
barn. Out into the open space where a large pasture area was
evident, bordered to the far left by what appeared to be a grove.
LaCroix flew up and landed within the stand. The grounds
here were neglected, thick vegetation choking at the roots of the
fruit trees. Skeletal rows of vines gave evidence of where
grapes once grew. Some of the vines still held green, but the
fruit was pitifully small.


Off to the side of the main grove was a single tree, surrounded
by a black iron fence. Curious, LaCroix walked to the site and
opened the small gate which allowed him entrance.


The enclosure was perhaps twelve-feet-square, dominated, of
course, by the tree. A small stone bench had been placed to the
side, beneath the shade of its branches. LaCroix examined the
gnarled, uneven trunk. His eyes lifted to observe the
gray-green leaves and its many small, imperfect flowers.
Something within LaCroix stirred as he recognized the species.


An olive tree.


LaCroix touched the soft foliage. Someone, long ago, must
have planted it here and taken extraordinary measures to keep
it alive, for it was not native to this habitat. Someone had once
cared very deeply about the fate of this tree, nurturing it with
passion.   Memories of his human youth threatened to come
and LaCroix bade them back fiercely.   Such thoughts
weakened the vampire spirit. With a shift of his shoulders,
LaCroix flew from the grove.


He landed behind the main house, to the right of the initial
outcrop of buildings he'd investigated. Half hidden beyond the
corner of the home was the stable.


LaCroix walked toward it, allowing his senses to probe for the
humans within. He detected six heartbeats--five of which beat
swiftly. These were the heartbeats of children. The sixth was a
female adult. Her heart beat slowly, steadily, strongly.


The vampire made his way to the rear of the cottage. He tried
the door and found it locked. A swift jerk of his wrist and the
lock snapped.   LaCroix gently pushed the door open, waiting
for it to squeak. The door's passage was silent; as silent as
LaCroix's entry into the room.


The stable origin was evident. The door opened into a long hall
which extended the length of the building to another door. On
each side of the hall were four doors leading to rooms beyond.


This had been the stall area, LaCroix knew. Four horses, the
carriage team, had been kept here. The other plantation stock
had been confined to either the barn or pasture area. The door
beyond would lead to where the livery had been kept and a
tack room would be off from that.


The stall area, though, was what LaCroix sought.   This was
where the humans slept.


LaCroix followed Julia Sanford's heartbeat.     He caught her
scent in the air and smiled.


The door to her bedroom was not latched.      LaCroix pushed it
open and stood in the doorway, unmoving.


Sanford lay on her side, one arm tucked under her pillow, a
thin bedsheet her only cover. She was breathing deeply, her
sleep undisturbed and restive.


LaCroix moved over to stand by her bedside.   He looked down,
watching the movement of the coverlet at each intake of her
breath.


<So peaceful, her sleep,> the vampire observed. He noted that
her eyes
flickered in REM deepness and wondered, with a slight smile, if
she was
dreaming of him.


There was a way to assure it, he knew. One kiss, one long
lingering look and she would be his, body and soul. She would
never even be truly aware that it had happened.


But there was the rub, ehh, LaCroix thought. What good was
the prize if won by deceit? If there was no coming by free
choice, then the result would surely be a sour fruit. LaCroix
laughed softly, bitterly.   Sometimes even *free choice* held no
certainty that there would not be disappointment.


Sanford sighed and moved, rolling her body slightly so that the
bedsheet slipped away from her shoulder, exposing her. Julia
was wearing an oversized white T-shirt. The shirt was adorned
with some black printing, but LaCroix could not read it, except
to note that it began with an "F."


What he could see, clearly, was that Julia's perspiration had
made the shirt cling, tightly, to her flesh.


Her breasts, like the rest of her, were small, but full and firm.
They moved gently up and down with her breathing, pulsing
with life. <Pre-middle age has been kind to her,> LaCroix
noted with a smile. The angle of her head had also changed
with her turning, falling to the side, exposing her neck more.
The tiny vein which coursed from her shoulder to her ear
vibrated with the passage of her blood.


LaCroix reached out easily, allowing two fingers to gently
brush the softness of her throat. Julia moaned softly, but did
not waken.


LaCroix moved his fingers downward, tracing the vein to her
shoulder. He touched the material of her night shirt. LaCroix
took the cotton garment's edge and pressed it between his
thumb and forefinger, tugging at it slightly. Julia sighed and
stirred again.
The vampire leaned closer, allowing his breath to make contact
with her flesh. Her heart fluttered once with the intimacy of his
closeness, but then resumed its natural slumber beat.   LaCroix
allowed his senses to absorb her.


She was mulberry and chocolate. Clear spring water after a
dusty day's campaign in the desert.  He drank her in deeply,
his nostrils flaring slightly. He felt the demon coming in his
blood.


Something else, too, he realized. An intriguing spice flowed
through her, giving her uniqueness. He had sensed it before,
but the memory would not come to him where.


He allowed the vampire to rise, felt his eyes glowing with the
cold gold fire of his lust. LaCroix was so tempted to take the
woman. He felt the sharpness of his fangs pushing into his
lower gums. LaCroix allowed his mouth to open slightly, to
relieve the pressure.


Julia's eyes fluttered and opened a slit. Sensing a shadow
above her, she came more awake, rising up on her elbows.
Sanford looking around, but seeing nothing, fell back onto the
mattress. She shifted her body slightly, sighed and was asleep
again.


>From the hallway, LaCroix watched her return to rest.    He was
composed now. LaCroix turned to leave and froze.


A small, thin female child, perhaps eight or   nine, barred his
way. She clutched a battered stuffed animal    which bore
resemblance to a rabbit, but had been dyed a   bright pink color.
The girl looked up at LaCroix through sleepy   eyes.


The child blinked and LaCroix vanished into the shadows at
the far end of the hall. The girl looked around with some
alarm, then fled into Sanford's room.


LaCroix left the building and made his way quickly back to the
main house. From the window of his room he watched lights
come on in the stable.   Though his vantage point faced west,
LaCroix could see the first rays of sunlight touching the high
trees, reflecting pink off their dew-covered leaves.
LaCroix closed the shutters and latched them, drawing the
curtains tightly. He crossed to the secretary, removed a bottle
and lay down on his bed. Staring at the nothing of the far wall,
LaCroix sipped absently from the bottle and thought of Julia
Sanford.


*****************************************
End part 5/64


*****************************************


When the sunlight finally vanished on that second day, LaCroix
awoke thinking of Julia Sanford.


He immediately went to the cabinet and reached for the blood,
but pulled his hand back in surprise. Two of the six bottles
were empty.    He'd brought a week's supply, but had already
downed one-third of his reserve. LaCroix remembered
drinking both, and the reason for doing so. The answer
disturbed him.


The human female had intensified his craving to feed.


And he had wakened, thinking of her.


<At this rate,> the vampire mused, retrieving one of the full
bottles, <I will either have to shorten my vacation plans or find
an alternative source of sustenance.> He uncorked the flask
and downed its contents in one draught.


The long summer season necessitated LaCroix's appearance be
postponed until well after 8 p.m. Supper had long since been
eaten and the guests were once again settled on the veranda.
The elderly ladies were not among those on the porch this
evening, their place now occupied by a young couple barely
out of their teens. They snuggled and cooed, wide-eyed with
shyness and barely concealed lust.


"Hey there, LaCroix, you finally decide to return to the land of
the living?" Brackin's voice boomed across terrace. "We were
beginning to think that you'd 'died' up there, or something."


"Sorry to disappoint, Mr. Brackin," LaCroix wrinkled his nose is
the faintest semblance of a smile.
"Hey, no problem," Brackin waved his hand across the table.
"Have a seat and a chat, now that you're all rested up."


LaCroix took the offered chair. His eyes scanned the porch, but
there was no sight of her. When he returned his attention to
Brackin, the distasteful man was smirking at him.


"Haven't seen her tonight, Lucien, old buddy." LaCroix
stiffened at Brackin's use of the adopted given name, a fact
which Brackin noted with satisfaction. "Guess she and the
kiddies are on an excursion or something. Guess you'll just
have to settle for the company of us plain folk."


"I could always read a good book," LaCroix returned, hoping
that his sneer would repel the officious mortal without the need
for more progressive measures. Brackin obligingly laughed
and leaned back in his chair.


"You are a card, Luke."   LaCroix shot the man a withering
glare, but Brackin paid no mind. "I think I might just like you
after
all. Avonne!" The woman appeared at the French doors,
looking more withdrawn than LaCroix remembered her from
the previous night's meeting. "Avonne, get my friend Luke,
here, a glass of red wine, would you? And see if you can rustle
him up some slices of cheddar or something . . . I'm sure he's
hungry."


Once Mrs. Simmoneaux had disappeared into the manor,
Brackin returned his attention to LaCroix. He inclined his head
toward the young couple.   "Honeymooners," Brackin said
confidentially, winking. "From the rumbling of the women, I
understand that she is about four months into the family
condition."


<More closer to five.> LaCroix listened to the fetal heartbeat
within the young woman's womb.   The couple, no more than
children themselves, were so lost within their own embrace
that they scarcely knew others were on the same planet, much
less the veranda. "So young . . . " LaCroix returned his
attention to Brackin. "Speaking of family, Mr. Brackin, where is
your wife this evening?"


Brackin took a long drink from the beer he was nursing and
then began rolling the bottle gently between his hands. "Gone
into Arnaudville with the boy.   Thought he needed some new
underwear or something."


The young couple rose and linked hands. They made their way
to the French doors, passing Mrs. Simmoneaux as they entered
the house.   The proprietress approached the table where
LaCroix and Brackin sat, placing a tray in front of LaCroix.   He
accepted the goblet of Cabernet which she handed him, but
shook his head at the cheese and imported biscuits.


After Avonne Simmoneaux had retreated into the home,
Brackin smiled and addressed LaCroix.


"You're an interesting fellow, LaCroix," Brackin laced his
fingers together and stretched them out, as though studying the
nails. LaCroix viewed him over the goblet, waiting.


Finally speaking   "How so, Mr. Brackin?"


"Well, for one, you appear to be pretty well traveled," Brackin
replied. "You work for a New Orleans radio station as some
kind of late night shock jock or something, right?"


LaCroix's eyes glittered, hued red from the wine's reflection.
He offered no confirmation to Brackin's question.


"And before that, you did pretty much the same across the
border in Canada--Toronto, I believe. Stayed up there for about
three years, so my sources inform me." Brackin reached for his
beer.


"My compliments to your investigator, but that information is
hardly confidential." LaCroix leaned back in his chair, offering
Brackin a slight curl of his lip. "Anyone with access to my
resume would have the same details."


Brackin laughed slightly. "Yea, you're right, Luke. That bit of
information would hardly be worth the expense of the
detective, now would it?" Brackin reached inside the pocket of
his short sleeved cotton shirt and withdrew a pair of reading
glasses and a folded piece of legal paper. After donning the
eyeglasses, Brackin flipped open the sheet and perused it in
silence for a moment. Finally, he looked up at LaCroix and
smiled thinly. "Healthy bank account for a disc jockey,
wouldn't you say?"
LaCroix's eyes narrowed, but he said nothing.


"Found the one in the Crescent City, no problem," Brackin
continued.   "And the two in Canada. It's the one in the
Caymans which almost got away from me. I was expecting that
to be in Switzerland. Had to admit, though, that the assumed
name gave me a tickle--Cyrus Lucent. Any kin to the telephone
company?"


LaCroix slowly shook his head 'no.'


"So, how'd you come by your wealth, Luke?   Business?   Old
money?"


"Actually, material possessions mean little to me," LaCroix
smiled slightly. He licked his tongue across the inside of his
mouth, making a sucking/ticking sound.   "The money belongs
mostly to others. I simply 'retain' it for them, from time to
time."


Brackin eyed him carefully. "I'll just bet you do." The mortal
took a healthy swallow from the beer and regarded LaCroix
with keen interest. "You wouldn't be into anything shady now,
would you?"


LaCroix laughed heartily at Brackin's subtlety. "If you mean
money-laundering, as in a 'mob' connection, no."   LaCroix
shook
his head, then looked at Brackin with mirrored keenness. He
smiled at a memory.   "Although I have some connections
within organized crime, I must admit."


"Is that how you beat the murder charge up in Toronto?"
Brackin asked quietly.   LaCroix leveled his gaze on the mortal,
smiling without mirth.


"Your people are efficient," the vampire said softly. He shook
his head. "No, I was released due to lack of evidence and actual
innocence--of that particular crime."


"How about the charges in New Orleans a couple of months
ago?"
"A misunderstanding," LaCroix replied. "And, if your detective
had truly done his homework, he'd have told you that those
charges were dropped."


"But neither crime was resolved." Brackin folded the paper and
returned it to his pocket. He looked squarely at LaCroix.
"Which means you may just be a lucky son-of-a-bitch, Luke."


He leaned forward, his eyes tense, his words stabbing. "I
wonder what Ms. Julia would think of you if she knew of your
rather checkered past, Mr. LaCroix?"


LaCroix felt the sudden flush of pure anger, felt the sudden
thrust of the fangs as they swelled within his mouth. He
started to reach across the table, to be done with this interfering
creature when a clamor further down the porch halted him.
Looking away from and past Brackin, he saw Roberta Brackin
approaching, laden with packages, a pre-teen boy in tow. The
vampire sat back just as the woman arrived, dumping parcels
on the table between LaCroix and her husband.


"Whew, what a day at the races," Bunnie sighed, fanning herself
as she fell into a chair between the two men. "And you,
buster . . ." she scowled at the boy, " . . . were as useless at tits
on a boar. All I needed was for you to give me some help on
what to buy you, and all I get was silence or those rolled eyes of
yours."


Brackin looked dead at his son, prepared to cuff the boy if he
retorted, but Peter remained quiet, his eyes fixed.


On LaCroix.


His anger under control, LaCroix appraised the child. The
boy's heart was thudding rapidly, but he gave no outward
indication of emotion. Peter simply looked at LaCroix, his
expression masked. The child raised his eyes slightly,
noting that LaCroix was watching him like a cat would a bird.
Peter froze.


LaCroix smiled, his eyes catching the boy's. The child stared
for a moment, then blinked. LaCroix's smile faded.


"Can I be excused, please?"   Peter addressed his father with
such politeness that Brackin almost choked on the beer he'd just
taken into his mouth. Brackin looked at Bunnie, who shrugged,
then nodded.


"Yea, go on, Rabbit," Brackin said. Peter turned quickly to
move away, but Brackin caught the boy's arm, his tone
lowering to threatening. "Just remember--bed tonight by ten,
and no night time visits outside, comprende?"


The child nodded, then, released from his father's grip, fled.


LaCroix watched the child's flight. The hairs on the back of his
neck stood erect as he tracked the child's heart beat. It raced,
befitting Peter's nickname.


"So, hon, what you been doing to keep yourself busy?" Bunnie
leaned over and bussed Brackin's cheek, leaving a mauve smear
on the flesh.   Brackin made a fist and rubbed at the stain.


"Nothing much," he replied, then looked at LaCroix, a smirk on
his face. "Just spent the day looking up some old friends."


"Sound's absolutely fascinating," Bunnie said, resuming her
fanning.   "At least you didn't waste the day on the golf course,
for a change. Do me a favor, darlin, and get me something cool
to drink. I'm dying here."


Brackin smiled. "Glad to oblige." He leaned back and yelled
into the house. "Avonne, bring Mrs. B her usual, would you?"
He turned to LaCroix. "Freshen up that *wine* for you, Luke?"


LaCroix shook his head. He pushed back from the table, his
eyes steady on Brackin. The mortal returned the look, never
wavering, as the dark man rose.


"Excuse me, but I have things to attend to," LaCroix said.


Brackin allowed LaCroix to move several steps from the table
before he called to him with false cheeriness.


"Happy hunting, Luke."
LaCroix tensed and turned slightly, his eyes pinning Brackin.
Brackin returned the look with a narrow grin. LaCroix shifted
his attention to Bunnie Brackin and smiled his most courtly.
"Have a pleasant evening, Mrs. Brackin." She returned the
smile, perhaps just a bit too warmly.   LaCroix was rewarded
with Brackin's look of obvious displeasure. <Now we know
your *button*, don't we, Mr. Brackin?>


The Brackins watched as LaCroix descended the porch steps to
the lawn. The white-haired figure quickly disappeared in the
darkness.


Brackin waited until Bunnie had taken her second sip from the
Julep before casually asking her the question on his mind. "Do
you find that LaCroix fellow sexy, Roberta?"


Bunnie looked at Brackin in amusement. Eyes twinkling, she
tweaked him slightly with a "He's not half bad to look at,
Aaron."   Then, noting his pout, she repositioned herself,
sliding her hand between her husband's legs. "But, I have all I
need sitting right here in front of me."


Brackin grinned and leaned in to her, but she withdrew her
hand and pulled back. "I am worried about something,
though."


Aaron fell back also, shaking his head.   "The boy, right?"


Bunnie nodded, her features suddenly unhappy.   "He was
acting really weird today."


Brackin coughed. "And that's unusual?     I hate to tell you,
Bunnie, but . . ."


The woman cut him off with a fierce movement of her head and
a fleck of her hand. "Weirder than usual, okay?!" Brackin grew
quiet at the seriousness of her tone. He waited.


"You know the only thing he wanted in town today?" she said
softly.


Brackin started to mouth something smart, but caught himself
and only shook his head. Bunnie looked at her husband, the
concern evident on her face.
"He insisted that we go to the Christian bookstore," she said.
"He wanted to buy a crucifix."


**************************


End of Part 6/64


**************************


LaCroix was unaware he was seeking her until he caught her
scent.


His approach to Julia Sanford was silent, a shade crossing the
overgrown landscape of the grove. If she sensed him, she gave
no indication, but continued to stare off into the darkness. A
night bird of some type, LaCroix knew didn't know its name,
called to its mate, then there was silence.


LaCroix stopped, observing the young woman.   Julia was
dressed in a light sundress, low at the neck and designed for
the climate. She sat still on the small stone bench, like a
graceful statuette. Her legs were not crossed, but held together
at the ankles, so that her skirt formed a basket of sorts. On her
lap was a collection of items which LaCroix had no trouble
discerning, even at this distance. A small rounded stone, a
wilted purple flower, a fist-width short stick which appeared
sheared of bark, a tin figure encrusted in rust--all these
treasures she held.


LaCroix continued his approach. Only the sound of the metal
gate's grating hinges alerted her to his presence. She turned,
wary but not startled. When she saw him, her face relaxed into
a smile.


"Well, you're a long way from the main house, Mr. LaCroix,"
she commented. "You weren't looking for me now, were you?"


LaCroix didn't reply, simply choosing to stand and watch her
for a moment. He listened to her heart, noting the slight
speeding up of its beat, the increase in her breath rate. LaCroix
began walking toward her.
"You look like you had a nice rest, Mr. LaCroix," she teased as
the tall man moved to stand near her.   "Thought you were
going to sleep your life away."


LaCroix returned her smile, measuring her. She tilted her head
to him, her square jaw strong and her eyes sharp with humor.
He wanted her dearly.


"Would that have troubled you, Ms. Sanford?" LaCroix replied
with a faint, inquiring smile, his eyes burning. "That I might
have slept my life away?"


Julia laughed, breaking contact.  She returned to him, her own
eyes kindled. "Perhaps it would have, Mr. LaCroix. Perhaps it
would."


<Too soon,> LaCroix thought, bidding the rising beast back.
He had no doubt of the future outcome of this tryst, but he
would choose the time and the manner. Not even the vampire
within would control the spirit that was Lucien LaCroix--of that
he was determined.   He moved away from her, diverting his
attention to the tree.


As he touched the rough bark surface, she spoke.   "Do you
know what type of tree that is?"


He did not turn, but stroked the trunk.   "An olive tree," he said.


A slight laugh. "Very good," Julia said. "Add botany to your
list of expertise." She rose, shaking her skirt and softly
dropping its contents to the ground. She walked easily toward
him. He felt her near his shoulder. "Do you find it unusual, to
see an olive tree here?"


LaCroix turned, absolutely in control of himself, and looked
down at the slight figure standing next to him.


"I do know that this species it not native to the area, if that is
what you are asking?" LaCroix said. Julia nodded. She
reached out to touch the tree, her shoulder brushing against
his, her hand next to LaCroix's.


"Not native," she murmured, looking up through the dense
foliage. "So out of place in a hostile environment. Only
surviving because someone tended it so faithfully, only to
watch it grow but bare no fruit. The olive tree can live in this
region, this part of the country, but will be barren."


LaCroix watched her, silent. A darkness wraithed across Julia's
face. "Even if it were to produce drupes, you know that the
fresh fruit is bitter to the taste."


"But the oil within is sweet," LaCroix said quietly, "and the
flower quite fragrant."


Julia looked at him, questioningly. Then, just as suddenly as it
had descended upon her, the shadows lifted from her features
and she smiled.


"Want another history lesson regarding Chenes Pointte, Mr.
LaCroix?" she teased. LaCroix nodded, humoring her.


Julia returned her attention to the tree, patting the cracked
outer bark with affection. "According to Mrs. Simmoneaux,
this tree was planted by the granddaughter of the original
owners.   Her name was Trusa Vortilla."


The young woman looked at LaCroix, her eyebrows creased in
concern, but her glittering eyes belying the seriousness of her
tone. "The story becomes tragic now, Mr. LaCroix. Are you
certain that you wish to hear it?"


"Please continue, Ms. Sanford," LaCroix instructed her. He
quirked his lips and nodded. "I think I can steel myself to
handle historic misfortune."


Julia grinned, but quickly made her tone sober. "It seems that
young Senorita Vortilla was one of three sisters. Barely past the
age of fourteen, she was betrothed to a local landowner, Victor
Pasquan, as was the custom of the time."


Julia moved around the tree, tracing the trunk with her fingers
as she circled it. "But, young Trusa's parents had no idea of the
thoughts within the young woman's head. For her time, she
was educated. Literate and with a passion for books,
especially those of a romantic nature. The marriage arranged,
her family thought no more of the child's silly outlook on life,
and began discussing how the alliance between the Vortilla and
Pasquan families should prove profitable for everyone."
The young woman caught hold of the tree with both hands and
quickly spun around the trunk, peering at LaCroix from the
opposite side.   "They didn't know about Rodrigo."


"Ahhhh," LaCroix tilted his head back, nodding.   "The young
lover." Julia nodded also, mocking gravity.


"Yes. The lover. The son of a merchant who supplied seed and
supplies to the landed families of the region. The dashing,
dark-haired Rodrigo who first saw Trusa, at age thirteen,
picking grapes in the arbor, her hair pulled back and scarfed.
Before the afternoon was over, it is said, he had removed
that scarf and tasted the fruit of her garden."


"Tsk, tsk," LaCroix clucked his tongue, looking off into the
night. "Naughty children."


"Ahh," Julia laughed softly. She reached out a hand, two
fingers extended, and gently touched the side of LaCroix's face,
at the temple, drawing the touch down across his cheek. "Since
when has love not been somewhat naughty?"

*****************************************


End part 7/64


*****************************************


LaCroix started at her touch, reaching to catch Julia's hand, but
she moved away, laughing. Using the tree as a shield between
them, she continued her story.


"That year of their meeting, Rodrigo gave Trusa the olive tree
as a gift, a token of his esteem and affection for the young
woman. His father had imported the saplings from Spain,
planning to buy land of his own, have a grove of olive trees and
amass an immense fortune from the venture. The climate,
though, proved too humid and many of the trees died before
they could mature. And, those that survived bore no fruit."
"But," Julia chided herself, "we stray from the story."


She turned, resting her back against the tree's trunk. A quick
glance in LaCroix's direction affirmed that she still held his
attention.   She returned her gaze to the distant darkness and
continued.


"During the next year, they watched together as the tree grew.
Rodrigo would bring the latest thoughts from his father,
regarding the care of the sapling and Trusa faithfully tended it,
just as Rodrigo tended her. Even before the tiny leaves gave
shade, they would sit under its promise and she would read
poetry to the young man."


Julia frowned. "Then, came news of the engagement. Trusa
fought her parents, saying she was too young, she wanted to
live life first, even later professing to religion and asking to be
sent to an order. She lost, of course. Trusa was married to
Victor Pasquan on her fifteenth birthday."


Julia's voice was soft, yet firm. "Trusa never mentioned
Rodrigo's name during the family discussions prior to her
nuptials. To do so would have resulted in his death, and both
of them knew that. Trusa went to live in the hacienda de
Pasquan, renamed Corazo'n de la Aceituna at the request of
his bride, though Victor never knew why."


The auburn-haired woman moved from the tree, walking until
her passage was blocked by the iron fence which enclosed
them. She rested both arms on the top rail, careful to place
them between the upturned pointed spikes which gave it
ornamentation. She didn't look at LaCroix.


"Their relationship was said to be acceptable, but Trusa
Pasquan bore her husband no children.   Instead, Victor
Pasquan's legal heirs were his nephews, adopted from his
sister.
His blood progeny were the issue of assorted house servants
and senoras from the area.   Trusa and Victor Pasquan were
husband and wife for almost thirty years before he knew of
Rodrigo, and then he discovered it quite by accident," Julia
continued, her voice low. "The Senora had not returned from
her ride and the 'criados del establo' had been dispatched to
look for her.   She was found, dead, laying face down in the
dirt, within this enclosure. The length of her skirt, below the
knee, was filthy, as if she had been kneeling.   Disturbed earth
at the base of the tree indicated that she had been pulling
weeds from around it. When they turned the body over, they
found that her face was encrusted with mud, where her tears
had mixed with the soil she'd lain in."


Julia turned toward LaCroix, her eyes moist, her knuckles
whitening under her grip on the iron.    LaCroix made no
motion toward her.


"A child?" he inquired, his voice holding a note of frost. Julia
looked surprised at his tone. LaCroix shrugged. "If so, dear
Ms. Sanford, it is a story as old as time and repeated so very
often." LaCroix looked at the base of the tree. "Mistakes are
made, and mortals attempt to bury them, rather than learn
from them."


Julia shook her head, sadly. "Can you be so cold, Mr. LaCroix?
So unmoved, if that were the case?"   She moved back to the
tree. "Yes, a life was buried here, but not that of an infant."    She
parted the lower branches, looking up along the length of the
trunk. LaCroix went to her side now, following her gaze.
Midway to the upper fork was the expected carving. A crude
heart with the letters 'T' and 'R' within, entwined by hewn
vines.


Below the heart was carved one word.


Poesia.


"When Senor Pasquan brushed the dirt and leaves away from
the tended ground, he probably expected to discover a small
corpse here, much as you did. A youthful mishap which would
explain his late wife's barrenness, now wouldn't it?" Julia
lifted her chin, her eyes hard on LaCroix. They softened
immediately. "But Pasquan found only a book. A small,
ragged text, its pages shredded by weather and time spent
entombed. Still, through the tatters, he was able to make out
that it was a book of poems.   And, on the inside cover, written
in his wife's cursive hand, were the word's "For Rodrigo.
Though he cannot read of my love, he holds it in his heart."


The vampire and woman stood in silence for a moment, the tale
ended.   LaCroix moved first, as if to approach her, but Julia
moved away, once again dodging behind the olive tree, using it
to deflect his path. LaCroix stopped.


Julia suddenly laughed.   She looked at LaCroix, her face
impish.


"Hey! Don't take it so seriously, Mr. LaCroix," she grinned, her
eyebrows drawn down in mock consternation.   "They've been
dead a good two-hundred years, and they are feeling no pain.
Probably up there right now, laughing at us for being so
*tragic.*   But," she went on, her eyes lighting, "it does give
you pause to stop and think. Life is too short to waste on
regrets and tending to things lost. Best to live and enjoy what
you have at the present."


"That would be a healthy philosophy." LaCroix nodded in
agreement, but sensed an undercurrent of falsehood in the
young woman's belief in her statement.   He would have
pursued it, but she moved to the iron railing again, her eyes to
the darkness.


"There's a storm brewing," she said, looking to the southeast.
A slight breeze lifted her hair, sending a fiery tendril into the
night sky. A faint flash of soundless lightening appeared
between the trees which blocked their view of the horizon.


"How do you know?" LaCroix said, moving toward her. Julia
lifted her head, her nostrils open to catch the dampness in the
air. LaCroix did likewise, but the night's other scents held no
fascination for him, only the essence of her. That spice again.
Heady, piquant. What was it?


"Oh, I just know," Julia shrugged. She turned to him, her face
soft in the shadows.   "You live in this area long enough and
you learn to sense when something is churning up out off the
coast."


She turned back in the direction of the coming storm.   "And,"
she said softly. "It feels like a big one."


*************************
End part 8/64


************************


Peter Brackin sat on the sill of his bedroom window,
leaning half out of the room. He was watching the
lightning flashes, counting the seconds until the sound of the
thunder reached his ears. The storm was drawing closer.


Absently, the boy touched the small beaded crucifix
draped across his knee.
"Pete?" his father's voice startled young Brackin--not so much
the sound, but the tone. It held concern . . . almost fatherly.
The boy turned to see Aaron Brackin standing in the doorway.
He measured the man for a moment. Almost . . . but Pete knew
from experience that any fatherly compassion wouldn't last.


"Yea," he answered, turning to the window, his back to the
man. "What do you want?" Pete quickly swept the crucifix off
his knee and stuffed it into his front jeans pocket--an action not
lost on the elder Brackin.


The older man swallowed back the anger which mounted in his
throat. He walked toward the boy.    "Just wanted to check and
see if you were okay."


"Well, duhhhhh, I'm sitting here, alive and well, aren't I?" the
boy responded with sarcasm, never taking his eyes from the
night.


Brackin stifled an impulse to strike the child.   Petey sure didn't
make it easy.


Aaron Brackin started across the small room. As he
approached the boy, he changed his course and walked toward
the twin size bed instead. With a heavy sigh, Brackin sat down
on the bed, closest to Pete.


The room was close with the silence between the two
individuals. Pete waited, barely breathing, wondering what his
father wanted.


"Pete," the elder Brackin began. The boy stiffened, but he didn't
acknowledge his name. Aaron watched the boy's back for a
moment, then continued. "Pete, your mother is worried about
you."


This brought a bitter laugh from the child. "What you mean,
*Dad*, is that she's pissed off at me, right?"


Brackin's face reddened. "Watch your mouth, kid."    Brackin
caught himself before he said anything further. Pete, expecting
much worse, watched Brackin from his side vision. He noted
his father's struggle for composure and this interested him.
Usually his old man didn't bother to move past the yelling and
threatening stage.
Pete knew very well that Aaron Brackin had not wanted
another child. He knew that his father had an older son
somewhere up north whom Brackin had worshipped then lost
touch with after a bitter divorce and custody proceeding. Pete
also knew that Brackin suspected that Pete wasn't his child,
but that he wanted Bunnie enough to ignore this suspicion.
Yep, Aaron Brackin wanted his mother, Pete knew, but not the
kid.


"Sorry,"   the boy conceded also. "I didn't mean to *tick* Mom
off, but   it really doesn't matter to me if I wear Hanes <tm> or
Fruit of   the Loom <tm>."   Pete refocused on the night, his stare
too hard   to be real.


Aaron sighed   again. "Son," he said heavily, "I don't think she
really cares   about the underwear thing . . . she didn't even
mention that   to me. She's worried, though, about your
insisting on   buying the cross."


Aaron gave Pete a moment to digest this information before
continuing. "She thinks you might be into some strange
religious thing--something you picked up on the
internet--maybe some cult. Me . . . I'm not too concerned 'cause
I think I know where you're coming from."


"Mars?" the boy said, his sarcasm so thick it was spreadable.
To Pete's surprise, Brackin laughed.   This caused the boy to
turn and face his father.


"No, a little closer to home, I think," Brackin said.  He gestured
with his head downward. "Like the stash you keep under your
bed here."


Before Pete could react, Aaron reached down and pulled the
box of comic books from under the bed frame. He retrieved the
first one, "Poltergeist Parables," and began thumbing through
it. Keeping his eyes on the book's pages, Aaron spoke softly to
his son. "I think you think you found yourself a vampire."


Pete's mouth dropped open.


A sudden flash of lightening sent an electrical current of light
through the room, brightening it to the point of blindness. The
sudden loud clamor of thunder made the boy jump in surprise.
Aaron Brackin sat on the bedside, calmly flipping through the
comic's pages. He turned the magazine back to the cover,
shaking his head.


"When I was your age, this thing cost twelve cents," Brackin
said with a wry smile. "Of course, my allowance was a dollar a
week back then.   And, I will admit, the artwork sure has
improved since then. Back in the early sixties, it was a
fifty/fifty chance that the hero's face would be orange instead
of fleshtone."


Pete said nothing, his mouth still open slightly, his mind
racing. Aaron slowly raised his eyes and looked at the boy.


"Want to tell me about it?"


Pete quickly gulped and assumed proper pre-teen indignity.
He narrowed his eyes and snorted.   "'bout what?"


Aaron smiled thinly.   "The vampire you think you found."


Pete returned the smile, his own lips a slit imitation of his
father's. "I don't know what you're talking about," the boy
responded, "but if you came here to give me a lecture or
something, why don't you just get to it."


"You little prig," Aaron chuckled softly. "I really ought to
smack you silly for your back-talking me, except for the fact
that I'd have probably answered my old man the same if he'd
come at me with a question like that." Pete's mouth started to
drop open again at his father's response, but he caught
himself. Aaron went on. "Okay, Pete, we'll play it this way if
you want."


Another loud clap of thunder shook the tiny room.   Aaron
hoisted himself from the bed and walked over to window next
to the one where Pete sat. He looked out into the night, a funny
look on his face.


"You know, don't you, Pete, that I've probably forgotten more
about vampire lore than you ever dreamed of knowing." Aaron
cut his eyes to the boy and grinned. "You do know that I got
my business start making B-movies with your Uncle Wolf don't
you?"


Pete nodded. He'd never really given it much thought. He
knew his dad had once worked in the movies, but then, his dad
had done a lot of things in his life, to hear him tell it.


"Yea, Wolf and I had some good times scaring the hell out of
people," Brackin nodded, a glimmer of forgotten youth lighting
his eyes. "When I was your age, I lived and breathed stuff like
Uncle Creepy <tm> and Vampirella <tm>. I had this plastic
model of the Mummy <tm> that I chased your Aunt Linda
with--probably aged her ten years that one summer. Gosh, but
that was fun."


Pete grinned despite himself. He'd met his Aunt Linda, a
couple of times. She was a screamer, he remembered. They'd
all been at her house in Montana, where she had a ranch of
sorts, really just a scrub piece of land nestled up to a national
park.   Linda Stockwell fancied herself to be an artist, writing
bad poetry (heck, it didn't even rhyme) and making wood art
that looked like wild horses and Indians. Pete must have been
four or five, because they'd already sent him to bed. It was real
dark outside when a piercing screech from downstairs
had startled the child awake. He'd been unable to move, he
was so frightened. Pete had wet the bed that night. His smile
faded.


His mother had finally come to the room to check on him and
discovered the soaked sheets. She'd helped him change the
linens, reassuring him that it was just his father playing a prank
on his Aunt Linda--something to do with plastic bugs and
string. Just go back to sleep, Pete sweety--she'd kissed the
child's forehead and slipped out of the room.


Peter Brackin hadn't been able to go back to sleep that night.
Finally, he'd slipped from the bed and ventured out into the
hall. He'd knelt by the top of the stairs and listened to the
conversation between his father and aunt's husband, learning
of his mother's suspected betrayal. It was about that time
that Peter began to hate his father.


"Yea, we had some good times, Wolf and I," Brackin continued,
lost in his musings. "I was the idea man, but it was your Uncle
Wolf who could make the magic. Even when we were kids
using the eighteen millimeter, he could take a rubber hose and
make it dance like a spider, or take a mound of trash and
be able to convince anyone that it was an alien world. God,
there's no telling what he'd have been able to do today, with
computer graphics and all."


Brackin turned to his son, his voice soft.  "But he didn't live to
see this new age of horror, Pete. Died twenty years ago from
some bug he caught on a location shoot. After that, I sold the
company, but took most of my buy out in stock options. The
rest, as they say, is history."


Pete gave his dad a sneer.    "Is there a moral to this story, Mr.
Peabody <tm>?"


Brackin instinctively raised his hand and Pete flinched
backward.   Thunder clanged in the boy's ears. Aaron caught
himself and reached out with the hand, clasping the boy behind
the neck.


"Listen to me and listen to me good, Pete. I was a weird kid . . .
maybe even weirder than you. I paid a price for it, too. Went
through most of my school years known as Airhead Brackin.
Got F's on theme papers because I wrote about blood and gore
rather than flowers and family. Flunked art because if you
put a piece of clay in front of me, you got back a gargoyle or
other fanged creature rather than a piece of pottery."


Aaron looked hard into the boy's eyes. "I know about them all,
Pete--the werewolves, ghosts, zombies and especially . . . "
Brackin released the word in a harsh whisper, "the vampires. I
loved them, embraced them and they made me rich. And
I can tell you one thing for sure, son . . . They don't exist."


Brackin released Pete and pulled his hand back to his side.
Outside, the rain began to fall softly.


"Think about it, Pete," Brackin said matter-of-factly.    "If
vampires really existed, with the power they are supposed to
have, why wouldn't they just corral us humans behind some
fences so they'd have a readily available dinner source?    We're
definitely below them on the food chain, so it just stands to
reason that we'd be like cows to them."


Pete watched as his father began to slowly shake his head.
Outside, the intensity of the rainfall increased.


"No, they don't exist," Brackin said, returning his gaze to the
night. "Not the real ones, anyway.    Now the corporate
kind . . ."   He shrugged and grinned at the boy. Peter's face
remained stony.   Brackin turned back to the window. "They
don't exist, Pete," he said softly. "They can't exist."


After a few moments, Aaron Brackin turned to his son.


"Let this thing go, Pete," Aaron instructed the boy in a
no-nonsense tone. "If it continues to cause a problem for your
mother, I'll have to take these," he indicated to the box of
comics, "away from you, and I don't want to have to do that.
Okay?" Without another word, Brackin turned and left the
room.   Left his unresponsive, insolent son staring out the
window, exactly as he'd been when Brackin had first entered.


The door clicked softly shut behind Pete, signaling that his
father was gone. A sudden shift in the wind outside sent a
splatter of rain into the youngster's face. Pete reached up to
draw the window pane down and stopped.


A motion outside caught his eye. In the next flash of lightning,
he saw two running figures, emerging from the pasture area,
racing toward the compound of buildings. The smaller one he
recognized as Ms. Sanford, the teacher who stayed down at the
stable with those bratty girls. The larger one . . . Pete
recognized it too.


Peter Brackin brought the window down with a shudder and
quickly reached into his trouser pocket, touching the crucifix.


"You're clueless as usual, Dad," Peter breathed softly.
"Vampires exist--big time."


The boy crossed to the box of comics and began going through
them, searching. Finally, he found the issue he wanted, the one
that told the story of the most famous vampire slayer in history
and gave step-by-step instructions on how to destroy the
fiends.


Peter Brackin began reading in earnest.   There was a lot of work
to be done.


*************************
End Part 9/64
*************************


The rain caught them between the grove and the
compound.


Of course, LaCroix could have beaten the downpour, but it
would have meant leaving Julia behind, wondering where he'd
gone. He decided, therefore, to follow her, gaiting at her speed,
watching her gazelle-like movements as she dashed through
the tree stand.


She had scooped her treasures off the ground, looked at him
once, then lifted her skirt to form a pouch over her stomach.
She'd turned quickly, but not before she saw the smile of
approval he gave her exposed form. Her back to him, he did
not see the soft pursing of her lips, his favor giving her obvious
pleasure.


She darted away without a word.   The chase, so to
speak, was on.


They moved quickly, but first the thunder, then the rain,
overtook them. By the time they reached the old slave row,
they were thoroughly drenched.   Julia jumped to the sagging
porch of the first shack and slipped through the half-hinged
wood door.


She was standing in the middle of the broken wood floor when
LaCroix ducked inside the one-room dwelling. She still held
the folds of her skirt aloft, cradling the objects she'd carried.
Upon seeing the dark figure enter the quarters, Julia released
the hem and allowed the treasures to fall, scattering at her feet.
The rounded stone rolled across the planking, coming to rest
against LaCroix's shoe. He looked down at the quartz, its
auburn striation catching a glint of the lightning.   LaCroix
raised his eyes slowly.


Julia Sanford moved toward the tall man, her skin still moist
with the rain. The lightning bolted again, sending a shimmer
through the room, making the woman's skin dance with glitter.
Julia stood before him now, her head level with LaCroix's chest,
her chin tilted upward so that she could control his eyes. She
reached a hand out, resting her slender fingers on his chest.


"You're drenched," she said easily. "You're going to catch your
death if you stay in these wet clothes."
LaCroix watched as she raised her other hand, joining both at
his collar button. <So easy,> he found himself thinking. He
should take her now and be done with it.


As her fingers moved to undo the button, he caught her hands,
staying their progress. <No.> LaCroix was suddenly
determined. <This is not the plan.    This is giving in and
allowing circumstances the control, rather than me. I will *not*
have it.>   He clasped Julia's hands tightly. Confused, her eyes
searched his. She could discern nothing.


He gently, but gingerly, pushed her hands slowly from him,
back towards her. His smile was strangely false, for her benefit
only. "I assure you, Ms. Sanford, I will not 'catch my death.'"


Julia blinked, breaking the connection she'd sought and been
unable to find.   She quirked her face into a protective mask, her
grin sly, but forced.   "My, my," she said, pulling her hands
from his grasp. "But you do believe in being the gentleman to
the extreme, don't you, Mr. LaCroix?" She stepped away from
him, turning slightly and addressing him with mock
amusement. "I never would have taken you to be quite so
prudish."


He didn't move, following her only with his eyes.   So easy . . .


"I am anything but prudish," he said, his voice low and
full of conviction. Julia tilted her head slightly, involuntarily.
The full impact of this simple statement's truth had an
unnerving effect on her. She suddenly felt nervous, weak,
flush--all with the anticipation of the promise of his words.


As he came toward her, Julia felt her throat tighten and go dry.
She opened her mouth slightly, trying to force herself to
breathe. LaCroix reached a hand to her face, cupping her chin.
His thumb began a gentle circular caress of her jawline.


"Is it so important to *rush*, Ms. Sanford?" LaCroix's voice was
low, almost hypnotic. "Can things not be taken more slowly . . .
savored, if you will?"


Julia's only answer was the slight moan which escaped her
open lips. Her eyes were tightly shut, her face molded to his
hand.
Her heart told LaCroix all he needed to know.   Its beat was
swift and pounding, but not frantic. Her blood thick with the
heat of her desire.


"Slowly, Ms. Sanford," LaCroix said huskily, his voice a breath
in her ear. "Enjoy the hunt, the chase, the dance . . . the rapture
of final culmination. We have so much to look forward to, if
we exercise restraint."


She opened her eyes. A flash of lightning illuminated the
understanding reflected there.


LaCroix touched Julia's wet hair, stroking the fine auburn
tresses gently. "So like the sunset," he murmured.


This made Julia laugh. "More like the fires of hell, or so my
father was fond of pointing out to me."


The questioning look in LaCroix's eyes caused Julia to chuckle
again. "Well, I guess I've gone and broken the romantic mood
all to hell, haven't I?"


Their embrace broken, both mentally and physically, Julia
moved toward the sagging door, staring out into the fractured
night visible through the sheeting drops.   "Would it shock you,
Mr. LaCroix," she said finally, "if you were to learn that I've
been a very bad girl during my life?"


LaCroix joined her at the cracked doorway and smiled down at
the petite woman.


"Would it shock you, Ms. Sanford, if I were to tell you the same
of myself?"


Julia looked up quickly, a mischievous light in her face. "Just
my luck," she sighed. "No, Mr. LaCroix, it wouldn't. In fact, it
would be par for my course. My attraction to *bad* men has
been my downfall all my years here on earth."


"Indeed?"   LaCroix tilted his head in interest.
In one graceful motion, Julia crossed her legs and dropped to
the floor in a seated position, facing the rain. LaCroix joined
her, but chose to sit with his legs stretched, crossed at the ankle,
his back to the wall next to the door. At this angle, he could
watch Julia's face as well as, with a slight turn of his neck, the
weather outside.


After a moment, Julia turned to him, only the suggestion of a
smile on her lips. "Last chance to back out of having to listen to
my sordid little life's story," she warned him.


LaCroix was nonplussed. "I am interested in you, Julia," he
said with sincerity. "I will listen to anything you wish to tell
me." Almost unconsciously, he became the Nightcrawler, the
Devil's Advocate, the persona which beckoned the nameless
masses to share with him their darkest thoughts during the
night hours. LaCroix's voice was smooth, soothing. Julia felt
herself trusting him, a foreign feeling for the young woman.


"If it helps," LaCroix continued in that soft, cultured tone honed
fine by the ages, "I will not judge you or ask you to continue if
the tale becomes painful to relate.   The truth is, Julia, that I
doubt you could say anything that would shock me."


"No."   She smiled at him.   "I doubt that I could."


She turned to the rain again. "I'll just bet the Tinker sisters are
having a fit with the girls," she murmured.    "They offered to
watch them this evening, to allow me some time to myself, but
I don't think they bargained on me disappearing for the entire
night."


"Shall we start with that, then?" LaCroix coaxed her gently.
"Your involvement with the children?"


Julia laughed, a touch of bittersweet. "Penance, Mr. LaCroix,"
she said. "A paying of the piper for ill deeds done."


She leaned back, stretching her legs and resting herself on her
elbows. The thunder was distant now, its echo hollow across
the flattened land.


"I was always a hellion, so to speak," Julia Sanford said,
addressing the rain. "Gave Dad and Mum quite a bit of trouble
during my 'formative' years, I'll have to admit. Everything
from skipping school and minor drug use to shoplifting,
running away and even participating in grand theft auto."


She looked at LaCroix and tipped her head sexily.   "Hard to
believe about such a sterling character as myself, isn't it?"
When LaCroix said nothing, she returned her eyes to the
darkness beyond the doorway. "Eventually, my misdeeds
caught up with me. And, unfortunately, though I was still in
my teens, I was not a minor anymore. I received only
probation, but it still went on my record."


Julia's voice lowered an octave. "I tried, really tried, to
straighten up after that. Went to University up north and even
pulled good grades. Came back to Texas and was planning to
go to grad school--make my parents proud of me."


She paused.   LaCroix reached out to her with his voice.   "And?"


Julia shrugged, her look sardonic.   "A man, of course."


Her jaw quivered slightly, but she held firm. "Just a guy. Dark,
attractive, mysterious . . ." She grinned suddenly at LaCroix.
"Sexy as hell."


He answered her with a slight nod and curling of the lip. She
sobered quickly and turned back to the rain.    "Met him at a
club. Moved him into my apartment a week later. Two weeks
later, the police raided the place. He had disappeared, but I
was arrested.   I was tried on charges of harboring a fugitive,
possession of stolen goods, possession of weapons, etc. He had
stuff in the closet . . ."   Julia stopped, shaking her lowered
head.   She lifted it, facing LaCroix. "Ten to twenty at a
women's correctional facility in east Texas--served four and
paroled for the
rest." She paused, waiting for his reaction.


LaCroix projected his lower lip slightly in thought.   "Generous
of the Texas penal system," he suggested finally, "considering
the gravity of the crime for which you were convicted."


Julia's face broke into a sudden, surprisingly bright expression.
"You're right, of course," she laughed.   "But the fact that I spent
time in prison at all usually shocks people and puts them off."


LaCroix shrugged and smiled.   "I'm not *people*," he replied
simply.


She grinned, genuinely pleased at his response. "So it would
seem, Mr. LaCroix. Not *ordinary* people, anyway." She
reclined to a more supine position, laying on her side, one
elbow to the ground, her chin propped on her hand. She faced
him now, the rain forgotten.


"With the parole came the necessities of freedom--rent, food,
clothing, etc. My lawyer decided I was worthy of redemption
and offered me a job. I'd used my prison time to study
paralegal, so he hired me on as his assistant. The other part of
the parole was," she winced slightly, "community service."


LaCroix nodded with understanding.   "The children."


Julia grinned again. "Very good, Mr. LaCroix. Correct the first
time. My sweet angels," she said drily. "My true penance."


The auburn-haired woman shifted. LaCroix watched her
languid movement. She was even more desirable when not
trying to seduce him. Her scent was sharp in his nostrils.   He
held his control.


"The firm that employs me wanted to 'give back' to the
community and decided that mentoring would be a great way
to do it. Touching the youth of today and the future of
tomorrow and all that bull. Trouble was, the big shots, and
even the little shots, were too busy bailing the hot shots out of
legal trouble to play with the kiddies. Enter moi. Two birds
with one stone. I take care of the mentoring project to make the
law firm look good and I take care of my community service
requirement in one fully paid vacation in south Louisiana."


Her voice grew sober again. "The problem is that these kids are
no joy ride
to deal with. The only way they end up with me is if they are
'special
needs.'"


"Such as?" LaCroix prompted.


Julia's response was almost a litany. "Mild physical handicaps,
mental illness controllable by medication, behavioral problems
. . . special needs."
She looked at him and grinned ruefully. "They figured a tough
gal like me,
an ex-con, could handle these little jewels with *no* problem.
Sheesh.
Sometimes, they make me feel like a babe in the woods."


"The one who approached us yesterday evening . . . she didn't
appear too 'challenging,'" LaCroix commented.


"Theresa?" Julia smiled. "No, Theresa's no problem.    Her only
claim to fame is that she is 'culturally' challenged." Julia sighed
again, retracting her fierceness somewhat. "Fact is, this group
I'm herding right now is probably my best group of kids.
They're the
young ones--ages five to eight. Good kids from
poor homes mostly. I guess dealing with the other groups
makes me cynical about all of them."


LaCroix stretched, crossing his hands over his chest. "Do you
find your work with the children . . . rewarding, Julia? Do you
feel that you've made a difference in these young lives?"


She blinked, surprised at his question. "I've never really
thought about it. It's always just been my cross to bear--part of
the conditions of my parole."


"Then I will offer you this," LaCroix said, leaning toward her
slightly. "Get past your bitterness."


Julia sat up, shocked at his words.   "Just when was I bitter?"
she
demanded.


"Throughout your telling of your history," LaCroix said simply.
"Though disguised with a smile and a matter-of-fact rendering,
your tale was seething with your lack of self-worth."


She opened her mouth to protest, but he stopped her with the
softness of
his voice.


"I did not say that to offend you, Julia. My only desire is that
you be able to put your past behind you and go on with your
life."


"Kind of hard when you have to answer to a parole officer
every month."   She frowned, her posture rigid, her eyes back to
the rain. "I thought you weren't going to be judgmental."


"How can I judge you, Julia, without judging myself?"
LaCroix's meaning was clear and Julia looked at him with
renewed interest. He sensed the flaring of her passion again.
"How can I care for you, if you do not care for yourself?"

She smiled at him. Her eyes were warm for a moment, then
suddenly darkened, sparkling with the amusement of
realization. "I see you've taken our 'caring' relationship to a
first name basis, Mr. LaCroix.   I thought you wanted to move
things along slowly."


The vampire quirked an eyebrow, amused. "I apologize if I've
been too forward, Ms. Sanford. I will try to check that tendency
in the future, if you wish."


"What I wish, Mr. LaCroix," Julia said, "is that you'd kiss me."


************************


End part 10/64


***********************


A moment passed between them, a mere heartbeat of time, as
LaCroix considered Julia's proposition.


"So much for slow, hmm, Julia?" he finally responded in a calm
voice.


"It's not like I'm suggesting that we make love, Mr. LaCroix,"
Julia laughed.   She shook her head, sending a fine mist
shimmering from her already drying hair. "What's a kiss,
anyway?"


"A simple kiss," LaCroix instructed her as he rose to begin his
advance, "can be either a beginning . . . or an ending. Are you
truly prepared for both the former and the latter?"
Her eyes widened at this thought.   He watched her mind mull
over his words, listened to the quickening of her heart as she
considered both possibilities.


"Are you ready to risk what might or might not be . . . on an
impulsive act?"


She sighed, strangled. "I see your point.    But," she met his eyes
narrowly, "I don't have to like it, do I?"


He laughed, dropping to sit close to her. "No," he said. "In
fact, I would be disappointed if you were to release your
attraction to me so easily. Like you, I have other plans for
our . . . relationship."


"Ohhhhh," Julia chuckled, her eyes bright with humor. "Now,
according to you, we've moved to having a *relationship.*" She
lowered her lashes, her hazel eyes a shred of glimmer beneath
them. "How come you get to set all the rules here, Mr.
LaCroix?"


"Because," LaCroix leaned forward, his lips a touch from hers,
"I am older and wiser and have more experience."

Julia averted her face slightly, brushing her cheek barely
against his as she whispered, "What you are, Lucien LaCroix, is
a terrible tease."


"That, Julia Sanford," he whispered back, his lips tracing the
contour of her throat, "is an understatement."


Overhead, a sound alerted them to danger, causing both to look
up simultaneously. The soggy boards overhead gaped and
gave way, sending a shower of wood, shingles and rain
pummeling down toward the reclining pair.   LaCroix quickly
reached for Julia, rolling and pulling her from harm's way.


LaCroix landed on his back, with Julia pressed to his chest.
Without the shielding of the roof above, the torrent from
outside blew in, quickly soaking the two of them again.


The initial shock of avoiding the near mishap passed quickly.
Wet and gasping for breath, Julia raised herself slightly and
looked down at LaCroix. His eyes were studying her face, and
she fell into them, deep into the promise of those two
unreadable pools of pure blue light. She was well aware of the
protective action he'd taken on her behalf, of the protective
way his hands still held her to him, the touch of his fingers
gentle on her waist. Julia swallowed, her throat dry, her heart
beating beyond control.


"Vervain," LaCroix murmured. He'd finally identified the
elusive fragrance within Julia's blood chemistry. He detached
one hand from her waist and entangled his fingers in her fallen
hair.


"Hmmmm," Julia found her voice, smiling down at him. She
grinned suddenly, mocking him. "The name's 'Julia,' Lucien . . .
Julia, with a 'J.'"


"I'm well aware of who you are, Julia," LaCroix's voice was
almost capitulating. "The question is, what do I do with you?"


Julia leaned down, pressing her chest hard against his. She
made a loose fist with her right hand, turning the knuckles
toward him. With that part of her fingers below the joint, she
stroked gently across his face from his high cheekbone to the
tip of his jaw. He closed his eyes, savoring her touch. The
beast grew hard in his belly, pumping its heat into his blood.
His hold on her tensed.


"Lucien," her voice, so close to his ear now, was heavy with
passion. "Do you get the impression that the fates are against
our waiting?" Julia bent one leg at the knee, lifting it along
LaCroix's thigh.


Behind his eyelids, LaCroix knew the pupils burned gold. The
control which he held so tenuously was almost gone, beyond
his ability to retrieve.


Julia, her hair brushing his   face, moved her breath closer to his
skin, her lips gliding along   the roughness of his chin.
"Personally," she whispered,   "I think we've waited long
enough." Her tongue touched    his ear.


The vampire growled deep within LaCroix's chest, threatening
to explode his lungs. LaCroix crushed Julia to him, rolling their
bodies until he covered her. His brain was on fire, his mouth
sought the nape of her neck.
"So be it," he said softly.


Julia moaned ardently at the first touch of his lips on her skin.
Felt the caress of their parting, the moist coolness of his inner
mouth pressing against her flesh. Felt the press of his teeth.


Her eyes flickered slightly with the first pain of entry. The
sudden feeling of loss as her life seemed to rush out of her, to
be replaced by something much darker than she could
comprehend. Julia stood at the end of a long hallway, doorless,
windowless, pitch and foreboding. She was lost in a sea
awash with whispers and smoke wisps, trying to touch
something ethereal which mockingly fled her grasp.


With growing intensity, she felt the anguish. All of it. Almost
two-thousand years of pain and suffering were visited on her in
one moment of consummation, one act of lust. She tried to pull
back from it, but it held her tightly, drowning her, drowning
within her.


At the end of the endless tunnel she saw light. Two small orbs,
parallel, bobbing in front of her. She began to float toward
them.


The orbs, like flickering fire in a lantern, drew closer, taking on
shape.


"Lucien?"   Julia called his name, her voice very weak. The orbs
flickered, then reformed as his eyes. Glowing with such fierce,
awful fire. "Lucien? Where is this place?"


The sting at her throat intensified, obliterating all thought with
the sheer agony of it.   She gasped, choking for air. Tears
streamed down her face, falling salty into her gaping mouth.


"Lucien," she made the effort, weak as she now was, to call his
name once more. "Lucien, help me!"


His eyes, bright with the fires of hell, of having seen too much,
were above her now.   His voice, seductive and husky, spoke to
her, pulling her back from the growing void of nothing.
"Was it as you dreamed it would be, Julia?" his lips were dark
above her, his face tinged with deep color she'd not noticed
before. "Was the kiss all that you imagined?" From far away,
she felt his hand slip underneath her, supporting her neck,
turning her face to look at him fully. LaCroix opened
his mouth, exposing the fangs which dripped with her blood.


Julia blinked, confused.


"What was it you said about your choices in life, Julia?"
LaCroix's voice was soothing. She felt herself drifting again.
"About 'penance' and 'paying the piper?' I'm afraid the bill has
come due."


He lowered her to the floor, rising to stand above her. Through
the haze, she watched as he drew his hand across his mouth,
wiping the last traces of her life from his lips. LaCroix turned,
his back to her and walked toward the gaping doorway.


Then, almost as an afterthought, he turned back.


"I've been deserted by all my children, Julia," he said quietly.   "I
have no desire to sire another, only to face the possibility of
having that one grow to hate me, to leave me alone again. I
will not chance it, no matter how pretty your promises might
be."


"Goodbye, Julia."


*************************


End part 11


*************************


<He's leaving me to die,> Julia realized through the darkness
which pressed into her mind. She watched as LaCroix moved
ever more distant, almost a shade now.


Perplexed, spurred by sudden anger, Julia began struggling
against her death.   Her fingers clinched, scraping the plank
floor, leaving remnants of her nails splintered in the wood.
<'I'm a survivor,> she screamed silently. <'This is not how I
was meant to die!>


"Come back here you bloody bastard!" her voice ached with her
unheard shouting. "Come back and fix what you did to me!"


LaCroix's face suddenly loomed over her. The thick lips, which
his gods had formed to hold a perpetual sneer since birth,
curled into the semblance of a cruel smile.


"Fix it!" Julia spit at the spectre above her.   "Finish it!"


With a brief nod, the figure above her ducked and disappeared
from her view.   Once again she felt the piercing agony at her
throat, a stabbing prick, hot as fire.


Julia's eyelids fluttered. She awoke from the swirling darkness
to the gray dampness of the storm filled sky.


Instinctively, Julia reached for her throat. LaCroix stood across
the room, near the door, his arms crossed over his chest,
watching her with interest.   Noting the alarmed look on her
face, he became concerned. "What's wrong, Julia?"


Julia's fingers had encountered tender, hot flesh at the spot on
her neck from which the pain radiated. "I think something bit
me," she said.

LaCroix quickly came to her and knelt by her side. He began
examining the area indicated and then nodded. "I believe that
you've been stung by an insect," he announced. LaCroix looked
upward, his eyes searching the area where the roof had caved
in. Above, stirred from their nesting place, several hornets
buzzed lazily. LaCroix met Julia's eyes. "Stay very still and let
me examine the wound."


With hands as skilled as a surgeon's, LaCroix's fingers began
probing the swollen area at the base of Julia's neck. She bit her
lip to keep from flinching, but LaCroix's touch was so gentle
that she barely felt it. He pinched the flesh between his thumb
and forefinger and squeezed slightly, using his other hand to
grasp and withdraw the hair-thin barb left by her assailant.

"Do you know if you are allergic?" he asked, once he'd flecked
the drill away.
"I'm not . . . sure," she responded. "It seems to me, that when I
was younger, I was stung by a yellow jacket and had to be
taken to the hospital. I can't remember for sure . . ."


LaCroix smiled reassuringly.   "Better to err on the side of
caution, then."


Once again, he pinched the puncture site, this time lowering his
face to her neck. He placed his lips softly against her skin.


At the first draw of the suction he applied, Julia felt a sensual
awakening within her that was totally unexpected. A pleasure
roiled through her body with twenty times the strength of the
wind which blew around them.   From her toes to her finger
tips, every part of her felt alive. She moaned in sheer bliss,
willing the feeling to continue forever.


LaCroix continued to suck at the puncture sight, using his acute
senses to carefully draw out all of the venom. At first, the rank
poison was all he tasted. He found himself darting his eyes to
Julia's face, watching with some amusement the flickerings of
pleasure there. Some of the insect's toxin had gone deep, but
he searched it out, drawing it to the surface and into his mouth.
Along with several drops of Julia's precious blood.


It smashed into his head like a hammer, but LaCroix was
prepared.   Keeping careful control, LaCroix continued to draw
from her until her blood ran clean.


He released his hold, gasping.


Luckily, Julia was still caught in the throes of her unexplained
passion, remaining unaware of his. Her eyes were squeezed
tightly shut, and she did not see the flare of amber which
quickly faded in LaCroix's eyes.


"I think all of the venom has been removed," LaCroix said,
helping the young woman stand, "but, the puncture site should
probably be attended to to avoid possible infection."


Julia's legs felt shaky, and she was glad for LaCroix's
supporting arm. The dark dream she'd had was already a
forgotten memory. "Have you ever considered a career in
medicine?" she asked, a slight wave of dizziness passing over,
then past her. "You have a golden touch."
"So I've been told," LaCroix smiled.


"Did I fall asleep?" she blinked in surprise, remembering that
she'd not been conscious of thought when the insect first struck
her. "I don't remember."


"When the roof fell in, I'm afraid I pulled you to safety with a
bit too much . . . vigor," LaCroix admitted with an apologetic
smile. "You struck your head on the door hinge."


"Oh," Julia said, suddenly aware of a sore spot on the back of
her head. She touched it gingerly.


"Are you alright?" LaCroix's voice was concerned again, his
eyes searching hers.


"Oh, yes, I'm fine." Julia's face broke into a smile, reassuring
him.   "Right as rain."


"Which appears to be letting up some," LaCroix looked toward
the door.   Indeed, the heavy opaque of the sky was now almost
clear, the pelting toned to a fine mist. LaCroix returned his
attention to Julia. "Should we make a try for the stable?"


The petite woman nodded. "I imagine the Tinker ladies are
demanding that Avonne call out the National Guard to come
look for me. I'm sure my little charges have contributed to
giving them a few more gray hairs by now."


"Would anyone notice . . ." LaCroix inquired, a twinkle in his
eyes, " . . . more gray hairs on the dear Tinkers' heads?"


Julia grinned, playfully balling her fist and punching LaCroix's
upper arm.   For some reason, he found the gesture endearing.


"You are soooooo bad, Mr. LaCroix," Julia laughed, heading
toward the doorway.


"I could not agree with you more, Ms. Sanford," LaCroix
replied, moving to follow her as she stepped out on the porch.
A drop of her blood still clung to the roof of his mouth. He
flicked his tongue to it, taking the taste into his throat, savoring
it.


"Vervain," he murmured softly, watching as she jumped to the
ground and turned down the footpath toward the main
structures. Another shift of light passed through his eyes and a
hungry look claimed his features for a moment. LaCroix
quickly quelled it and moved to overtake her.


The rain had completely stopped by the time they reached the
stable area. Someone had raised all the windows in the
building and the entrace door stood wide open, light shining
from within. The Tinker women had pulled two chairs outside
and were sitting, watching as four children moved in all
directions, trying to catch fireflys.


"So, you decided to come back after all," one of the elderly
women remarked as Julia came into view. "We figured you'd
gotten smart and high-tailed it off somewhere."


"Got caught in the rain," Julia answered as she reached the
women. "Did they give you any trouble, Ms. Annie?"


"Only at first, when the thunder got heavy," Annie Tinker
replied, looking past Julia to peer as LaCroix came into view.
She looked back to Julia, her eyes narrowed in suspicion.


To Annie's right, the other elderly woman chuckled.   "He get
caught in the rain, too?"


Julia reddened slightly.


"We ran into each other down at the old orchard," Julia was
explaining as LaCroix joined them. "Lucky for me, too, because
I got stung by a wasp, and he sucked the venom out."   Julia
arched her neck, giving the Tinker women a better view.


Ms. Rose, the more robust of the two elderly ladies, stood up
from her chair to take a closer look. "Don't look like it's
swelling too much, Julia, but we better put some antiseptic on
it, just to be sure. Come on with me."


The two women disappeared through the open door into the
stable, leaving LaCroix alone with Ms. Annie. She cocked her
head, watching him as a bird would a worm.   LaCroix shifted
uncomfortably.


"You're not from around these parts, are you, young man?" the
elderly woman seemed to chew her words.


LaCroix held tightly reined the ironic laughter which
threatened to burst from his throat. His face a mask of
innocence and honesty, he shook his head slightly, "No,
Madam, I am not from 'around these parts.'"


The woman turned her head and spit. LaCroix watched as the
mucous made a graceful arch, landing on a bush near where
she sat.


"Thought not," she congratulated herself on her powers of
observation.   "Your voice ain't right. Where you from?"


LaCroix shrugged. Better to humor the crone than further any
suspicions she harbored. She was probably already privy to the
information that Aaron Brackin had obtained and most likely
passed on as gossip.   "Europe, originally, then Canada."


"How'd you come to be in South Louisiana?" Ms. Annie spat
again.


"Business ventures," LaCroix replied, looking toward the door
and willing Julia to return.


Ms. Annie noticed the direction of his eyes and smiled smugly.
"You got the hots for her real bad, don't you, son?"


LaCroix shot the woman an odd look, but said nothing.   She
cackled softly.


Luckily, Julia chose that moment to reappear. She seemed to
notice LaCroix's plight and smiled sympathetically. Julia's
wound had been covered with a bandage, but Ms. Rose still
seemed to be fussing over her, following closely and making
clucking sounds.


Julia's eyes suddenly widened, but her shout of warning came
too late. A handful of muddy clay streaked through the air,
splatting onto LaCroix's right cheek.


He whirled fiercely, snarling, eyes glowing, fangs barely
concealed by the soil.


Four pairs of small eyes were staring at him.


*************************


End Part 12/64


*************************


In less than a blink, LaCroix assessed the situation and turned,
shielding his eyes from the children until he could quell the
vampire.   Luckily, the mud clinging to his mouth appeared to
have hidden the fangs from their view, for the only scream
which he heard was one of panic, not fear.


"Corlie did it!!" one of the little girls shouted. When LaCroix
turned his head, the tattling child pointed an accusing finger at
one of her peers.


LaCroix's eyes shifted to the perpetrator. She was one of the
younger of the group, her size further slighted by obvious
medical problems.   Both her legs were encased in metal braces,
and she used aluminum forearm canes to maintain her balance.
Her eyes were wide with obvious fear.


"I . . . I . . . I'm sorry!!" the little girl blurted out.    "I was
trying
to hit Liddy!"


LaCroix's eyes, now blue, glinted with amusement, though he
kept his features stern. Ms. Rose had come to his elbow,
clucking and offering him a towel. LaCroix accepted the cloth
and began wiping the mud from his face as Julia stormed
toward her charges.


"Why were you trying to hit Liddy, Corlie?" Julia demanded,
having difficulty hiding her own mirth at the situation.
The child hung her head, repositioning one of the canes to
support her swaying weight. "She kept running in front of me,
trying to knock me down."


"Did not," the first accuser retorted, dark eyes flashing. She
was taller than the physically challenged child, but LaCroix
realized that she was younger. Her hair was straight and
brownish. Plastic lenses covered her devilish dark eyes.


"Did too," the first child, Corlie, shouted back.


"Did not!" Liddy responded, her voice now reaching a
screeching octave which made LaCroix wince.


"One more word out of either of you, and your butts are mine
to roast over a campfire," Julia said softly. The children
quieted, turning obediently to face Ms. Sanford. LaCroix was
impressed.


Julia searched the nervous faces in front of her.   "Where's
Beda?" she finally asked.


"I let her go up to the main house," Ms. Annie offered.   "Mrs.
Simmoneaux was supposed to be baking tonight, and she
wanted to go help."


"Okay," Julia nodded, not taking her eyes from the group before
her. "As long as she had permission, everything is fine. In
fact," Julia's eyes narrowed and a visible shudder went through
her young congregation, "she may be the only one of you all
that lives through this night."


"But . . . " a short, squat child opened her mouth to protest.
Julia's eyes rested on the girl, who immediately lowered her
voice to a whisper, her words trailing off.   "Theresa and I
didn't . . ."


"Perhaps not, Heather." Julia pursed her lips in agitation.     "But
I'm wet and tired, and I'm almost sure that if you haven't done
anything wrong, you probably would have eventually. Let's
just call this . . . preventive therapy."


Heather's mouth popped open, then closed quickly as Julia's
eyebrows shot up. Ms. Sanford was definitely not in the mood
to be reasoned with. The child lowered her head and began
shuffling her feet on the rain-soaked gravel.


"Now," Julia continued, satisfied that she had the absolute
attention of all involved. She looked at Corlie. "Tell me what
happened."


"Liddy   kept running in front of me, getting closer and closer."
Corlie   gestured toward the dark little girl with an upraised
cane.    "She *said* she was chasing fireflies, but that was just an
excuse   to get close and knock me down."


"Why do you think she wanted to do that?" Julia inquired.


The challenged child lifted her rather pretty face, her bright
eyes full of anger. "'Cause she's mean. And 'cause I didn't
scream when she stuck that frog in my face yesterday."


Liddy positively seethed as she held her tongue. She wanted so
badly to defend herself, and the two others tittering behind her
didn't help matters. Liddy turned quickly to give Theresa and
Heather a dangerous look.


"Liddy?" Julia's voice brought the child back round. "Please
pay attention.   All right, Corlie, tell me about the mud."


Corlie darted her eyes at LaCroix, then back to Julia, then
lowered them abjectly. "I was trying to trip Liddy with my
cane and I missed," she confessed. "I had the crutch like this."
She used one of the metal pieces to demonstrate, giving it an
arching swing which narrowly missed pulling up another piece
of earth and flinging it skyward. "I was going to bop her
behind the knees, but I missed her and hit the ground. A
chunk of dirt flew and hit . . . " She looked toward the master
vampire again " . . . him."


LaCroix bit the inside of his lower lip to keep from laughing,
surprised at the sudden taste of blood in his mouth.   Behind
him, he heard low chuckles.


"'Him' is Mr. LaCroix," Julia informed the children.


"I really am sorry, Mr. LaCroix," the challenged girl's eyes
misted with tears. "I didn't mean to get you all dirty."
LaCroix steadied himself, the blood's effect lingering, taunting
him. "I accept your apology, young woman, with the
understanding that you will be more careful in the future."


Corlie nodded, causing her soft brown curls to bounce with
each movement.


"And, Liddy." Julia lifted her head and looked narrowly at the
taller youngster. "I think you owe Mr. LaCroix an apology for
starting all this with your prank . . . don't you?"


Liddy made an odd facial expression, then turned her attention
to the tall man.


"Sorry," she said.


"Yes."   LaCroix arched an eyebrow.   "Of that I am sure."


Liddy gave him a dark look, then returned her eyes to Julia.


"Okay." Sanford was addressing the whole group now. "It's
getting very late, and I think we should all start thinking about
baths and bed." A general moan of protest went up from the
little band. Julia shook her head.    "Nope, none of that. Quick
now . . . into the house and start getting ready."


After the last child had disappeared into the cottage, Julia
turned to the three adults. She met LaCroix's eyes and smiled,
then turned to the Tinker women.


"I hate to ask you all this, but do you think you could watch
those four for a few more minutes while I go get Belinda?"


"Of course we can," Ms. Rose piped up before her sister-in-law
could comment. "You run along now and gather up your other
chick. We'll get these youngun's all ready and have them
tucked into bed by the time you get back."


"Thanks, Ms. Rose," Julia said gratefully.    She turned back to
LaCroix.   "Coming?"
"Ummmmm," LaCroix responded. He turned, handing the
towel back to Ms. Rose. The hefty woman was beaming at him
for some reason.


Amused, LaCroix caught her right hand on impulse and
pressed the elderly woman's fingertips to his lips. "And, thank
you, kind lady," he said, causing Ms. Rose to blush and beam
even more. "I appreciate your kindness to me and the attention
that you rendered Julia. I am most grateful."


LaCroix released Ms. Rose's hand, aware that Ms. Annie had
snorted during his expression of affection. He shot her a look
and a wicked smile, which caused her to snort again and avert
her eyes. Ms. Rose drew her kissed hand to herself, cradling it
with her other.


Julia was smiling at the interplay when LaCroix reached her.
"Always the gallant," she teased, linking her arm with his
offered one.


LaCroix shrugged.   "What can I say?   I'm an old-fashioned
fellow."


As the couple moved toward the main house, Annie Tinker
moved to the side of her sister-in-law.


"Get that goggled-eyed look off your face, Rose Mary Slouth
Tinker," the woman reprimanded her kin by marriage. "Makes
you look like a pie-faced calf. Good gravy, woman, he's young
enough to be your grandson."


"Perhaps he is, Annie," Rose replied with a nod, trying to hide
the fluster in her voice, "but he sure has a way about him. Kind
of reminds me of Jesse, he does."


"Hrrummmph," the thinner woman responded, spatting at the
ground. "Don't look a thing like Jesse Tinker."


Rose looked up from the slime which had landed at her feet.
Her nose was wrinkled in distaste as she addressed the woman
who had once been married to her late husband's late brother.
"I know perfectly well that he doesn't *look* like Jesse, Annie
Elizabeth Barlowe Tinker. I said he *reminds* me of
Jesse--same bearing to him . . . confidence and sense of humor."
"Yea, and you had some mighty strange notions about that man
you lived with for forty odd years, too," Ms. Annie said.
"Thought the moon set with him, and he twarn't nothin but a
dirt farmer, like my Bart. And not above losing a half-year's
cotton profits at a card game, if memory serves me right."


"Yes, I'm well aware that Jesse had shortcomings," Ms. Rose
sniffed. Then she smiled. "But he had incredible eyes, Annie.
Eyes that just beckoned you to jump in and play. That LaCroix
fellow has those same type eyes."


Annie hrrumphed again. "And those eyes of Jesse's kept you
clinging to a dream which almost cost you the Slouth holdings
down in Natchitoches."


"That's 'up' in Natchitoches, dear," Rose turned toward the
stable house.   "We're in south Louisiana and Natchitoches is
up from here."


"Well, it's 'down' from Shongaloo, and that is where I spent all
my time, so Natchitoches will always be 'down' to me." The
women were both nearing the stable now and could hear the
bustle of activity within. A sudden clanging sound made them
both flinch.


"I just hope that Julia keeps her senses about her when she's
dealing with this fellow," Annie said. "Julia's a nice lady, and
he's almost *too* smooth."


"I hope that, too, Annie," Rose replied.  "But I'm not too
worried. You know the expression about 'cold hands and
warm heart?'"


"Of course," Annie snorted.   "I'm not senile."


"Well, if that expression holds true, we have nothing to worry
about regarding Mr. LaCroix," Rose said, ignoring the other
woman.   "He has the coldest hands I've ever felt in my life."


*************************
End part 13/64
*************************


No one was on the sitting porch, LaCroix noted thankfully,
when he and Julia arrived at the main quarters. The driving
rain must have forced them all inside, and they'd chosen not to
venture out again. Once through the French doors, they saw
that the sitting room was also empty.


"It appears that everyone has retired for the evening," LaCroix
commented looking around.


"Not everyone," Julia said, lifting her nose and inhaling deeply.
"Mrs. Simmoneaux is definitely still awake and very active."
She turned to LaCroix, a delighted expression of her face.
"Come on, Lucien, maybe we'll catch her in a generous mood."


They left the room, passed along the narrow hallway and
entered the original dwelling, passing directly into the kitchen
area. The room was hot, thick with the pungent smell of
various spices and baking dough.   LaCroix felt slightly
nauseated as he inhaled the cooking odors. One of the
strongest scents in the room was that of garlic. LaCroix looked
down at a pan of croissants, wrinkling his nose in disapproval.


"Oooooooo, cookies!" Julia had not noticed his displeasure and
was walking delightedly to the area where Ms. Simmoneaux
was currently working. The auburn-haired woman stopped to
survey the small items resting on the cooling racks. Julia
looked questioningly at Avonne Simmoneaux, who smiled
good-naturedly at the younger woman and nodded. Julia
quickly reached for a cookie and popped it, warm and chewy,
into her mouth.


"You've got to try one, Mr. LaCroix," Julia mumbled through a
mouthful of crumbs. "These sugar dainties are to die for." She
held one in LaCroix's direction.


LaCroix responded tersely, looking at the offered morsel.   "I am
sure that if I were to eat *that,* it would kill me."


Julia frowned, but Avonne Simmoneaux just laughed.


"Leave the poor man alone, Julia," the elder woman called from
in front of the pristine stove she hovered over. She bent before
the open oven door, prepared to pull another pan of cookies
from the fire.   "Can't you see that he is watching his figure?"


"He should leave that task to me and quit worrying about it,"
Julia responded, flashing LaCroix a wicked grin. "But, 'tis his
loss," she consumed the cookie in question and began
examining the other offerings. "Oooooo, prune cake?" As she
reached toward the cake, a wooden spoon slapped at her hand.
Julia looked at Mrs. Simmoneaux with a wounded expression.


LaCroix's stomach cramped, sending an arch of pain through
his body. He would not be able to remain in this room much
longer.


"Is something wrong, Mr. LaCroix?" Mrs. Simmoneaux had
noticed her patron's anguished look and had become
concerned. "You look extremely pale."


"I assure you that I am quite sound, Mrs. Simmoneaux."
LaCroix's words were reassuring, but his actions were not. His
eyes widened slightly as another jab of pain passed through
him.


"You *did* catch something out there in the rain." Julia's tone
was accusatory as she came to his side. "Come on, tough guy,
let's get you upstairs to your room and, this time, you *are*
coming out of those clothes."


LaCroix did not resist her as she placed her hands on him in a
supporting manner and began leading him toward the door.
They had almost reached the exit when Julia turned, addressing
the innkeeper. "Where is Belinda, by the way? Ms. Annie told
me that she was here helping you."


Mrs. Simmoneaux nodded. "I sent her to the outside pantry for
more flour. She should be back momentarily."


"It's getting late, Avonne," Julia said. "When she comes back,
tell her it's time to head for the stables, okay?"


"Oui," Mrs. Simmoneaux agreed, watching as Julia and LaCroix
left the room.


Once outside, LaCroix felt much stronger, the lingering effects
of the garlic passing away quickly. He'd been surprised at how
powerful the impact had been on him. He was well able to
proceed unassisted now, but he made no effort to relinquish
himself from Julia's hold.


They progressed to the new part of the house and reached the
narrow stairs.


"They're too narrow for me to help you up them," Julia said,
releasing her hold on his arm. "Can you make it up by
yourself?"


"I'll do my best," LaCroix reassured her with a smile.   Seeing
that her look of concern did not fade, LaCroix said more
pointedly. "I'm perfectly capable of climbing these stairs and
going to my bedroom alone, Julia. You'd best go check on the
children."


"They'll be just fine for a few more minutes without me," Julia
replied, climbing the stairs behind him. Her tone was
determined. "I'm not leaving you until I'm sure that you are
taken care of."


"Planning to *tuck* me into bed, are you?" LaCroix teased her.
"Make sure the covers are pulled up under my chin?"


She gave his back a gentle shove. "Whatever it takes, Mr.
LaCroix. If I can handle a group of juvenile delinquents, you
should be no problem at all. Now, get up those stairs."


****************


The storage room attached to the kitchen was only accessible
from outside. Belinda Rambo was standing on tiptoe, trying to
reach a bag of the whole wheat flour which Mrs. Simmoneaux
had asked her to fetch.   Although she was eight, she was
undersized for her age and probably the smallest of the
children in Julia's care. The continued strain on her young
body in an attempt to reach the flour was reddening Beda from
effort and frustration.


"Stupid flour," the child muttered to herself. Once again, she
looked around the room for something to stand on, but found
nothing. She looked back at the substance just out of her reach.
Beda Rambo was not one who liked to admit defeat.


This trait in her nature had caused her to be labeled as having
'behavioral problems.' She was constantly being sanctioned for
deportment at school and had spent as many hours in the
principal's office as she had the counselor's.   Beda Rambo was
what the older folks referred to as a *rambunctious* child.


Puffing, Beda made one more try for the flour.   Her fingers
barely grazed the paper surface of the bag.


"Damned flour!" the child cried out.   She reached for the broom
sitting propped near the door and lifted it toward the high
shelf.


Something stirred in the back of the room, hidden in the
darkness. Beda turned quickly and peered into the shadows
where the bare overhead bulb did not reach.   "Who's
there?"


No answer. The hairs on the back of the child's neck were
prickly as she called toward the back of the room. "I know
someone is back there. Who is it?"


Beda began walking toward the back, holding the broom
tightly. At her first step, the door behind her blew opened,
allowing a gush of wet wind into the room. Beda squealed
with fright and turned, swinging the broom as she came.


"Hey, Be-Brat, hold on there." Peter Brackin caught the handle
of the broom as it narrowly missed impacting his face.   Beda
pulled it back, breaking the broom from Pete's grasp, then
jabbing at him with the straw. He knocked the thing away and
looked at her in a threatening manner.


The shadows moved in the back again, causing both children to
jump toward each other for mutual protection, their anger with
each other forgotten.


"What *is* that?" Beda gulped, her green eyes saucer-shaped as
she looked into the dark.


"Probably just a rat," Pete responded, letting go of Beda. He
reached for the broom, intending to take it with him.   "Wait
here, and I'll go check."


"No way, Jose," the girl said fiercely, her hold still strong of the
cleaning implement. "You might just chase that thing this
way."


"Now would I do something like that?" Pete looked at the little
girl with an evil grin. She was way too young for Pete to bother
with, but she was a cute little thing, with her red hair and
freckles. Just the kind of girl that a guy liked to torment, as
Beda well knew from dealing with her older brothers.


"Look," she said emphatically, her hold even tighter. "Do me a
favor and hand me that flour, and we'll both just let the ratsie
have this place all to himself."


"Chicken," the boy said, but reached for the flour anyway. Beda
propped the broom back by the door, accepted the flour and
was ready to leave the shed when Peter's voice stopped her.
"Aren't you forgetting something?"


Turning, she saw young Brackin standing there, holding her
pink fuzzy by its ears. She reached for the toy.


With a flick of his arm, Pete threw the stuffed rabbit across the
room. It landed in the general vicinity of where the skittering
noises had been coming from.   He grinned at Beda wickedly.


With a fiendish cry, the little girl dropped the flour and reached
for the broom, all in one motion. The bag broke on impact,
sending choking puffs of white streaming up into the air. She
brought the broom to bear on young Brackin, her aim for his
head. He dodged it, taking the blow on his shoulder.


Pete, covered to his knees in flour, yelped and fled toward the
back of the pantry, Beda in hot pursuit. She swung at his head
again, and he ducked. The broom impacted the metal wall,
splintering the wood. Pete grabbed the handle and tried to
wrest it from the girl.


"Give me that, you little twerp," Pete gasped, pulling the broom
handle toward him. The pressure caused the handle to break,
sending both children falling backwards, each with half a
broom.
"That was real cute, Be-Brat," Pete said angrily, getting up and
starting to brush himself off. "I was going to go get your stupid
rabbit. You didn't have to try and kill me . . ." His voice trailed
off as he noticed the shard of wood he held clinched in his
hand.


"Hey, this might just work," he said approvingly as he hefted
the broom stake. "Hey, Be-Brat you might just have . . ."


Turning, Pete saw the motionless form of the red-haired child.
She lay on the floor, her eyes closed, the tip of the other half of
the broken broom jutting from her still body. A sliver of blood
trickled from the corner of her slightly open mouth.


She looked dead.


*************************


End part 14/64


*************************


In the anteroom, leading off to the bedchambers, Julia took
LaCroix's arm once more.


The tall figure looked down at the tiny woman by his side, a
bemused smile touching his lips. "You are determined to see
this through, aren't you?"


"If you mean, make sure that you take care of whatever bug is
trying to get you, yes I am," Julia responded gruffly, guiding
him toward the end of the hallway. "After all, you did *save*
me from anaphylactic shock, now didn't you? It's only right
that I return the favor."


"Quid pro quo," LaCroix murmured.   "A noble motto to live
by."


Their path took them close to the stained glass window. It still
held a clinging of the recent rain, causing it to have a sparkling
aura. Julia looked up, her breath catching in her throat.
"It's beautiful," she said softly. "Look at the colors . . . so
vibrant. The figures . . . you can almost see them breathing."


LaCroix glanced at the glass, then quickly averted his eyes. The
moonlight was bright through the window, catching the shape
of the etched cross and mirroring it on the floor. LaCroix
stepped aside a bit to avoid the slice of reflected light. His
unexpected motion pulled Julia off balance somewhat,
causing her to fall against him as they reached the door to his
bedroom.


"My dear."   LaCroix smiled down, his eyes sparkling with
mischief.    "Restrain yourself until we are inside."


After LaCroix had used his key to unlock the door, he and Julia
stepped into the simple room. A quick survey indicated that,
except for the made bed, the room was exactly as he'd left it.
LaCroix nodded in satisfaction.


He walked to the small window and opened the shutters. The
night was still dark--much too early to retire. He turned,
noting that Julia was prowling through his personal bag.


"Is there something that I can assist you with, Julia?" he asked.


The petite woman was grumbling under her breath, but at the
sound of his voice she remarked, "Yes, you can get out of those
clothes."


"Indeed," his tone was amused and carried a note of
significance. Julia turned to find him watching her closely.


"Get your mind out of your trousers, Lucien," she sighed. "My
reference was strictly medicinal. You *do* need to get out of
those clothes. They may be drier, but they're far from being
healthy to stay in."


"And what of yourself?" LaCroix said pointedly, his eyebrows
arched.   "That outfit you have on is indeed attractive on you,
but I seem to recall that you were wearing it when we were
mutually 'caught in the downpour.'"


She sighed heavily.   "I'll take care of it as soon as I've taken care
of you." Julia returned to rummaging through the bag.   "Where
do you keep your cold medicine?"


LaCroix wrinkled his nose into a sneer.   "Never touch the nasty
stuff," he replied.


Julia turned, her eyes narrow, her expression incredulous.
"YOU *live* in South Louisiana, and you don't carry anything
for colds and sinus conditions?! Gawd! You do have a death
wish, don't you?"


LaCroix beamed at her.


"I give up on you," Julia said, sighing again. She left the bag
and headed for the wardrobe. "Where do you keep your
pajamas?"


"Never touch them either," LaCroix said smugly.


Julia rolled her eyes. "Well, then, let's get you undressed and
into the shower." She eyed the room skeptically. "There is a
shower in here, isn't there?"


LaCroix nodded.   He waited.


"Well?" Julia looked at him. "What are you waiting for now?
Get undressed and get in there."


"Not until you leave, my dear."


Julia stood firm, determination giving her hazel eyes fire.    She
was prepared to stare him down.


Although LaCroix found this whole situation amusing, he had
no intention of disrobing with the woman in the room. Much
too dangerous. Much too close in these small quarters. The
temptation of her blood was too strong and the few drops he'd
taken had proved almost too enticing. A sweet appetizer to
whet the hunger, not abate it. He could not risk the
circumstances for her being in the room changing from altruism
to passion.
"Oh, Lucien," she scolded as she crossed to him, her hands
reaching for his shirt buttons. "Quit acting like an embarrassed
school boy. I don't imagine that you have anything under there
that I haven't seen before."


"Don't be so sure, Julia," he said easily, catching her hands.
Noting her disapproval, he lifted the finger tips to his lips and
lightly brushed them.


She feigned exasperation and pulled away, settling her hands
on her hips and glaring at him. "I'm not moving until I see you
safely in bed," she stated flatly.


LaCroix assumed a defeated air and exhaled sharply. "Very
well . . . if you insist." He reached for the zipper of his trousers,
prepared to release the metal clasp. LaCroix looked at the
woman one more time, hoping that she'd depart. Julia stood
firm, her eyes glittering. LaCroix proceeded. The metal made
an edgy sound as the material relaxed from its holding. The
trousers fell from his waist, sliding down to encircle his ankles.


He looked up, catching her brief expression of glee.   She
sobered.


"Fair enough," Julia said, suddenly turning and heading for his
door. "You saw me half-naked, and it was only fair that I got to
see you like that. What was it you said . . . Quid pro quo?"


She reached the door and turned again. "Get some sleep,
Lucien, and I'll check on you tomorrow." Half-turned, she
glanced back one more time.   "Nice thighs, by the way." She
was gone.


***************************


LaCroix waited until Julia's heartbeat told him that she'd
arrived at the stairs.   He stepped out of the trousers and picked
them up, laying them across the chair. Julia had been right
about one thing . . . he needed to change clothing. The
drenching had left them clingy, left him feeling sticky.


Freshly attired, LaCroix went to the window and opened it. He
was in time to sense her arrival at the stable. LaCroix crossed
to the file cabinet, unlocked it and removed two bottles of
blood. He downed the first in one draught and then carried the
other back to his window perch.


The recent rain had left everything appearing so clean, stirring
up fragrances from the shrubbery below. The humidity was
already returning, giving the air a heavy feel. LaCroix took a
long drink from the bottle, half draining it, remembering the
evening's events.


Wondering if he should remain here or leave immediately.


<Running from battle, ehh, General?> he chided himself.
<Frightened away by a mere snip of a girl? I think not.>    He
finished the blood and placed the empty bottle on the bureau.


<If anything, you have even more reason to stay.>   LaCroix
remembered Julia's blood on his tongue, and his eyes briefly
flashed yellow. <She's proved very sweet and almost ripe for
the picking. Soon, LaCroix, very soon . . .>


A muffled cry from below caught his attention, interrupting his
reverie.   He shifted his focus, trying to find the source. All was
still.


After a quick scan of the ground below, LaCroix exited the
window and dropped to the earth. He moved swiftly in the
direction he'd heard the cry originate. As he progressed, he
sensed two small heartbeats, though one was very faint.


Like a shade, he moved toward the mortals. Two children, he
knew. He sensed fear strong in one of them. The other . . .
passivity.


LaCroix quickened his pace, but still kept it human in speed.
Ahead, in the shadows, he saw one slight form emerge from a
building attached to the main structure. The child, a male,
looked around briefly, then reached inside and appeared
prepared to drag something out the doorway.


LaCroix cleared his throat.


The child froze, head raised, eyes dilated in fright. Seeing the
tall, dark figure standing in the shadows, watching him, Peter
Brackin's fear intensified ten-fold.
The boy moved quickly, hopping back up into the shelter, bent
on shutting the door before LaCroix could reach him. LaCroix
was there before Peter had it half-closed. In one motion, the tall
figure pulled the door wide, placed his hand hard on young
Brackin's chest and gave a shove, sending the boy tumbling
back into the darkness. Pete struck a metal shelf with such
force that it rattled, threatening to spill its contents of canned
goods and soap powders.


LaCroix was inside the shed now, pulling the door shut and
assessing the *crime* scene. He looked down at the still figure
of Belinda Rambo. She was obviously unconscious and, though
her heartbeat was faint, it was steady. Whatever her injuries
proved to be, they did not appear life threatening.


But young Brackin was not aware of that fact, LaCroix was
certain.


What gave LaCroix pause was the nature of the girl's visible
wound.   Embedded in the girl's shoulder was what appeared
to be a sharpened broom handle.


LaCroix slowly raised his head, fixing Peter Brackin with a
cold, knowing stare.


*************************


End part 15/64


*************************


Warning:   This part contains graphic violence toward a small
animal.


*************************


It was standing in front of him.   Watching.   Waiting.


Pete tried to swallow, but found no moisture in his mouth.
*It* was staring at him.
"I . .. I know what YOU ARE!" the boy managed to croak, his
voice rising as he found it. LaCroix's mouth twisted slightly.


"Indeed," the master vampire looked down at the tiny form of
Belinda Rambo, then back to Pete. "And what was she . . .
practice?"


Pete felt ill. His stomach made a catapult worse than when
he'd ridden the dropping mine shaft at Six Flags last summer.
A sour taste formed in his throat, threatening to gush forth.


"It was an *accident*!" Pete cried out.


LaCroix raised an eyebrow. "Impaling one with a stake is
rarely an *accident*, young Brackin. Perhaps you should
elaborate."


The closed room threatened to choke Pete.     Beads of sweat were
dripping into his eyes, blinding him.


"I didn't . . . mean to . . . kill her-- honest."     The child was almost
pleading.


LaCroix smiled inwardly at the confirmation of his suspicion.
Young Brackin was under the impression that he'd killed the
girl. LaCroix pressed the advantage.


"But, boy, it appears that you have committed murder."
LaCroix lifted his brow again, fixing Pete with the coldest look
he could manage.   "And, if I had not intervened, had every
intention of disposing of the *evidence*, am I correct?"


Pete's head dropped, defeated.   He nodded.


"And so," LaCroix looked around the room, savoring the
moment, "after you'd finished that task, what were your
intentions, young Brackin?" LaCroix fixed his eyes quickly
back on Pete, his voice lowered in menace. "Were you coming
after me?"


The room tilted slightly for Pete. In the back of the room, a
scurrying sound and a small squeak were the only things which
broke the icy silence.
Until Belinda Rambo moaned softly.


Pete looked up, startled.   "She's still alive!" he cried out.


Pete fumbled inside his pocket, his hand reaching for the
crucifix. He pulled out the chain and cross, but LaCroix was
upon the boy before Pete could extend it.


Grabbing the boy's wrist, the vampire wrenched it slightly,
careful not to break the bone. The boy cried out in agony and
watched in horror as the crucifix flew across the room,
landing somewhere within a stack of boxes.


Pete turned his face back to LaCroix. The vampire's eyes
blazed for an instant before returning to a harsh, bright blue.


"Lunch," LaCroix said.   Pete felt his knees buckle.


With a movement so swift that Peter Brackin could not
comprehend it, LaCroix reached into the darkness. His hand
came back, clutching something. LaCroix thrust the wriggling
rat into Peter's face. The boy yelled involuntarily.


Still holding Brackin with one hand, the vampire began
squeezing the rat's body, its flesh making pulpy sounds as it
collapsed. With a final press, the rodent's head erupted with a
sharp *pop*, sending a fine spray of blood and brain tissue
exploding into Peter Brackin's face, covering the boy's shirt
front. The burst was well aimed for not a drop landed on
LaCroix.


LaCroix had never liked taking blood from lower species--it
always left him feeling soiled. He'd done it, of course, when
survival dictated, but it was not a habit he condoned. This
time, though, there was a point to be made.


LaCroix lifted the rat to his mouth, attaching his lips to the
vermin's open neck, and drank. He never took his eyes off
Peter Brackin.


And Peter Brackin never took his eyes off the rat.
Once again, LaCroix felt a stirring of surprise as the rodent's
blood passed his throat and entered his brain. Surprised again
at the intelligence of this particular species, compared to many
lesser lifeforms.


LaCroix lowered the rat's body and dropped it, spent, to the
floor at his feet. It landed with a soft thud.


Pete was crying now. Huge, harsh tears flooding from the
sockets, mingling with the blood on his face. Pete had never
seen death before, except on television. But now, at this
moment, he saw his own.


LaCroix looked at the boy, a tinge of disgust on his face.   "Come
now, boy, I thought you had more man to you than that."


LaCroix removed his hand from Peter's wrist and quickly
grabbed the boy by the neck. He lifted the child slowly, until
Pete's toes barely touched the floor. "And you meant to come
after me?" LaCroix sneered. "How did you hope to accomplish
such a feat when you turn into a whimpering mass at the sight
of a dead rat?"


Pete could only gurgle in reply as LaCroix lifted him higher.
Through bulging eyes, Pete looked at his death and made a
decision.


He kicked LaCroix in the shin--as fiercely as he could.


It startled more than injured LaCroix. It also infuriated him.
The vampire increased his grip on Peter's neck, lifting the boy
to arm's length and shaking him brutally.   Pete watched as
LaCroix's eyes lost all semblance of human color, replaced by
inflamed red. LaCroix's lips pulled back into a sadistic smile.
The fangs, still tinged crimsom with the rat's blood, were
plainly visible.


As Pete felt his body being lowered, drawing closer to those
monstrous teeth, he used his fading strength to try and wriggle
free. LaCroix's grasp was firm. The ancient took his time,
bringing the child closer to him with agonizing slowness,
opening his mouth wider. Even in the darkness of the tiny
shed, the fangs gleamed with unearthly brightness.
"Belinda?" The soft inquiry outside the storage room door
startled both of them. Peter opened his mouth to scream, but
with unnatural swiftness, LaCroix brought the boy down and
turned him so that his back pressed to the vampire's chest.  A
cool, white hand covered Peter's mouth, stifling the child's
shriek.


"Say nothing," LaCroix whispered harshly.


The doorknob turned, rattling.   LaCroix had locked it from the
inside as he'd entered.


Mrs. Simmoneaux's voice came again, confused. "Belinda, are
you in there? You'd best not be playing games, child."


On the floor near the door, Beda stirred.   She emitted a soft
sigh, then began panting.


LaCroix clutched Peter tightly, waiting.


"This is not funny, Belinda Rambo." They heard Mrs.
Simmoneaux say sharply. A fist outside rapped on the door.
"Come outside now!"


LaCroix looked around, sighting the small, barred window near
the juncture of the wall and roof. It was covered by glass.


"Belinda?" The voice outside was increasing in volume as
frustration turned into concern. The rapping intensified.


Belinda coughed and opened her eyes.


LaCroix spun Pete around, catching the boy's eyes and trying to
ensnare the heartbeat. Pete blinked rapidly, thwarting
LaCroix's attempt to control.


This was not unusual, though, LaCroix had learned during his
existence.   The boy was not yet through puberty and somehow
children seemed able to deflect the vampire hypnotism much
easier than even the adult resistors.


"Listen and listen well, boy," LaCroix growled.   "If you want to
live, you'd best heed what I say."


The vampire whirled the boy around, forcing him toward Beda.
Pete struggled, but LaCroix pushed him ahead until they
reached the girl. Holding the boy by the back of the neck,
LaCroix forced Peter to stare downward. With his other hand,
LaCroix reached down and grasped the broom handle which
extended from Beda's shoulder.


With a wrench, LaCroix pulled the stave from the encrusted
wound, causing the blood to run fresh.


Beda cried out at the sharp pain. Outside, the yelling and
pounding on the door became furious.


LaCroix shoved the stake into Peter's hands, wiping Beda's
fresh blood on the boy's pant leg as he did. Pete gaped at the
wood shard in astonishment, then looked up at LaCroix.


"Say anything of vampires, boy, and they'll not believe you,"
LaCroix advised the boy in his most threatening manner.
"They'll see the stake in your hands where you struck down the
mortal girl, see her blood on your clothing. Speak of vampires,
and they'll think you insane." LaCroix hissed into the boy's
face. "You'll spend the rest of your existence in a hospital
somewhere, your mind mush from drugs, your soul black with
despair."


LaCroix leaned further into the boy, eyes rimmed with fire.
"You'll wish that I *had* killed you."


The vampire glanced once more at Beda. The blood oozing
from her shoulder wound appeared superficial, but its hot
promise was intoxicatingly close. Not releasing his hold on
young Brackin, LaCroix touched a finger to the girl's wound,
then lifted it to his lips.   His eyes met Pete's.   The boy was
watching in fascination.


LaCroix thrust his finger, covered with Beda's blood, into Peter
Brackin's mouth.


The boy emitted a cry past terror, flailing with his whole body
to loose the vampire's hold. Outside, the pounding stopped
abruptly, and LaCroix could hear receding footsteps as Mrs.
Simmoneaux, he assumed, went running for help.
LaCroix reached out, pressing his palms to   the boy's cheeks,
smearing the rodent renderings which still   clung there.
LaCroix brought pressed fingers across the   boy's face, leaving
two distinct stripes on each side, looking   not unlike Native
American war paint.


LaCroix released his hold on Pete and leapt to the ceiling,
grabbing the window bars and removing them with a hard tug.
The vampire raised the pane and disappeared.


Peter Brackin was still holding the bloody stake when the shed
door was pried open.


*************************


End of Part 16/64


*************************


>From the open window of his second floor bedroom, LaCroix
watched as they gathered.


The first to arrive was Mrs. Simmoneaux, her actions a study in
controlled panic. She held one hand slightly forward, a key in
her grip. A male, whom LaCroix did not recognize,
accompanied the proprietress. The vampire assumed he must
be a handyman of sorts.


The innkeeper's hands were trembling so badly that the man
took the key from her and inserted it into the lock. When his
efforts to turn the latch were fruitless, the man began to pound
on the door, while Mrs. Simmoneaux called the name of the
female child.


As the proprietress held her ear to the door, listening, the
handyman ran back into the main house, returning with what
appeared to be a crowbar. The man, whom Mrs. Simmoneaux
called Trere, bid the woman back and inserted the metal rod
into the jamb of the door.   Trere pulled back, his muscles
drawn fully taut and his face strained. With a final grunt of
effort, Trere broke the lock and the door swung open.
Avonne Simmoneaux blinked as her eyes adjusted to the dim
light within the shed. Then, she screamed.


The woman's cries had not died before Aaron Brackin burst
around the corner of the main house, his face red and his
breathing labored. For all his boorishness, Brackin was quick to
react, obviously used to taking charge and making decisions.
He noted the situation, retrieved the cell phone from his pocket
and punched in the emergency numbers.


The others arrived in due course. The honeymooners, barely
clothed, came from the main house, followed by Roberta
Brackin, obviously all awakened from sound sleep. At the
stable doorway, Julia appeared.   Noting the source of the
commotion, she hurried toward to the main house, trailed
closely by the stouter Tinker sister. The older woman's
head bobbed with the rhythm of her trot, her brow wrinkled in
worry. At the distant sound of the EMT and police sirens, their
pace quickened to a hard run.


LaCroix watched with detached interest the swarm of activity,
listened to the questioned shouts and recriminations. Trere
went to the front of the estate, waving the dark blue patrol car
and the green and white private ambulance around to the back
of the structure. The vehicles threw gravel as they slid to a stop
beside the shed.


The vampire dropped easily to the ground and, using a quick
stride, made his way to the congested area, looking in all
semblance as if he were returning from a midnight stroll and
happened upon the excitement.


Julia looked up from where the technicians were examining
Belinda Rambo. With a worried glance at the child, Julia rose
and waited as LaCroix made his way to her.


"What happened?" the ancient voiced the proper question, his
features presenting just the right touch of concern.


"We're not sure," Julia sighed, looking back toward the shed
where Aaron Brackin stood, berating his son, while Bunnie
hovered nearby.   A parish sheriff's deputy was standing close,
observing the altercation and the crime scene. "We found the
kids in the shed," Julia continued.   "Belinda looked like she'd
been stabbed in the shoulder and Pete was holding a broken
broom handle, covered with blood. The door was locked from
the inside and before they broke in, Mrs. Simmoneaux
said that she heard screaming in there."


LaCroix looked at the boy. Peter, head down, was not
responding to his father's rough questioning. The boy looked
almost as frail and drawn as the semi-conscious girl now being
stapped on the stretcher.   Aaron Brackin held the broken
broomstick, which he jabbed into the air as punctuation of his
words. LaCroix moved closer.


At the movement of the vampire, Pete looked up. He saw
LaCroix, standing near Julia. For just a moment, the boy's eyes
focused on the bandage visible on the woman's neck. Then,
Pete locked eyes with LaCroix before lowering his head once
more.


"Damnit, Pete. You'd better tell us what happened, and tell us
fast, or I'm going to smack you across the ass with this stick!"
The elder Brackin was livid as the vampire approached them.
Bunnie Brackin, face drawn, watched LaCroix's approach and
assumed a stance of protectiveness. Sensing his wife's change
in posture, Brackin caught sight of LaCroix and eased his
ranting. The Texan looked at the vampire, anger mixed with
defeat on his face.


LaCroix did not address them, but moved past the father and
son, choosing instead to position himself near the police officer,
who was looking inside the shed. As LaCroix moved by, Pete
Brackin looked up. The boy quickly lowered his eyes, but not
before LaCroix noted their tinge of bitter hatred.


"Where was the girl?" LaCroix asked casually, addressing
anyone who might be listening.


"Near the door." The deputy pointed to the small pool of dried
blood which had once been under Beda Rambo's shoulder
blade. The officer lifted his head to indicate a further distance
into the room. "They said they found the boy standing over
near the shelves."


"Armed and dangerous," LaCroix said sardonically as another
parish vehicle drove up. A slim, coffee-skinned man extracted
himself from the patrol car and walked over to where the two
men stood.


"Sheriff, " the man beside LaCroix addressed the newcomer.
The sheriff quickly looked around and then returned his
attention to the deputy.


"Fill me in, Cornette."


While the deputy gave a brief recap of facts-known-to-date,
LaCroix moved closer to the shed entrance, eyeing things
steadily.   The vampire listened as the sheriff tried to question
young Brackin, but received no response from the boy.


"Excuse me, Mr. . . .?" LaCroix knew that the sheriff was
addressing him, so he turned, giving the man an icy stare.     The
lawman didn't flinch, but instead held LaCroix's blue eyes
within the grip of his own dark brown ones.


"LaCroix," the vampire answered.   "Lucien LaCroix.   Sheriff . . .
LeFort?"


The policeman nodded and moved to join the pale man.    "Did
you see anything of importance, Mr. LaCroix?"


"I arrived after the fact," LaCroix responded, his intense gaze
now directed back inside the shed. "But the circumstances of
this *situation* seem obvious."


"Do they now?" LeFort mimicked LaCroix's matter-of-fact tone.
"And what would that obviousness be, Mr. LaCroix?"


LaCroix turned to face LeFort directly. "That this was a tragic
accident," he said firmly. Aaron Brackin looked toward the
sheriff and vampire, while Pete lifted his head sharply, his
expression one of disbelief.


The boy's eyes sought the vampire's and they held for just a
moment.


LaCroix broke contact, looking back to LeFort, whose attention
was within the shed. "Please note the other half of the broom
handle, over against the far wall," LaCroix said as LeFort
squinted into the darkness. "It is obvious that the children
were scuffling and the wood shattered. The girl fell back, half
of the . . . stick . . . striking her in the shoulder. The boy,"
LaCroix glanced at Pete, "went to the girl's aid and tried to
remove the object, not realizing that it would cause more harm
than help."
LeFort nodded. An audible sigh of relief expelled from Aaron
Brackin.   Pete looked toward LaCroix again. This time, though
the boy's eyes still glittered with hatred, they also held
begrudging respect.


"Explain the rat." LeFort indicated toward the small carcass on
the plank flood. LaCroix shrugged and met the officer's gaze.


"More than likely it came out of the shadows and frightened the
children," LaCroix replied. "Perhaps it is the reason for their
initial combat. Young Brackin," LaCroix indicated toward
Peter, "was attempting to squash the creature with the broom,
which broke. That would also explain how the boy came to be
sprayed with blood."


Aaron Brackin placed a heavy hand on Peter's shoulder.


"Is that what happened, son?" Aaron gave Pete's flesh a painful
squeeze. The child flinched, but did not cry out. Pete cast
another furtive glance at LaCroix, then lowered his head and
nodded. LaCroix looked into the sheriff's face, noting from the
officer's non-expression that he had observed the interaction
between the vampire and the boy.


A scrunching of gravel announced the presence of another
visitor.   From the shadows of the out buildings, an elderly
gentleman clad in casual clothing and carrying a physician's
bag, entered the compound area. The white-haired man
walked over to where the EMT's were loading Belinda into the
ambulance.


"Hello, Doc," several people acknowledged the man. The
physician nodded and returned his attention to the girl. He
lifted the bandage padding on Beda's upper chest and gave the
wound a cursory glance.


"You're not taking this child to the hospital, are you?" The
doctor's voice was almost accusatory as he addressed the
med-techs. When they began speaking of policy, the old man
squinted at them warningly. "She only needs a couple of
stitches. I can do that down at the stable without all the bother
of filling out insurance forms and high dollar quackery.
Where's the paperwork? I'll sign the release as attending
physician."
Julia had moved to LaCroix's side. The vampire looked down
at the petite woman, noting the hollowness of her cheeks and
the creases which dominated her pretty forehead.


"Who is our friendly country doctor?" LaCroix asked casually.
Julia looked up at him, smiling gratefully that she had
something besides the injured child to occupy her attention.


"Max Favre," the woman said. "Lives on the adjoining
property.   Within walking distance if you cut through the back
way."


"Is he trustworthy?" LaCroix asked as the technicians began
carrying the gurney toward the stable building.


"As good as they come," Julia replied, preparing to follow the
EMTs. "From what I understand, most of the folk originally
from this area were born into his capable hands. He just feels
people heal better at home, if possible, rather than in an
antiseptic environment." Julia grinned at LaCroix. "Can't say
that I disagree with him, since any kind of institution tends to
give me the creeps."


As Julia moved to follow Dr. Max and the ambulance
attendants, Sheriff LeFort caught her arm. This action incensed
LaCroix, but he caught himself and kept the beast in check.


"You're the girl's temporary guardian, right?" the sheriff asked.
"Do you want the boy arrested?"


Julia shook her head. "I don't think that is necessary, Sheriff,"
the copper-haired woman said. "Of course I can't speak for
Belinda's parents and how they will feel about the situation. I'll
try to reach them tonight, but I believe they're out of the
country."


"Oh . . . she's one of your *rich* ones, huhh?" the lawman's
voice held a small sneer. Julia bristled, as did LaCroix.


"Disabilities don't have a size, shape or financial ceiling, Sheriff
LeFort," Julia responded bitterly.


"I didn't mean offense," LeFort replied, but his tone indicated
that he'd meant his original words just as Julia had interpreted
them. "I just made a statement. Still, if that high-powered law
firm of yours wanted to help children in need, they could pick
kids whose folks can't afford to send them for the spa
treatment, don't you think?"


"Your opinion has been noted and filed, Sheriff," Julia said
darkly.   Inwardly, LaCroix smiled with delight. Then, noting
the pride he felt at the way the small woman handled herself,
LaCroix felt a sudden unbidden coldness creep through him.


Julia moved to continue toward the stable, and this time LeFort
made no move to hinder her. LaCroix nodded once to the
sheriff, then easily caught up with the woman.


"He is such a pain in the . . ." Julia muttered, not noticing that
LaCroix had joined her.


"Why does the constable infuriate you so, my dear?" LaCroix
asked gently, slowing his long stride to match the woman's.


Julia gave the vampire a glance, then returned her
concentration to the path she was walking. "He got on my case
the first couple of years I accompanied the kids to Chenes
Pointte," Julia explained. "That was while I was still on parole
and he was a deputy assigned to keep an eye on me. 'Mr. Gung
Ho Law Enforcement' and all that crap. Made me his special
project because he didn't feel I could be trusted taking
care of children."


"That's not it entirely, is it?" LaCroix prompted gently.


"No," Julia admitted with a sigh. "Duke was raised around
here.   Dirt poor and all. You heard him. Didn't like the
premise of privileges for the rich rather than giving
opportunities to the poor. Still doesn't, obviously. Let me
know from the start that he felt that my 'problems'
with the law stemmed from the little rich bi...h me having too
much time on my hands."


"Is that all of it?" LaCroix said with amusement. "You referred
to the sheriff by his given name -- 'Duke,' wasn't it?"


Julia gave the tall vampire a steely look. "Actually, it's
Raymond.   And . . . if you are implying that our relationship
was more than 'business,' then you are mistaken."   The woman
increased her speed and left LaCroix behind.


But not for long. The vampire caught and passed the woman,
stopping in front of her.   When she moved to go around him,
LaCroix blocked her way, catching her forearms in his strong,
but gentle grip.


"I apologize, Julia. My words were forward and improper."
Julia kept her gaze averted for a few moments, then looked up
at LaCroix.


"Teasing makes me testy sometimes," Julia replied. "Especially
when I have serious business which requires my attention."


"Understood." LaCroix moved aside, clearing her passage.
"You have obligations to the injured child. Perhaps you would
allow me to check on you both tomorrow evening?"


Julia sighed and offered LaCroix a wan smile. "Actually, before
all this happened, the children and I were planning a picnic for
tomorrow afternoon. They said that they'd like it if you joined
us."


"I have a prior commitment tomorrow *afternoon,*" LaCroix
smiled apologetically. "Perhaps if the festivities could be
postponed until after dusk?"


Julia looked thoughtful for a moment. "That might be a wise
idea, Lucien," she said.   "With all this excitement, it's a pretty
good bet that the girls won't be sleepy for quite awhile. And,
I'll be staying up late with Beda after Doc gets through stitching
her up.   We'll just plan to sleep-in late tomorrow and have a
moonlight picnic."


Then, the woman's eyes narrowed as she remembered
something. "I thought that you'd gone to bed?"


LaCroix shrugged and smiled. "After the shower, I felt
somewhat refreshed and," his eyes twinkled, "the memory of
your presence in the room left me somewhat . . . restless.   I
decided to take a walk."


"Well, I guess you're feeling well enough for that picnic, then,"
Julia said, moving away.    "We'll see you tomorrow."


LaCroix caught the woman's hand, brushing her fingertips
lightly to his lips.   "Till tomorrow evening then, Julia.   Adieu."


He watched for a moment as Julia continued to the stable, then
disappeared through the door as the paramedics were
emerging.   LaCroix turned and started back toward the main
house.


There was still much to do before the night's end.


*************************


End of Part 17/64


*************************


When LaCroix returned to the main structure, most of the
guests had gone back inside, leaving only Aaron Brackin
and Avonne Simmoneaux in discussion with Sheriff
LeFort. Deputy Cornette's vehicle was still present, but
the officer was not visible.


Brackin was speaking animatedly while LeFort appeared
to be completing some notes. LaCroix walked casually
up to join them.


"Does my son need an attorney, or what?" Brackin was
addressing the police officer, his tone not quite respectful.


"You use your best judgement on that, Mr. Brackin,"
LeFort replied, not raising his eyes from his writing.
"Right now, no charges are being pressed, because we're
assuming it was an accident. A lot will depend on what
the little girl has to say when she can talk and how much
her parents want to press the issue."


Brackin muttered, but said nothing verbal. He watched
as LaCroix approached, then turned and walked toward
the house.
LeFort looked amused by Brackin's action. "So much for
gratitude," the sheriff said, watching Brackin go inside
the structure.   "And it was your confirmation of my slant
on the crime scene which probably got the boy off."


"I'm sure that he will express his appreciation later,"
LaCroix said dryly.


"Are we finished, Sheriff LeFort?" Avonne Simmoneaux
said, her voice barely above a whisper.


"I think so, Mrs. Simmoneaux," LeFort smiled down at
the dark-haired woman. "Just keep me informed of any
changes in attitude around here and be sure and notify
your liability insurance, in case someone decides a
lawsuit is in order, okay?"


Mrs. Simmoneaux nodded and moved away, heading
toward the back entrance.


Leaving LaCroix and LeFort alone.


They stood quietly for a moment, evaluating each other.
LeFort was almost as tall as LaCroix, but of a more
angular build. The Sheriff was clean shaven,
with eyes keen with intelligence. Under other
circumstances, LaCroix might have liked the man, but
LeFort's earlier interaction with Julia totally nulled
that possibility.


LeFort seemed to sense LaCroix's estimation of him and
gave the pale stranger a calculating look.


"You sized up this situation pretty fast, LaCroix.   What's
your background?"


"Communications," LaCroix replied. Then he smiled.
"But I've dabbled in a number of things."


"Yea." LeFort nodded, tucking his notebook into his
pocket. The ambulance was pulling away, and Deputy
Cornette was coming from around the side of the
building. "I have a feeling that you're a man of varied
and vast experience, wouldn't you say?" LaCroix inclined
his head.


"Be sure and keep yourself available, LaCroix," LeFort
instructed, moving to intercept the deputy. The vampire
responded with another curt nod, then watched as the
lawmen conversed for a moment before returning to their
respective vehicles. LeFort gave LaCroix one more
glance, then drove away.


With a quick look around him, LaCroix confirmed that he
was alone. He moved into the shadows and began to
listen.


He found Peter Brackin's heartbeat. The child was on the
second floor of the new section of the home, presumably
confined to his bedroom. LaCroix listened to the
surrounding area and detected the heavy pounding of
Aaron Brackin's heart, but not that of Roberta Brackin.
LaCroix extended the radius of his search and smiled
when he was rewarded by the soft sound of sobbing.


LaCroix walked to the source of the crying, finding the
woman alone. She was hiding in the shadows beneath an
eve of the home, near a corner of the structure not
normally frequented. She was leaning against the wall,
her back to LaCroix as he approached.


When she took no notice of him, the vampire paused and
made an exaggerated motion to let her know that he was
present. The willowy blonde straightened and she turned
toward him. Bunnie Brackin's face was tear streaked and
her mascara smeared. She looked dreadful.


"Shouldn't you be with your son?" LaCroix asked gently,
approaching the woman.


Bunnie Brackin shook her head. "I don't think I could
manage that right now. I don't know what I'd say to
him."


"The words are not really of importance, just the comfort
of your presence," LaCroix soothed, moving closer. "In
fact, words may not be what the child needs at this time."


Bunnie nodded, a fresh emission of tears coursing down
her cheeks. "I know," she replied, "but I really think I'd
break down in front of him right now, and I don't think
that would do anyone any good."


"Seeing a parent falter can be a terrifying thing for a
child," LaCroix agreed. He was now standing within
inches of the woman.   "But it is one of life's lessons
which must be learned. Seeing a parent as *human,*"
LaCroix rolled the word, then continued, "can also be an
enlightening experience."


"Some of your pop psychology?" The woman lifted her
head, her features drawn in wry amusement. "Aaron told
me that you had a radio program, or some such thing."


LaCroix lips curled slightly.   "Common sense, Mrs.
Brackin." The vampire's voice   lowered, his question
hushed, but demanding answer.   "What are you really
afraid of? Why can't you face   the boy?"


A sob caught in Roberta's throat.   She couldn't answer
except with her eyes.


"You're afraid for him, of him," LaCroix answered for
her, his voice husky. "You're afraid this wasn't an
accident at all. You're afraid he's gotten mixed up
in some *cult* thing, that he stabbed that girl as some
kind of ritual, aren't you?"


Bunnie nodded, tears flowing freely now, body shaking
with emotion. LaCroix moved in, putting his arms
around the woman, pulling her to his chest. He listened
for Aaron Brackin's heartbeat and found it, descending
the stairs from the second floor living quarters. In search
of his wife, no doubt, and exactly on schedule. So
predictable, these humans.


"Perhaps the child has fallen prey to evil," LaCroix
consoled. His hand reached for Bunnie's hair, his long
fingers stroking the short wheat-colored strands. "And,
then again, perhaps it was all a tragic accident, as the
police have decided."


Bunnie lifted her head suddenly, searching LaCroix's face
to see if he told the truth.   He captured her eyes with his
own and watched in satisfaction as they widened.
LaCroix could hear Brackin moving out onto the porch
now, almost see him stop and look around for his mate.


"Yes," LaCroix said softly, watching in satisfaction as
Bunnie's eyes dilated. "The police believed my story
about the *incident* . . . have ruled it an accident. I have
successfully saved your son from the gallows, so to
speak. You owe me his life, don't you?"


"Ye . . . yes," the woman said, her voice faltering.


"And." LaCroix listened as Brackin came round the
corner, stopping again to search the darkness. "How will
you repay me?"


"Repay," Bunnie responded to the soft words in her ear,
leaning in closer to the man who held her. Aaron must
have sensed the movement, for he looked in the direction
of the pair and stopped.


LaCroix bent close to Bunnie, his voice barely audible.
"My payment is simple, Roberta Brackin. Tonight, as
you lay in your husband's arms, each comforting the
other, I want you to cry out my name. I want you to cry
out 'LaCroix.' Then, you will forget that you spoke it.     Do
you understand?"


Bunnie nodded. LaCroix looked into her glazed eyes
once more and, satisfied, drew back from the woman and
addressed Aaron Brackin.


"She's rather distraught, Brackin. I believe it would be
best for you to take her upstairs now." Aaron walked
quickly toward LaCroix and Bunnie. He placed a
protective arm around his wife and looked at the vampire,
not sure of what emotion to display. LaCroix just smiled
at him.


"Nothing improper, I assure you, Brackin," LaCroix said,
moving away from the couple. "She wasn't even aware
that the episode had been ruled an accident. She needs
your comfort right now, man, not your suspicions. I
suggest you attend to her."


LaCroix turned and left the Brackins, moving quickly around
the house, a smug smile on his face. He went directly to the
area below the Brackins' window. As expected, with his father
absent, Peter Brackin had taken up a position at the opening.
Sensing the movement below, Pete looked down and
caught sight of the vampire.


LaCroix looked up at the boy, then slowly rose into the air.


Peter just managed to slam the window shut before LaCroix
stopped his ascent. Hovering now just outside the glass, the
ancient looked at the boy. With the darkness as backdrop and
the light from Peter's room reflecting off his face, LaCroix knew
he presented an dreadful visage. He used the macabre
reflection to his advantage, smiling evilly.


"All cleaned up, I see," the vampire said smoothly, toying with
the child. "Feeling better?"


"You bit Ms. Sanford, didn't you?" the boy blurted out in
accusation. "You're planning to kill her, aren't you?!!"


"My plans for Ms. Sanford are none of your concern, boy."
LaCroix's eyes narrowed. "Interfere in any way, and I'll destroy
you, understand?" LaCroix tilted his chin to the ground, to
where Bunnie and Aaron Brackin had emerged from the
shadows. Pete's eyes saucered, comprehending the vampire's
threat.


"Good," LaCroix said, satisfied. "Now, go to bed like a good
little lad and stop playing 'fearless vampire hunter' before you
force me to hurt someone."


LaCroix flashed from sight, leaving Pete alone. Despite the
humid temperature outside, the boy suddenly felt deathly cold.
He watched his parents carefully, until he was sure they were
safely in the estate house, then walked to his bed. Pete crawled
under the bedspread and pulled the coverlet over his head. His
body began to shake fiercely and continued doing so until
exhausted sleep claimed the boy several minutes later.


*******************************************


LaCroix did not sleep at Chenes Pointte that night. He flew to
nearby Lafayette and located the local voluntary blood
donation
office.   The vampire entered the agency, careful not to trip the
after-hours alarm system.   After helping himself to a healthy
withdrawal from their stock, LaCroix went back into the area
where the siphoning couches were kept. A little too sterile for
his tastes, but it would serve well enough as quarters until
dusk.
He'd made sure that the establishment was closed the following
weekday, since it chose to open on Saturday instead. Safe
enough, he thought, at least safer than the mansion, in case
young Brackin decided to do something rash.


As LaCroix lay there, staring at the sound-proofed ceiling, the
thoughts queered through his brain. Julia, young Peter and,
ultimately, Nicholas -- all mixed and swirled into the soup of
semi-consciousness which LaCroix invoked, seeking rest. All
the complications to be dealt with. The longing for a simpler
time when his control was absolute, without the upstarts
challenging him.


<But,> he mused. <Had it ever really been like that? Then
again, life without challenge could not truthfully be called life,
could it?>   LaCroix thought of Julia's altercation with LeFort,
her spine when she'd faced him. He smiled, but then became
aware of the coldness penetrating him again, the same chill
he'd
felt when he'd first felt pride in Julia's actions. His mind misted
. . .


********************************************


Cambodia . . . 1882


He was aware that she was at the door of his quarters,
watching
him sleep. Her dark eyes, penetrating in life, were even more
acute in unlife, if such was possible. He smiled as he sensed
her approach. She moved with so little motion, her tiny feet
barely grazing the floor. At his mat, she went to her knees, her
head inclined in a bow.


"Master," she said, her voice almost music.


LaCroix raised himself on one elbow, looking into the face he'd
found so much pleasure in. It was small and round, once
requiring powdering to achieve the now natural pale toning.
The eyes, curved and feminine, were closed. LaCroix reached
out and stroked the woman's cheek, bidding the eyes to open.
The thick lashes fluttered, revealing the dark iron beneath the
lids.


"Qu'est-ce que c'est, mon enfant?" the vampire asked her, his
tone endearing.


"Je suis affame', mon maite," she said quietly, her eyes the only
indication of how strong the desire consumed her.


"Indeed?" LaCroix smiled, leaning back into the pillows. "Why
come to me with your needs, when you have a field of peasants
to satisfy your cravings?"


"Because it is you I hunger for," she said simply, not moving.


LaCroix smiled. He extended his arms, beckoning her into his
embrace. "Then come, child, take your nourishment. I am
yours to use as your will dictates."


"As I am yours," the girl replied. Her eyes flickered slightly
and, with a low growl, she opened her mouth to reveal her
sharp
white teeth. In a downward stroke of such grace that it still
amazed LaCroix, the woman attached herself to the elder
vampire's neck and began to suckle.


LaCroix lay back, reveling in the sensation of her drawing from
him. Her long dark hair fell onto his check, feathering his face.


He entwined his fingers into her mane, pulling it sharply as he
felt her passion increase.


Her sucking grew stronger, her face shading darker as the
liquid
passed into her. Just as he felt his own life waning, drained by
her need, LaCroix heaved his body and detached the girl from
his throat. He rolled her, reversing their positions so that he
lay
atop his consort.


She rested there, looking at him, eyes drowsy with fulfillment.


"My Sire," she whispered.
LaCroix was at her breast in an instant, fangs buried deep into
the soft flesh of her upper bosom. The girl's back arched, a
moan heavy in her throat. His pull was steady, the rush of her
blood causing euphoria. Even more so than the first night that
he'd tasted her.


Later, they held each other. She barely breathed, indicating the
deepness of her contented sleep. LaCroix stroked her hair,
kissing her gently on the crown of her head. She stirred
slightly, cuddling closer to him.


Then, the coldness crept into him. He could sense the whispers
of others in the house who took notice of the unnaturalness of it
all. LaCroix knew they would do nothing, because they feared
reprisal for such action. Still, something else was stirring.
LaCroix frowned as he tried to identify the source of his
disquiet, frowned deeper when he could not.


Loss of control was perhaps the only thing which frightened
him.


But, he thought as he again looked tenderly down at the
sleeping woman, no one would ever know of any insecurities
he
might have, no one would know of any doubted strength. He
was the oldest of his kind, that he was aware of, thus proving
his invincibility.


What had he to be frightened of?


********************************************


The flickering of overhead lights down the hall startled LaCroix
to wakefulness. He didn't move, but instead used his senses to
identify the intrusion. Chemical smells assaulted his nostrils.


Cleaning personnel.   Damn.


LaCroix rolled from the couch and crouched, watching as a
janitor came into the room. The man reached for the light
switch, fumbling to flip it.
The custodian felt a coldness touch his hand. Startled the man
looked up into the yellow eyes of a demon, which disappeared
just as quickly.


Confused,   disoriented and frightened, the janitor stood there,
unable to   move. Then, he crossed himself, mumbled something
in an old   tongue and fled from the blood center without a
backwards   glance.


***************************


End Part 18/64


***************************


LaCroix was at the stable door a few minutes past dusk.


Before announcing himself with a knock, LaCroix paused and
listened. He quickly accounted for all five of the children's
heartbeats. He was especially interested in young Belinda
Rambo's pulse, steady and much stronger than the night before.
The child was well on the way to mending, LaCroix noted.


To his surprise and slight chagrin, he did not find the heartbeat
of Julia Sanford. The only adult in the room was the elderly
Rose Tinker.   <I wonder if she is aware that she has a
murmur,> LaCroix thought.


"Why the hesitation at knocking, Lucien?" a light voice taunted
the vampire from behind. "You're not afraid of a bunch of little
girls, are you?"


"On the contrary, Ms. Sanford." LaCroix turned to greet the
source of his teasing, annoyed that he'd not sensed her arrival.
If he meant to say more, though, his words caught in his throat
at his first sight of her.


Her attire, as usual, was simple and brief, as befitting the
climate. She wore a ribbed pullover blouse, turquoise in color,
and a pair of beige linen walking shorts. Her hair was pulled
back from her face, held taut by an elasticized headband,
making her high forehead even more prominent.
But what caught LaCroix's immediate, and total, attention were
her eyes.   The normal hazel appeared almost smokey. The
green still smouldered, yes, but there was an intensity in this
new color; a vitality which he had not seen before. A hunger.


<So.> The recognition of her emotional state rose in LaCroix
with the intensity of a geyser's heated liquid. <She is ready.>

Julia smiled and came toward LaCroix, only to brush past him
to open the door.   The immediate increase of the noise level
induced by the children crashed against LaCroix and he
frowned. Seeing the vampire's face pucker in distaste, Julia
laughed. "If you want to back out, you'd better do it quickly."


Too late.   They'd been seen.


"Ms. Sanford!" one of the urchins yelled out in excitement.
"Come see what we got ready for the picnic!!"


The children quickly surrounded the woman, plucking and
pulling at her in their enthusiasm. As they bustled Julia down
the hallway, LaCroix stood back and watched, amusement
replacing his irk.


One of the children looked back and noticed him, then
hesitantly detached herself from the group. She was the child
of hispanic heritage, the first of Julia's charges that he'd met--
Theresa. Shyly, she approached the tall man.    She stopped
before LaCroix and tentatively extended a hand.


"You can come too, Mr. LaCroix," she said.


LaCroix looked down at the girl, smiling at her innocence and
trust. He reached out, engulfing her tiny hand in his large, cold
one. With this acknowledgement of concurrence , the girl's face
broke into a smile, and the two followed the others into the
livery area.


A large table had been moved to the center of the room. Its
surface was occupied by an extremely large wicker basket, the
top open on double hinges, with a piece of red cloth peeping
over the edge. Foodstuffs and eating utensils covered the
remainder of the table space. The children were prattling
excitedly over the condiments, exerting their choices of what
should be packed and what should be abandoned.
Ms. Rose watched the activity, her head bobbing slightly, her
expression cheerful.   When she saw LaCroix enter the room
with Theresa, she offered the pale man a friendly smile.


"You're awfully game, young man," she needled, "taking on this
clan for a midnight picnic. Are your sure you're up to it?"


LaCroix smiled back. "I believe I can manage the situation, Ms.
Rose," he returned the tease, "but I would feel much safer if you
were to accompany us."


His words were rewarded with a blush. "Oh, no, not me, Mr. L.
These old bones couldn't stand two straight nights of
excitement. Besides, someone needs to sit with young Beda
while you young ones cavort out there in the woods."


"Pity," LaCroix cooed devilishly at the elderly woman. "Your
company always proves most enjoyable." Ms. Rose's cheeks
reddened again.


"Should I be jealous of something?" Julia walked up to LaCroix
and took his arm, smiling up at him. Her teeth flashed
momentarily and the urge to taste her was almost too strong.
LaCroix caught himself and patted her hand affectionately, not
answering her with words.


The children had been busy packing the basket, and now Ms.
Rose closed the hamper, securing the latch tightly. "Be careful,"
the older woman warned the vampire. "It's heavy."


Understanding her unspoken bidding, LaCroix stepped to the
table and lifted the basket easily while Julia tucked a folded
blanket under her arm. LaCroix offered the woman his free
arm again and gave a sweeping look around the room, catching
the attention of each eager child. "Shall we go?"


"Everyone be sure and grab a flashlight!" Julia added.


A clamor of enthusiastic affirmatives filled the room and the
picnic party exited, in a rather disorganized manner, from the
stable cottage. Liddy and Theresa ran ahead, followed by
Heather and Corlie, who were slower of pace -- the former
because of her weight and the latter because of her disability.
Julia and LaCroix strolled behind the children, enjoying the
night and the quiet closeness of each other.


"You're not used to children, are you?" Julia asked, brushing a
tree branch aside as they passed into the grove.


"It has been many years since I was around ones so young,"
LaCroix admitted.   "But I do have some experience in child
rearing, though one might say my 'success' at it was
questionable."


He frowned suddenly, wondering why he had shared that
statement with the woman. Julia noticed the frown and
reached a finger to stroke his face.


"None of that tonight," she ordered.   "This is a picnic.   Fun.
Remember?"


His face relaxed again as he looked into hers.   "As you order,
madam," he replied.


"Mamselle," she quipped, returning her attention to the path
ahead.


A few moments later, they broke into a clearing, which the
rising moon had already lit softly.   Julia quickly spread the
blanket and LaCroix deposited the basket at its center. The
woman looked around, noting the direction the children were
heading.


"Don't go too near the bayou," she called out in warning.
Waving arms were her reply as the children disappeared down
a hidden incline.


Julia lowered herself to the blanket and looked up at the
standing LaCroix.   "We have a moment alone before the hoard
returns to pillage the picnic basket.   You'd best take advantage
of it, if you intend to."


As bidden, LaCroix seated himself by her side. She leaned
toward him and, on impulse, he met her advance. As their lips
embraced, Julia's hand moved to cup behind LaCroix's neck.
He, in turn, gathered the woman into his arms, his hold
demanding.
As their kiss increased in intensity, the night seemed to blur.
Julia's free hand move to LaCroix's waist. She tugged gently at
his tucked shirt, releasing its tightness. The woman skillfully
loosed one of the buttons and slipped her hand inside the
ebony material. Her fingers moved over his skin, exploring the
flesh of his rib cage and chest.


"You are a wanton female," LaCroix acknowledged her caress
in a hoarse whisper.


She laughed lightly. "I'd think that *you* would especially
understand that it is the element of danger that adds to the
excitement," she laughed, her hand moving to the small of his
back. "Never knowing just how much can be accomplished,
before discovery stalls the process."


"Then, as you wish, Julia, we will continue with this little
exploration experiment."   LaCroix traced her neckline with one
long forefinger, pausing at the point it became cleavage.
Abruptly, his hands changed position, going to the hem of her
blouse and lifting it just enough so that his hands could slip
under the cloth. She wore no undergarment and his thumbs
quickly made contact with the firmness under her breasts.


Julia sighed. She threw back her head and allowed LaCroix to
gently guide her body until she lay beneath him on the blanket.
Closing her eyes, she gave herself to his touch. As his fondling
increased in intensity, she moaned deeply.   At the sound's
escape, LaCroix's own dark senses became more acute. His
eyes flared amber, and he lowered his lips to her pulsing vein.


Her scent was intoxicating to the point of madness in this, its
fully ripened state. LaCroix could almost feel the warmth of
her in his mouth as he ran his tongue along her bloodline. Julia
moaned again, clutching his head tightly to her.


"Tonight," he whispered, his breath carressing her face now.
"Tonight you will know fulfillment as you've never dreamed."


Somewhere beyond them, a loud *splash*, then a sudden
yelling of many small voices shattered the moment.


"Damn it all to . . . Blue Blazes."   Julia sat up, barely catching the
curse.
LaCroix, still possessed by the darkness, moved to catch and
halt her, but caught himself instead. <No,> he shuddered,
pulling in the reins of himself so fast that he felt dizzy. <It
*will* be tonight, but not like this. I will not have her
distracted. I want her focused, fully, on me. Only then, will
there be rapture.> He fell to the blanket, face down, and bid
the vampire back.


Julia stood quickly, looking toward the riverbank where the
children had last been seen. Without a word, she broke into a
run. Behind her, she heard LaCroix following.


As they topped the rise, they looked down and saw that one of
the children, Liddy, had fallen into the stream. The small
waterway was swollen from the previous night's storm, and the
girl was holding on to a broken tree limb to prevent being
swept downstream.


Julia slid down the embankment toward the youngsters, her
feet miring in the soft clay as she went. "What happened?" she
yelled.


"Liddy was trying to catch a turtle." Heather's shrill little voice
made the announcement doubly chilling. "She slipped on a
rock--I think it was covered with moss or something."


"We told her not to go, Ms. Sanford," Theresa sobbed.   "But she
wouldn't listen."


"It's alright, Theresa." Julia squeezed the child's shoulder as she
assessed Liddy's situation. It wasn't good. The flow of the
water was swift, and, except for the trapped branch that Liddy
clung to, there appeared to be nothing else available to reach
the child with.


"Hold on, Liddy!" Julia shouted.   "I'll try to get something to
grab you with."


Julia turned around and looked up the bank, intent on
borrowing LaCroix's belt, but he wasn't there. Furtively she
looked around, but he had vanished.


"Lucien!" Julia cried out, desperately needing his help.
"Yes, Julia." She looked around in amazement. He was on the
other side of the bayou, the bank closer to where Liddy was
trapped. LaCroix held out his hand. "Throw me one on
Corlie's crutches -- I believe I can reach her with that."


Corlie, face pale, released the arm cane as Julia reached for it.
Taking careful aim, the woman threw the crutch across the
stream and LaCroix caught it deftly.


The vampire extended the metal rod, arm piece out, toward the
Liddy.   "Catch hold, girl," he instructed.


"I'm afraid," Liddy whimpered, her grip on the driftwood
tightening.


"Of course you are." LaCroix lowered his voice to its most
hypnotic. "But, you are also very brave and know what you
must do. Release the branch and catch hold of the crutch."


Liddy looked at the tall man. Her glasses had been swept away
with the water, so he appeared to be nothing but a big
wavering area. He was a stranger, but his voice was strangely
lulling, bidding her to trust.   Tentatively, she loosened her
hold on the branch and extended one hand toward the cane.


In a lightening motion, LaCroix hooked the child's arm and
dragged her to the safety of the bank. He pulled Liddy from
the bayou and held her up, inspecting her for damage. The
only apparent injury was to the child's pride and wardrobe.
She lifted her chin and, although it trembled just a bit, her
look was defiant. Liddy offered no word of thanks, and
LaCroix expected none.


"Come with me," he instructed the child, firming his grip on her
hand.


Without further word, LaCroix pulled Liddy up the
embankment and led her downstream.


"How'd you get over on this side?" Liddy finally broke the
silence as they left the earshot of the others.


"A fallen log," LaCroix replied, moving forward.
"Where?" Liddy persisted. "I don't see one close, and you got
over to this side pretty fast."


"What does it matter?" LaCroix retorted, giving the child a
vicious look. "I saved your meager little life, and that's the only
important issue, isn't it?"


Liddy's eyes answered with anger, but her mouth remained
closed. LaCroix loosed the girl's hand and said, "Wait here."


Out of her sight, LaCroix used his preternatural strength to
topple an aged tree across the stream. Then, he returned for
the child and escorted her across the "bridge."


And back to the company of the others.


********************************


End of Part 19/64


********************************


"You look like a drowned rat," Heather chirped, noting Liddy's
disheveled appearance as she and LaCroix walked up to them.
Theresa and Corlie tittered and nodded in agreement with
Heather's assessment.


"I'll show you 'drowned rat.'" Liddy shook her fist
threateningly. LaCroix caught hold of the child's upraised
hand and gave it a warning squeeze.


"None of that, young woman," he said meaningfully.   Liddy
glowered at LaCroix, but lowered her hand.


"I think all of you need a 'time out,'" Julia said sternly as she
began herding the children up the bank. "Now, up to the
clearing with all of you, or we're going back to the house.
Comprende?"


There were a few mumblings, but the group did not protest Ms.
Sanford's suggestion.   Within moments, they were back at the
picnic area.


The children prepared to attack the picnic basket, but Julia
caught hold of Liddy and gave the child a discerning look.


"They're right, you know . . . you do look like a drowned rat."
Liddy frowned, but said nothing. "It may be humid tonight,
but I don't think it would be wise for you to stay in those wet
clothes. Why don't we go back to the stable and get you a
change?"


"I can go back by myself," Liddy challenged.   Julia looked down
her nose at the child.


"And, in the state of agitation you're in, you could also get into
a lot of mischief," Julia said quietly. "Let's make this pleasant
for a change, Liddy. What do you say?"


The child opened her mouth to retort, but closed it without
uttering a word. Julia smiled with satisfaction, then turned to
the others.


"Now I expect you to behave and do what Mr. LaCroix tells you
to do, all right?" Three heads nodded. Julia looked at the
vampire and smiled.


"I appreciate your keeping an eye on the children," she said,
watching as his eyes narrowed almost imperceptibly. Julia
leaned forward and whispered to him. "I know you'll do fine,
and I'll reward you for it-- later." Then she turned and walked
toward the grove, leading the bedraggled Liddy by the hand.


Leaving him alone with the others.


LaCroix looked down at the three little faces looking up at him.


They waited, expectantly.


LaCroix looked toward the woods where Julia had
disappeared. <Indeed, woman,> he thought, <I will collect my
recompense tonight, whether you are willing or not. This
charade has gone on far too long.>
"Are we gonna eat now?" Heather broke the silence.      "Or do we
have to wait until they get back? I'm hungry."


LaCroix stared down at the girl.


"You're always hungry, Heather," Theresa pointed out.


"Can't help it," Heather replied, pouting. "I was born
that way." She looked hopefully back up at LaCroix. "What
about you, Mr. LaCroix? Are you hungry?"


LaCroix's eyes glittered. "Yes," he replied, just a hint of
sarcasm peeking through. "Very."


"Good!" Heather clasped her little hands together and grinned
greedily. "I want some chicken."


With a grand sweep of his arm, LaCroix gestured toward the
basket. The children responded to his cue and lunged on it.
Soon, a variety of picnic items were spread across the blanket in
sundry stages of devourment.


With a sigh, LaCroix walked over to a nearby stump and sat
down, watching the children.


Theresa looked up from the peanut butter sandwich which had
left traces across her chin. "I thought you said you were
hungry, Mr. LaCroix," she said. "Don't you want a sandwich?"


"Not right now, Theresa, thank you," LaCroix replied, giving
the girl a gentle smile. "I'll wait until you children have your
fill."


Theresa shrugged and turned back to the feast, helping herself
to a boiled egg.


LaCroix watched them eat, marveling at their appetites and
their zealous gratification of them. So simple they were, he
realized. They hungered and, resultingly, they fed.
Both Corlie and Heather reached toward a piece of chocolate
cake. As their mutual fingers touched the frosting, they looked
at each other. Heather opened her mouth to protest, but Corlie
stifled any argument by hissing at the older child.


LaCroix could not help smiling.


As Corlie sucked the chocolate from her fingers, Heather
looked at LaCroix.


"Mr. LaCroix?" Heather said, displaying a mouthful of
half-chewed chicken.   LaCroix found himself wondering where
the child had planned to put the cake.


"Yes?" LaCroix said.


"Do you like Ms. Sanford?" The children stopped chewing, six
eyes focusing on the vampire, waiting.


"Of course I like Ms. Sanford," LaCroix replied smoothly.


"Yea, but do you *really* like her?" Theresa inquired, taking a
sip from her canned soda.


"Yes, I really like her," LaCroix confirmed.


"What they want to know, Mr. LaCroix," Corlie explained as
she finished her last swallow of cake, "is if you plan to marry
Ms. Sanford?"


Dead silence.   LaCroix stared at the girls as they waited,
expectantly.


"That is a very personal question," LaCroix finally said, chiding
them.


"Yea, but do you?" Heather pushed.


"Why is my *attachment* to Ms. Sanford of importance to you?"
LaCroix challenged the little group.
"Cause," Heather responded happily. "If you marry Ms.
Sanford, then you'll be my 'Uncle LaCroix.'"


"Excuse me?" LaCroix felt his neck becoming heated, a
sensation he did not like.


"Ya see," Heather went on cheerily. "Ms. Sanford works for my
Daddy. I get to come along with the dis-vantaged kids 'cause
I'm too . . ." she screwed up her face, searching for a word, then
she brightened, "*sizable* to go along with the regular scout
troop. I can't keep up when they hike, and they tease me real
bad."


"I see," LaCroix said dryly.


"Yup," Heather nodded. "Ms. Sanford and my Daddy are good
friends and she lets me call her Aunt Julia, when we're at home.
So, if you marry Aunt Julia, then you'll be my Uncle LaCroix,
right?"


"No," LaCroix said simply. Heather looked taken aback a little,
but then assumed a sulking expression as Corlie and Theresa
began giggling.


"Mr. LaCroix?"


"Yes, Theresa?"   His voice was slightly gruff.


The dark-eyed girl hesitated, wanting to ask a question but
unsure because of the coolness of his response. LaCroix forced
his voice to soften.   "Yes, Theresa, what do you wish to ask?"


She looked at him, eyes hopeful.   "Do you like kids?"


"At times," he smiled, his answer truthful.


"Have you ever thought about adopting a little girl?" The tone
of her voice alerted LaCroix that he should be very careful in
the wording of his answer, lest he hurt this child's feelings.


"Yes, Theresa.    In fact, I did adopt a little girl, many years ago."
All the children looked at the vampire with new interest.
Corlie and Heather opened their mouths to ask questions, but
he stopped them with a raised hand. LaCroix looked at
Theresa, waiting for her to continue.


"Did you love her?" Theresa asked, her voice daring a rise in
optimism.


"Very much," LaCroix replied.   "Her name was Janette, and I
cared for her deeply."


Theresa looked down thoughtfully for a moment, then back up
at the vampire.

"So you think an adoptive daddy can really love a little girl?"


"Without question."


"I hope so," Theresa said quietly. "Because my Mommy is
getting married and she told me I was having a new Daddy,
because he was going to adopt me." She looked at LaCroix.     "I
wish she was marrying you."


"You all seem anxious to see me married," LaCroix quipped,
suddenly feeling cheerful. He looked from one face to another.
"What say I just wait until you are all grown up, then I'll
court each of you? How does that sound?"


"What's 'court?'" Heather made a funny face.   "You planning to
sue us?"


Corlie reached out and pushed Heather backwards.


"Court means to 'date,' you dingy," Corlie snarled as the
chubby girl toppled over. Then the disabled girl turned back
to LaCroix, her expression simpering. "I wouldn't mind you
courting me, Mr. LaCroix, when I'm older. Say, thirteen?"


LaCroix rose from the stump, walked to the blanket and
assumed a seat beside the curly-haired girl. He took Corlie's
hand in his and lifted it to his lips. "I shall keep that in mind,
Ms. Trummer," he said, graciously.
Corlie blushed and giggled as LaCroix released her hand.
Heather was staring at him, mouth open in wonder. Theresa
rolled her eyes, but was grinning with delight.


********************************


A short time later, Julia and Liddy emerged from the grove and
rejoined the picnic. Liddy grabbed a chicken leg and ran after
the other children, who were already playing hide-and-seek
near the edge of the brush, carefully avoiding the bayou area.


"Did you find what you wanted to eat?" Julia asked,
rummaging through the basket.


"Some time ago," LaCroix responded, his voice suggestive.


Julia stopped, a tuna sandwich half-way to her mouth. She
smiled as she recognized the look he offered her, and placed
the tuna back into the holder.


"You'd best eat now," LaCroix interjected, pulling back slightly.
"You'll need your stamina."


Julia reddened.   "Make up your mind, will you?   You're
confusing me."


"Eat the food, Julia." LaCroix leaned toward her, his breath soft
against her hair. "We will take care of our other appetites later,
when the children are not a factor."


Sanford blushed again, and LaCroix was gratified that
anticipation had set her heart racing. He listened to its swift
pattering and felt the beast surge.


Then quell as he bid it back down. Good. He was in full
control now -- of the vampire nature, of the woman, of the
timing. Perfect. He smiled wickedly, gloating inside.


Julia saw the look on his face.   "What is it?" she asked, her
voice tentative. When he turned fully toward her, now, she felt
suddenly light-headed. LaCroix caught her arm and steadied
her.


"Julia," he said easily, confident of his control of her will.    He
kissed her forehead tenderly. "This night, I promise you
ecstasy."


***************************


End of Part 20/64


***************************


LaCroix watched as the moon continued its descent in the
western sky.   The orb's face was partially covered with clouds,
thick and gray in the darkness.   The smell of rain was viscous
in the air and LaCroix knew it would arrive before morning's
dawning. He stretched his legs, shifting on the porch swing,
which had been chained within the framework of an old
swing set.


He sensed her approach, coming up from behind him. He'd
tracked her activities as she'd tucked each of the children into
their beds and made a final check on the sleeping Belinda
Rambo. Rose Tinker had left some time ago, making her
departure shortly after the party had returned from the
picnic. They'd found the older woman sitting in a cane rocker
in the livery area, nodding over the unread pages of a current
best seller. Ms. Rose had stammered something about "too
many late nights for old bones" and excused herself, but not
before offering Julia and LaCroix a benevolent smile.


Julia was close behind him now, her soft scent coming before
her, filling his nostrils with its pleasant aroma. She slipped
her arms over his shoulders, loosely encircling his neck, and lay
her chin upon his shoulder.   The woman followed his line of
sight and now looked at the moon also.


"There's a haze about it," she noted.   "We're probably in for
another storm."


"Yes," he nodded. "Just as Diana's halo has foretold such
occurrences for centuries."


Julia smiled, rubbing her cheek against his, enjoying the rough
feel of his skin. "Oh, he speaks of the goddess of fertile fields,"
she teased. "Methinks he continues to have plans."


LaCroix caught her arms and gently led her around the swing's
chains to stand before him. He looked up appraisingly at the
small woman.


"The goddess Diana also ruled the hunt, Julia." His voice had a
lecturing tone to it, but she didn't mind. "And, she was the
guardian of the wild beasts -- those creatures which came alive
at night, under the protection of her silver cloak."


LaCroix looked back toward the sky, his expression meditative.
"She was always one of my favored deities, even before . . ."
His voice faded.


Julia sat down beside him, her hand sliding over the muscles of
his upper back. "You sound like you've studied Roman
mythology quite a bit."


He looked at her and smiled.   "I have . . . but it was some time
ago."


Julia looked back at the moon.   "Luna -- that's the Latin term,
right?"


LaCroix nodded, studying Julia's profile, enjoying the feel of
her warm hand caressing his shoulders.


"I remember a superstition that my great-granddad told me,"
she said, her eyes steady on the reflected light. "He said that
people would go insane if they looked at the moon for too long
or fell asleep in the moonlight." Then she turned her attention
to her companion and grinned. "But that was before man
walked on her face in the 60's. Can you believe it? Almost
forty years ago. A lifetime." She sighed and lay her head
against LaCroix's shoulder.


She had not eaten the tuna sandwich at supper, choosing an
apple instead. LaCroix noticed that she had further sweetened
her breath with artificial mint. He smiled inwardly at her little
preparations for their coming tryst.


"The children are all safely in their beds?"   His arm had been
draped across the back of the swing when she sat down, but he
now moved it to fall upon her shoulders.


"After some minor protests," she responded, snuggling closer.


"Are you chilled?" LaCroix asked.


"Not at all," she grinned, then her brow furrowed, "but I'm
worried about you. You're like ice."


"I'm counting on you to warm me," he replied. She favored him
with a radiant smile, then looked back toward the moon.


The heady smell of her was overwhelming, the mixture of
mulberry, chocolate and the now identified vervain thick and
pungent. LaCroix turned his head slightly, kissing her on the
brow. "Wait here," he ordered, disentangling himself and
getting up from the bench.


"Lucien?" Julia saw him move toward the main house and felt
a small tingle of alarm.


He turned and smiled, reassuringly, yes, but there was
something more in his eyes.


"Not to worry," he said smoothly. "I should have attended to
this earlier, but I was caught up in watching Diana chase her
prey across the sky. I'll be back shortly."


He disappeared into the shadows. Julia sat there for a moment,
perplexed, then his reason for leaving became obvious. She
blushed at her own lack of insight, then warmed with the
knowledge that she was in capable and caring hands.


"A renaissance gentleman with nineties   smarts," she sighed.
"Can't beat the combination."


LaCroix returned shortly, carrying a wine bottle. Their eye
contact was sensual, and Julia rose without a word. She went
back into the stable and emerged with two stemmed glasses
and a corkscrew.
Moments later, as Julia took a sip of the warm, red liquid,
LaCroix couldn't refrain from teasing her.   "Did your
great-grandfather also tell you of the superstition that wine
sweetens the blood?"


"Well, actually it was my maternal grandmother who told me
that," Julia replied, her eyes twinkling. "And, it was sherry, not
Cabernet Sauvignon. Now, my paternal grandmother, on the
other hand, had a whole different idea about the stuff."


LaCroix raised an eyebrow in question.


"'Look not thou upon the wine when it is red, when it giveth
his color in the cup . . .'" she quoted. "'At the last it biteth like a
serpent, and stingeth like an adder.' Proverbs 23: 31-32."


"And do you feel its 'bite,' Julia?" LaCroix had tensed as she
began the Biblical quote, but now felt comfortable enough again
to speak suggestively. He pretended to take a sip from his own
glass, his eyes never leaving hers.


"Maybe just a nibble," she answered lightly. Julia drained the
contents of the glass and held it out to him. "More, please."


He refilled the goblet and they settled back into the swing,
falling silent.   LaCroix drank her in with all of his senses but
taste, savoring her life as it still simmered within her. Soon,
though, very soon -- he would take her into him.


It was during this study of her that he became aware of her
subtle change in posture. She was reflecting on something,
now. Something other than their coming union.


"What is it, Julia?" He didn't want to ask, to break his
concentrated enjoyment of this foreplay, but the words came
before he could stop them.   He frowned at himself, an
expression she took for concern.


Julia sighed softly. "Not to break the mood, but . . . I was
wondering how Peter Brackin was doing?"


LaCroix's expression darkened further.   "What do you mean?"
"Aaron took the boy off with him early this morning, before
the rest of us got up, or so Avonne told me," Julia replied.


"Did she know where?"   Dammit, the vampire thought, but he
was curious now.


Julia shook her head. "If she did, she wasn't forthcoming with
the information. I do know, though, that Bunnie Brackin did
not go with them."


LaCroix immediately became more alert. "That appears odd--
that the family would separate voluntarily at a time of crisis."


Julia nodded. "That's what I thought. And, Avonne said that
Bunnie seemed pretty upset and withdrawn."


A smug smile spread across LaCroix's face, but he masked it
before his partner took notice.   Julia turned to him, her
expression troubled. "I have a feeling that Aaron took the boy
to obtain some legal advice. I just hope he won't be too hard on
Pete."


"This whole affair has really disturbed you?" LaCroix said, his
voice carrying just the right tone of empathy. "The police have
all but ruled it an accident, so the child has no criminal charges
pending. What is your concern?"


Julia shrugged. "I identify a little with him, I guess. Dealing
with the justice system, even when you are innocent, can be
nerve wracking. And, I get the impression, sometimes, that
there's quite a bit of friction between Pete and his father. This
incident certainly didn't help foster a strengthened father/son
relationship, if the familial bonds were strained already."


"Fathers and sons," LaCroix mused. "In my experience, those
'familial bonds,' as you so eloquently describe them, are usually
tense."


Unbidden, Nicholas came to LaCroix's mind before the vampire
could consciously chase the thought away.


*******************
Cambodia, 1882


The night song was especially poignant this evening. It rolled
off the Tonle Sap, the waters swollen from the summer
monsoons. The sound reveberated through the tropical
evergreens which bordered the plantation.


LaCroix, stretched out in a straw chair on the veranda, watched
and waited.   His reward arrived soon enough.


With a soft displacement of humid air, Nicholas de Brabant
stood before his sire.


This was not the first time that Nicholas had visited the manor.
The younger vampire and his sister/lover, Janette, had
accompanied LaCroix when the elder had first traveled to these
jungles to claim what was his. Soon, though, Janette had
grown tired of provincial life and, much to the surprise of both
the younger ones, LaCroix had not rebuked their request to
leave. Instead, LaCroix had instructed Nicholas to accompany
the dark beauty back to Paris.

Once away from LaCroix, Nicholas had fled.   To Nicholas'
confusion, LaCroix had not pursued him.


LaCroix looked at his child in amusement. "You're looking fit,
Nicholas.   Your past statements about not needing my
protection and tutelage seem to have born truth."


"And you are surprised?" Nicholas immediately rankled at the
older vampire's taunting.

LaCroix shook his head, pursing his lips thoughtfully. "Non,"
he said quietly. "My surprise is that you have returned to me."


LaCroix's statement caused Nicholas further irritation.


"I have not 'returned' to you, LaCroix," Nicholas spat. "I have
come because of the familial bond which once linked us. I have
come to tell you that you are in danger if you continue this
folly."


"Familial bond," LaCroix repeated the phrase reflectively.
"Your death is of no consequence to me, LaCroix." Nicholas
reined in his anger and tried to speak without emotion. "But
the thought of it has distressed Janette."


"And, because of a female, you have trekked half-way round
the world to warn me of pending doom?" Amused, LaCroix
looked up at his angry progeny.


"And, because of a female, you risk exposure of our kind to the
mortal world," Nicholas exploded. LaCroix's eyes narrowed in
anger now. He opened his mouth to respond, but closed it
without a word passing his lips.


She was standing at the end of the veranda, dark eyes attentive.
Where she had been silent and demure during life, she was
almost wraith-like in undeath. Neither of the males had noted
her arrival.


Nicholas, embarrassed at her hearing the conversation, stood
back from LaCroix and openly stared at her. LaCroix, smiling,
extended a hand toward her.


"Come, Chantha, sit at my side."   The woman moved
obediently, gliding silently across the wooden porch. She took
a kneeling position beside LaCroix's chair.   She kept her eyes
averted downward until LaCroix reached out and placed a
hand under her chin, lifting her face.   "I bid you to look at her,
Nicholas. Now tell me again of the folly I engage in, by staying
here."


Nicholas had to admit to himself that she was shockingly
beautiful. Small in every feature, skin as white and smooth as a
Lotus petal, Nicholas, if he allowed himself, would have been
intrigued with her as well. Her dress was simple, but stunning
-- a midriff jacket of pale color, a tightly-fitted draped skirt,
belted with a dropped sash. Nicholas knew that he was staring
at her, but was unable to draw his look away.


Chantha raised her eyes slightly, looking into those of the
blue-eyed man who had deserted her maker.   The cold anger
burning in those dark eyes startled de Brabant, and he quickly
turned his attention back to LaCroix.


Realizing that Nicholas would say nothing further with the
woman present, LaCroix instructed Chantha to go for
refreshment. She obediently rose and hobble-walked easily
back down the veranda, disappearing at the edge of the
porch.


"You must leave this place," Nicholas launched into his speech
as soon as the girl had vanished. "To remain will ensure your
death."


"Why should I leave?" LaCroix challenged.   "This is my
property and I am content here."


"Content?" Nicholas snorted at his master's choice of words.
"Complacent, perhaps. Impervious to the pending destruction
which swarms all around.   Pay attention, LaCroix. Hear the
rumblings--you have stayed here too long."


LaCroix responded with a raised brow, his lips tightly
clenched.


"Is it worth it, LaCroix? To risk your life to hold onto a piece of
swamp won as a bet? I was there at the card table when you
took the deed. I was there when you collected it from the
patron, as well as collecting interest in blood." LaCroix's eyes
flickered, but he kept his counsel as Nicholas continued. "You
said at the time that it mattered not to you, this 'protectorate'
possession in the East. You were simply curious as to what you
had won."


Nicholas leaned forward, placing his hands on the armrests of
LaCroix's seat and risking entering the older vampire's
carefully guarded personal space.   "Yet, here you sit, ten years
hence, riding a wicker chair and playing the grand plantation
master."


LaCroix's eyes narrowed dangerously.   "Careful, Nicholas."


Nicholas pushed back and stalked to the edge of the planking.
He turned on his sire, his attitude violent. "TEN YEARS,
LaCroix! Too long to stay in one place. The locals around
you--they knew her in life and have watched her in death.
They know there is evil in this house."


"They will not challenge me," LaCroix said simply. "They
depend on the cassava I raise to feed their families."
"Then what of the echoes of war here?" Nicholas persisted. "I
know you can sense it is coming. France cannot hold onto this
area for long--too many have ideas to invade and conquer it.
Siam has already moved to annex it to the west."


"Which is why the government has moved to declare this place
a colony," LaCroix replied, feigning disinterest. "Nicholas--this
conversation wearies me. The politics of this area are
unimportant to me and offer me no danger."


"But those of our kind which disagree with your remaining
here--they do." Nick's voice held surprising power.    Though
he masked it well, a spark of dread ignited at the base of
LaCroix's spine.


"They wouldn't dare," LaCroix's bravado had no affect on his
son. Nicholas shook his head, his eyes hard with truth.


"You can't fight them all, LaCroix. If they come after you, they
will win. They may not be able to kill you, but they will
destroy her. Heed my warning and depart this place."


****************************


End of Part 21/64


****************************


"Lucien?" Julia's voice was soft. She lifted her head from his
shoulder and looked at his drawn features. "I'm sorry. I didn't
mean to bum up the conversation like that. Forgive me?"


"Do not be concerned, Julia," LaCroix gently patted her hand,
though he was still lost in thought.   Eyes focused on his
memories, he was surprised at the vividness of the thoughts,
and the emotions, that they churned -- as if they'd occurred
yesterday, rather than over 100 years ago . . .


*********************


Cambodia, 1882
"It is imperative that you leave this place, LaCroix," Nicholas
said, his voice rising in anger. LaCroix wondered idly if it
resulted from actual concern for the older vampire's welfare or
Nicholas' fury that Janette had coaxed him into this position.


"Ten years may be a mere snap of the eyelids to   our kind, but to
the mortals it is long enough to make note that   something is
amiss," Nicholas fumed. "You risk exposing all    of us by
remaining here. And for what?    A mere slip of   a girl which
you could have the likes of ten-fold?   It goes   against all your
teachings--leave possessions behind, don't form   attachments,
move often. Why?"


LaCroix looked past Nicholas' ranting figure to the woman.
Chantha had paused at the end of the veranda, waiting for his
beckoning.   She carried a tray of small cups, a steaming kettle
and a covered bowl.   LaCroix lifted his hand, and the girl came
forward. Nicholas paused, then stopped altogether as
the girl knelt once more before her master. She placed the tray
on the planking in front of her and lifted the cover from the
bowl.


The cask brimmed with blood, thick as red soup. She dipped
one of the cups into it, then poured the contents into the three
other cups, filling each of them halfway. Finished, she lifted
the kettle and carefully poured scalding tea into each to fill
them to the brim. She offered the first cup to LaCroix, who
took it easily.


"The tea not only warms the drink, but gives it an exotic aroma,
don't you think, Nicholas?" LaCroix remarked, lifting the cup to
his lips.


Chantha held the second cup aloft to Nicholas. LaCroix took a
sip from his, watching in amusement at Nicholas' hesitation to
accept Chantha's offering.


Finally, Nicholas took the vessel and, with a look of contempt
at his sire, drained the cup dry.


"Why indeed, Nicholas?" LaCroix resumed their previous
conversation, his voice husky as he looked at the dark angel
bowed at his feet.   "Your rancor is uncharacteristic, mon
protege. I must assume this, then, to be your method of riling
me sufficiently to pay heed to your warning. Janette would
appreciate your efforts, though I'm sure such actions on your
part must cause you angst." LaCroix looked at Nicholas, a
slight smile playing across his sensuous lips.


LaCroix returned his attention to the kneeling girl. He reached
out his free hand, gently stroking the female's dark hair,
relishing the feel of it. Chantha looked at him, her face stoic
and cool, but her eyes burned with an adoration that only he
was privy to.


"She was a whore," Nicholas said softly. LaCroix could feel
Chantha flinch slightly under his fingers, but she betrayed
nothing to the younger male.


<As was Janette.>   LaCroix wished to counter, but caught
himself before the words slipped out. He'd made a promise to
his daughter many years ago that Nicholas would not
learn of Janette's past from him. Saying nothing in response,
LaCroix pulled a tendril of Chantha's dark silk to his face,
savoring it.


"If you *must* have her, then take her with you."   Nicholas was
reaching exasperation. "But leave this place."


Chantha's eyes never wavered from LaCroix's face. He
recognized her silent words and nodded in understanding.


"Do you know of the Banyan tree, Nicholas?" LaCroix said
quietly, dropping the lock of hair and watching it settle back to
her shoulders.


"I know it is an aggravating mockery of vegetation which
consumes and destroys the monuments of civilization,"
Nicholas replied. "But, what is its bearing to this
conversation?"


"Banyan trees grow throughout this country, Nicholas,"
LaCroix said, ignoring his son's hostility. "They grow to
immense heights and, as they mature, they send new roots
from their branches.   These roots push into the soil below and
form new trunks."


LaCroix paused, his eyes sweeping over the woman. "The
Banyan may live for many ages, Nicholas, for even if the
original trunk dies and decays, the young ones will continue to
support the tree.   Its many leaves are wide and heart shaped.
It bears a blood red fruit, resembling a cherry." LaCroix
reached out, a single finger touching Chantha's lower lip.


"Well, I see your agricultural farming interests have spawned a
preoccupation with botany, LaCroix," Nicholas smirked. Then
the younger vampire resumed his harsh tone. "But I still fail to
see what a *Banyan* tree has to do with this situation."


LaCroix gently cupped Chantha's face in his palm. He moved
her head slightly, so that the woman faced Nicholas fully. The
younger male looked into the wide, passive face of the girl and
again felt his heart jolt when she turned her darkly painted eyes
on him.


"She is the Banyan tree, Nicholas," LaCroix continued to
patiently explain. "I can cut her trunk and remove her from the
soil, but she will remain rooted here. The part I take will
simply decay in my grasp."


"You had no qualms about removing Janette and I from our
homelands," Nicholas tried to argue, but LaCroix silenced him
with a steely glance. The elder vampire returned his attention
to the woman sitting submissively at his feet.


"You were both wandering spirits when I took you," LaCroix
said simply. "Chantha has never wandered . . . and never will.
She is Khymer. She is of this soil."


Nicholas didn't speak, waiting.


"You should visit Angkor Wat, Nicholas," LaCroix said,
stroking Chantha's cheek with his thumb. "You should study
the struggles carved into the stone of the walls, know the pain
of their labor. Know that their will cannot be conquered,
though many have tried. Know that they will not be purged
from this land. The Moslem Chams tried before you were born.
Siam has nipped at her flesh since the borders were drawn,
sacking the monastery four hundred years ago. Still it remains
standing. As we will remain here now."


LaCroix and the woman shared a dark look.   Nicholas felt
uneasy, knowing his efforts were futile.


"Then stand here until you die, old one," Nicholas said bluntly.
"I have done what I can."
LaCroix and Chantha did not glance his way, but they felt the
displaced air of Nicholas' departure. LaCroix sighed then, and
looked in the direction where his son had stood only moments
before.


"His words distress you?" Chantha's voice, gentle lute, lured
LaCroix from his troubled thoughts. He looked down into the
depths of her dark eyes.


"Non."   LaCroix tried to smile.   "But his departure does."


The elder vampire stood up from the chair and walked to the
edge of the porch, his eyes turning to the sky. "We've always
been at odds, Nicholas and I. He seems to believe that I relish
his antagonism, cultivate his loathing, but I do not.   Did I try to
mold him in my image? Of course -- it is the folly of most
parents to try and do so. And, such said, I admit to the error,
thinking it was for his own good, necessary for his survival."
LaCroix shrugged and went silent.


Chantha rose from the floor, her sarong falling in gentle folds
along her thin legs. She walked to her creator's side, placing a
bold hand on his shoulder. "And, he has survived, has he not?
Because of your teachings."


LaCroix focused on her face again. She tilted her chin upward,
staring deep into the still blue he offered her.


"He knows he owes you his life, my master," she said gently,
but firmly. "He feels for you, or all the words a woman could
offer would not have brought him here. If you must leave, if
you must follow him, I will understand. But as you know, I
cannot go with you. I cannot leave Kampuchea."


"I know," LaCroix whispered as she raised her hand to stroke
his face. "But my coveting of you, at this moment, is stronger
than my desire to be with Nicholas. Perhaps later, I will leave
you, Chantha, but not now."


"If that is your wish," the woman said softly, rising to her
tiptoes, stretching her arms to entwine LaCroix's neck, "then I
remain your loyal and obedient servant." At her full
height, she could barely reach his chin, touching the cleft with
her full lips.
He scooped her up then, raising her up above him. He began
to lower her slowly, until she could reach his face. She kissed
him fully, now, from this sloping angle.      They parted,
Chantha still within his grasp, and his lips sought her bodice.
She threw back her head, eyes to the sky, growling in growing
passion at his embrace.


***************************


It was Julia's soft lips on his that brought LaCroix back to the
present. She had shifted in the swing until she now sat
straddled on one of his legs, facing him. Her arms passed
easily past each side of his neck, her hands locked together
behind his head.


Holding the kiss, LaCroix opened his eyes and looked at her.
Julia's eyes were also open as she regarded him.    Seeing that
she had his attention, Julia pressed her body harder against
him, causing the swing to rock gently. The smoldering which
had been within her earlier had been replaced by burnished
flame.   She pulled away slightly.


"No more bad thoughts," she told him. "This is our night. I
want you. Now." Her hands moved to his shirt, her fingers
playing with the buttons.


Julia sought LaCroix's lips again, once again surprised by their
coolness when she caught them. <Cold as porcelain,> she
thought fleetingly.


As LaCroix's shirt fell open within her hands, she moved her
fingers from the material to his chest, running her tips through
the fine silk curls of his body hair.


LaCroix, teeth clenched slightly, studied the woman.   "Perhaps
we should move to an area . . . more discreet?"


Julia leaned forward, her breath soft on his neck and chin. "I
thought you were like me . . . adventurous. Besides, don't
you like the affect of the motion?" She placed her foot to the
ground and gave a slight push, increasing the movement of the
swing.
LaCroix reacted by uttering a sound somewhere between a
groan and a growl. He caught the lower edge of Julia's blouse
and pulled it over her head. She cooperated fully and watched
with mild interest as he tossed the garment to the ground.


Bare from the waist up, she clung to him. She shifted so that
she sat fully across his lap, facing him, her legs splayed across
each of his. She locked her lower limbs behind his calves and
moved her hands to his back. She flexed her fingernails along
his pale skin, leaving slight scratches in her wake.


LaCroix was acutely aware of the beast roiling within him.
This time, he did not check its progress, but allowed it to come,
unfettered, to the surface. The animal charged through him,
slavering with the blood lust, eager for the kill.


The man in LaCroix also responded to Julia's closeness. Feeling
him, she pulled back and smiled, her own lust thick and heavy.
She moved one hand from his back and placed it between his
legs. The motion of the swing increased.


He met her gaze, relishing the affect of her touch. The beast
twisted and turned, held only by the short tether of LaCroix's
will. His own hand moved now to join hers, gently guiding
her. She continued to stroke outside the material for a moment,
teasing, then sought the clasp of his trousers.


While she played, LaCroix released her hand and slid his own
to her hip. Fingers stretched, he moved down her leg and
circled to the inner area of her thigh. He cupped her, smiling as
her own fingers now entered his loosened garment. She slid
her hand down his stomach, but paused when he leaned
forward and whispered.


"A moment, ma chere. I believe you will need both your
hands free, considering my plans."


As bidden, Julia withdrew her hand, reluctantly, and locked her
fingers, once again, behind LaCroix's neck.   Her positioning
finished, LaCroix unsnapped the buttons of her shorts. With
one hand behind her back to support her, the vampire slid his
other hand downward along her stomach flesh, seeking her
nest. Her vaginal lips parted easily, accepting his touch and
drawing his fingers inward.


He moved further within her, probing deeper.   She moaned
and shifted, causing the swing to pitch unsteadily. LaCroix
continued to delve into her, seeking her heat source with his
thumb. His gentle stroke caught Julia, igniting within her a fire
so hot that all worldly matters fled before its flames. Smiling,
LaCroix rotated his thumb in a circular manner while his
fingers continued to thrust in and out of her warmth.


Gasping at his touch, Julia fell forward, greedily seeking
LaCroix's mouth.   He pulled back so that she missed the
intended mark. Instead, she latched onto his jugular area,
eagerly licking his neck and chin.


Eyes open, LaCroix watched the woman closely, waiting,
continuing his petting. As predicted, her body became
tremorous. Julia closed her eyes and cried out softly. Her
blood rose with her passion, bringing a bright red flush to her
chest. The supreme moment of ecstasy was at hand.


LaCroix lifted his hand from the small to the upper part of
Julia's back and pressed her tightly to him. Her face was
muffled in his chest, her kisses and teeth pulling at the short
hairs there. LaCroix threw his own head back, now, his moans
guttural.


He let go of the leash.


*************************


End of Part 22/64


*************************


The beast bellowed in the joy of release. It slammed into
LaCroix's brain, turning everything hot and red.   The fangs, the
crimson tint of the eyes--everything was set in motion for the
kill.   LaCroix twisted Julia within his grasp, reversing their
positions so that her back was to the swing's support, even
though it pitched wildly.   Atop her, LaCroix assumed the
predator's stance, pulling back slightly, mouth poised open
above Julia's sweet life-fire.


Something moved beyond Julia's shoulder. LaCroix blinked,
steadying his sight until the object took shape. The blur turned
into a head of red hair.
Belinda Rambo was awake and wandering.


"Damn," LaCroix clenched his mouth shut. The beast growled
in frustration, clawing at the vampire from inside.


Julia stiffened and looked at him with trepidation.   "What's
wrong?" she rasped.


"We have company," LaCroix managed to whisper.


"Oh, shit." Julia turned and looked over her shoulder at the
staring child. Belinda stood transfixed, watching the adults.
Julia tried valiantly to recover. "Beda, honey, it's okay," she
called back to the child. "Mr. LaCroix and I are just . . . talking.
You go back to bed now, okay?"


The child continued to gape, unmoving.


"Belinda." Julia's voice was firmer now as she continued to
regain control. LaCroix averted his face from the woman and
child, still fighting the empowered fiend within him. Julia's
voice sounded so far away. "Go back inside and I'll be in there
in a minute. Scoot."


"It's him," the child suddenly found voice. Her words chilled
LaCroix. The beast sat back on its haunches and LaCroix lifted
his face to look at the child. Her face was ashen. "It's the
*booger* man I saw here the other night!!"


Then she turned and fled, running back into the stable.


"Shit a brick," Julia spat, gathering her blouse from the ground
and slipping it on as she moved quickly after the child.
LaCroix watched the woman disappear into the cottage before
he sat back on the now still swing, his breathing labored.


The creature within him was very angry at the denial of its
meal. It scraped and rended at LaCroix, leaving sharp gouges
within the vampire. Bloody holes which would not heal
without immediate feeding. With a snarl of anger, LaCroix left
the swing and threw himself into the night sky.
The vampire caught Trere, the handyman, some few yards
from the main house. The brass-skinned man had managed a
yelp in alarm, but LaCroix was much too efficient for there to
be much of a struggle.


Sated, LaCroix pulled back from the lifeless body, somewhat
surprised at the deep marks his fierce attack had made. Half of
Trere's neck was gone. There would be no disguising this
killing, or explaining it away as an accident.


LaCroix looked around and quickly decided on a temporary
hiding place. The vampire dragged Trere the few feet required
and stuffed the body into the feed shed adjacent to the chicken
coop.


Finished with this task, LaCroix assessed his appearance. The
kill had been relatively clean, despite the ferocity of the attack.
Trere's blood tracings had been confined to LaCroix's chest,
hands and chin. The vampire moved to an outside faucet and
quickly washed the evidence away in a practiced, efficient
manner.

LaCroix was fully dressed and sitting quietly on the swing
when Julia emerged from the stable.


The woman came to him and resumed her seat by his side, but
her mood was tense.


"How is the child?" LaCroix asked, trying to keep his voice
casual.


"I managed to get her calmed down, but she's pretty upset,"
Julia replied with a shrug. "Claims that you're the "bogey" that
she saw prowling the stables early one morning." Julia looked
at LaCroix reflectively. "You didn't pay us a nocturnal visit a
couple of nights ago, did you, Lucien?"


"No," he answered.


"She was pretty vivid in her story," Julia continued. "Claims
that you . . ." she paused and corrected herself, "that 'the bogey'
had yellow eyes and sharp teeth. Beda has quite an
imagination, that's for sure."


LaCroix did not answer.
"Night's a bust, I guess."    Julia's voice was dreary.


LaCroix turned toward the east. Though it was cloudy, the sky
showed signs of lightening. "It's nearing dawn, Julia," he noted.
"We'd best get some rest." He rose and prepared to leave her.


"Lucien."   Her call stopped him.    He turned.


"I'm sorry," she whispered.


"As am I," he replied.


Then he was gone from her sight.


********************************


Moments later, LaCroix clasped Trere's corpse to him and
heaved himself upward.   Time was not on his side and the
vampire knew that he must hurry.


With trained eyes, LaCroix searched the landscape below.
Shortly, he found what he sought. LaCroix dropped down in
the midst of a great sugar cane field, still clutching the human's
body. The vampire dragged Trere's remains into the lop-sided
shack on the field's edge and deposited the body on the floor.


LaCroix went to the field and began yanking cane from the
earth.   He returned to the shack and, with great care, covered
the body with the green stalks.


This would buy him time. When the rotting corpse was
discovered during harvest, the wounds would not be so readily
recognizable--blended into marks which could have been left
by any beast.   Finished with his grisly task, LaCroix went to air
again.


He reached the manor house just as the first streaks of pink sky
turned brazen yellow.   LaCroix slipped swiftly into the house
by way of the French doors and stalked across the great room,
looking threateningly at the piano. In frustration, LaCroix
imagined Nicholas sitting there, taunting him for not having
killed the mass of them, rather than allowing Julia to elude him.
It took all of his strength of will not to destroy the musical
instrument.


He was up the narrow stairway in one leap, coming into the
bedroom hall with a bluster. LaCroix made his way down the
passage to his room, pausing to snarl at the stained-glass
crucifixion as he went.   The sun already reflected through its
prismed surface, casting gyrating shadows across the floor.


"Mr. LaCroix?" The woman's voice startled him. Hand poised
above the door knob, the vampire turned to face her.


Bunnie Brackin looked terrible. She was coarse in appearance,
hair astray, no makeup save the natural hue of redness left
from crying.


"Mrs. Brackin," LaCroix acknowledged the woman with a deep
sigh.   Then he noted that she was appraising his appearance.
LaCroix's recent activities had left him filthy, his trousers and
shoes caked with red mud. He slid his hemp-stained hands
inside his pockets. At her quizzical expression he replied,
"Hunting."


"Where's your gun?" Bunnie's question was light, despite the
obvious pain in her voice.


"With the guide who accompanied me," LaCroix answered.   "It
was a borrowed piece."


"Yea, right," Bunnie replied. "Look, I'm sorry to disturb you,
but . . . can we talk?" Bunnie's voice held a tone of pleading.
LaCroix had expected this, even wished it, but the timing was
wrong.


<Control.> LaCroix strengthened his resolve and opened his
bedroom door. "Come inside, Mrs. Brackin," he replied.


Bunnie nodded and brushed past him into the room. LaCroix
glanced around then followed Bunnie Brackin into his quarters.


The woman looked at LaCroix, confused. "I don't even know
why I'm here," she said, a sob rising in her throat. "It's just that
you were so kind to me last night, and I didn't know who else
to talk with."


"It's quite all right, Mrs. Brackin," LaCroix said smoothly,
indicating that she should sit down. She dropped to the edge
of his bed, noting that it had not been slept in.


"I'm sorry. You were getting ready to get some sleep, weren't
you? When I saw you outside the room, I thought you'd gotten
up early and gone down for coffee or something . . . " her voice
trailed off.


"Don't be concerned, Mrs. Brackin," LaCroix said, moving to his
window and shutting the shutters against the growing outside
glare. He turned in the now darkened room and looked at the
woman.


Bunnie shrugged and prepared to rise. LaCroix intercepted her
and pushed her gently back to the bed. He assumed a seat
beside her and looked at the woman intently. "Please, tell me
what concerns you and what help you believe I can offer?"


The woman looked into the man's blue eyes with her reddened
ones. "I don't know," she said simply. Then, with a sob, she
lowered her face into her hands and began crying
uncontrollably. LaCroix placed a comforting arm around the
woman's shoulders and she leaned into the solace of his chest.


<How generous,> LaCroix mused as the beast sluggishly
stirred again. <Perhaps, at a later date.>


He held her, letting the woman grieve.   When she noticed that
he made no movement to console her further, she lifted herself
from him and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand.


"Sorry," Bunnie muttered. "Things have been a little tense
lately.   My nerves are kind of on edge."


"Understandable," LaCroix said simply. Then he pushed, just a
bit. "I've been told that your husband has left Chenes Pointte."


Bunnie met LaCroix's gaze with startled eyes, then smiled
ruefully. "We've got the best gossip network going, don't we?"
LaCroix said nothing.    His eyes bid the woman to continue.


Bunnie sighed. "Yea, Aaron and I had a bitter fight this . . .
yesterday morning, early," she said. "Can't even tell you what
it was about. Can't remember for the life of me." Her eyes
focused on something distant.


"People often lash out, in frustration, at those they care about,
simply because of one another's proximity," LaCroix offered.
"There may be no reason for the anger, just the need to vent."


Bunnie smiled wryly.    "More pop radio psych?"


"If you wish to interpret it as such," LaCroix responded.


Bunnie dropped her eyes and shook her head. "Sorry. I guess
I'm sounding pretty cynical, aren't I? I love Aaron deeply, but
sometimes he makes it so hard. He's pretty insecure for a guy
that, from the outside, looks like he has it all. I guess it stems
from his first wife leaving him like she did."


This might have been an interesting conversation, with most
delectable consequences, except that LaCroix was tiring rapidly
and his main point of interest had not yet been addressed.
The intensity in his voice increased slightly as he asked, "Where
did your husband take the boy?"


Bunnie blinked in confusion. "Pete? I don't know what you
mean, Mr. LaCroix. Aaron went into Houston to take care of
some business matters. Pete is here . . . sleeping."


"Here?" LaCroix masked quickly, hoping that she had not
detected his own puzzlement.


"Yes," Bunny nodded. "He stayed in his room all day and,
around five, told me he was tired and going to bed. Haven't
heard a peep out of him all night."


"I see." LaCroix sensed the woman was not lying. "Then I
suggest you do as the boy has done-- return to your room and
get some rest. Mr. Brackin appears to have required distance to
resolve some internal conflicts. I'm quite sure that he will
return to his family shortly."
"I hope you're right," Bunnie replied, standing up. LaCroix
rose and walked her to the door. She turned mid-way.
"Thanks for the shoulder."


"Always glad to be of assistance," he quipped, then noted
the cracked door down the hall. LaCroix leaned forward and
placed a quick kiss on Bunnie's forehead. "Get some rest,
Roberta." He smiled as the Tinker door closed with a click.


Bunnie disappeared into her suite with a last, lingering look at
the tall man. Once she'd disappeared, LaCroix went back into
his own room and locked the door.


Once alone, LaCroix reached out with his senses and sought
Peter Brackin. He could not detect the boy's heartbeat
anywhere within the home.


LaCroix was more disturbed by this unexpected twist than he
cared to admit. Making sure that all entry to his room was
well secured, the vampire bathed himself, then lay upon his
bed. Thoughts clawed at him for sometime before he finally
dozed in fitful sleep.


*************************


End of Part 23/64


*************************


"Why didn't you kill her, LaCroix? Why the hesitation? Why
didn't you wipe out the lot of them in one bloody stroke?" The
voice of his son taunted LaCroix from the edges of the swirling
void which the ancient knew as sleep.


LaCroix stiffened, bidding the colors to cease their constant
motion, to gel into something tangible. Nicholas' laughter
vibrated through each arena of LaCroix's brain.


Then, the younger vampire stepped out from the whirling
dream state and, behind him, shapes took form. It was a tilted
version of a place LaCroix knew he should know, but did not
recognize.
"Why, LaCroix?" Nicholas sat on the edge of a table regarding
his master. The younger vampire had one leg drawn up, and
his chin was placed on the knee.   Nick's dress was modern,
within this century, and his expression was thoughtful as he
waited for LaCroix's answer.


"The time was not appropriate," LaCroix mumbled within the
dream. "Her death was not as I wished it."


"As you wished it?" Nick mulled over the words thoughtfully,
glancing away from the bed-prone LaCroix, then back toward
him. "Death is death--nothing special.    What's to wish for?
You act as though she's some peach, and you're waiting for the
proper shade of ripeness. Well, my friend, she appeared rather
ripe tonight."


"Go away, vision, for I know you are not Nicholas," LaCroix
answered, turning his head from the specter. "Nicholas would
not speak in such a manner about the taking of mortal life. He's
much too . . . *noble.*"


"Ahhhhh, but not you, LaCroix." The dream jumped down
from the table and began pacing the room, his eyes hard on the
ancient. "You associate no such noble ideas when dealing with
the mortals, do you? After all . . . they're just a food source,
just a means to an end. And you, my friend, pride yourself on
being aloof to such pettiness as emotions regarding them,
correct? You are simply a dark hunter in need of sustenance."


"Yes," LaCroix confirmed.   He tried to move, but found himself
unable to lift his limbs.


"Then why didn't you kill her?" the Nick dream challenged.


"It was not the right time," LaCroix defended his decision.   "The
interruption by the child would have caused the wine to be
rancid."


"Wine, shmine," Nick replied with a sneer. "Again you make
excuses, waiting for some elusive, perfect moment that won't
make a tinker's damn difference in the taste of it. In fact, the
child's presence, if you'd reacted properly, could have given the
blood a headiness. If the woman had been taken, knowing
the child was watching, imagine how her excitement at sinning
in front of the waif would have set her blood afire."
Nick stopped his prowling and faced LaCroix. "Tell me the real
reason why you continue to hesitate, LaCroix?" The younger
vampire moved closer. "Why do you continue to make excuses
and not just rip her throat out and be done with it?" Nick's face
now loomed over LaCroix's, his expression one of contempt.
"Could it be that you *care* about this mortal woman?"


"Don't be ridiculous," LaCroix spat at the specter. "I will take
her, but only when it serves *my* purposes. I will not be
goaded into acting foolishly by a false divination."


"Acting foolishly?" Laughing, the image moved away again
and resumed pacing.   "Hmmmmmmm, odd words coming
from you, master hunter, to call the kill, 'acting foolishly.'"


"It is not the kill that would be termed foolish, it is the manner
in which it might be done," LaCroix countered, his rage
becoming palpable. "Why risk notice, why risk mass killing,
when it is unnecessary? I have never advocated destruction
without purpose."


"Haven't you?" Nick laughed, eyes gleaming in accusation.
"Ahhhh, General.  If not that, what tune *did* you teach Nero
to play?"


LaCroix fell silent. The Nick form moved forward again and
leaned over the unmoving ancient. "Do you miss the 'good old
days,' LaCroix? Ever wish for the time when you could still
draw your sword and cut off a man's head just because he
looked at you without respect? Ever wish that you could walk
into a village again and devour the whole populace without
news of it showing up on CNN?"


"Go away," LaCroix muttered, turning his head to the wall.


"Life's a breach, ain't it, old man," Nick grinned malevolently.


"Be gone, shade!" LaCroix, eyes flaring golden, turned and
snarled at the form. "I am LaCroix. I will do things as *I* see
fit."


Nicholas shook his head, his features dimming and shifting.
"Very well, LaCroix, but remember this: You may preach a
good sermon, but if you don't live by your own words, how do
you expect others to?"


Nick continued to fade, as did the background, resuming the
kaleidoscope of color that was LaCroix's resting state. Before it
disappeared, though, the specter threw one last insult at the
elder vampire. "It's only a meal, old one. Don't think about it
too much, or it will sour on your stomach." Then, with a bright
flare and a thunderous crash, all solid disappeared into the
swirling void.


LaCroix was aware of Simmoneaux's presence before the light
rap at his door announced her.


He was immediately alert, tense but unmoving on the bed. He
glanced over at the digital alarm clock. The time was two p.m.


"Mr. LaCroix?" the woman's tentative voice was very soft,
followed by another gentle knock on the wood. "I am so sorry
to disturb you, Mr. LaCroix, but you must vacate this room."

"Why?" the vampire managed to rasp through the heaviness
which shrouded him.   His body felt leaden. His skin was
extremely cold, clammy, and he knew that its appearance
would be unnaturally pale--the lingering effects of the
nightmare.


He could not hear Mrs. Simmoneaux's answer over a sudden,
jarringly loud clap of thunder. LaCroix's eyes darted toward
the window. Even closed, some light should have been
peaking around the edges. There was none. Outside, LaCroix
could hear the wind coming in gusts.


The storm had arrived.


With all the effort he could muster, LaCroix swung his legs off
the bed and sat on the mattress edge. He felt unsteady, but
remained standing when he rose. He ran a hand through his
cropped hair then across his face, trusting that the room's
subdued lighting would help keep his appearance from
seeming too frightful.


The proprietress' voice was almost a sob as he unlatched the
door and pushed it open.
"Excuse moi," she was saying most humbly. "I did not want to
disturb you, as was your request, but the warnings have
intensified. It was thought, at first, that the gale would return
to the sea, but it has turned inland again."


"I see," LaCroix said, bracing himself against the door.   "What
are you asking your guests to do?"


"Come to the lower levels of the home," she replied, thankful
that LaCroix did not appear angry. "I also need to check and
make sure that the shutters of your room are tightly fastened."

LaCroix opened the door further. "My shutters are firmly
latched, Mrs. Simmoneaux, but you are welcome to test them
yourself." He moved, allowing the woman to enter. She
walked to the window, rattled the inside covering then turned
to LaCroix with a wan smile. "All appears well on the inside,
then, Mr. LaCroix.   Trere will secure the outside . . . if I can
find him." Mrs. Simmoneaux's voice faltered slightly.


A brilliant flash from outside illuminated the room through the
slants around the shutters' edges. A crackling sound, swiftly
followed by the thunder's clamor, caused Mrs. Simmoneaux to
jump slightly. She looked around the room uneasily, her eyes
finally stopping on LaCroix.


"Are you well, Mr. LaCroix?" she asked, as if she'd just now
entered the room and taken note of him.


The vampire nodded, then turned his eyes fully on the woman.
"Well enough," he answered. "But I seem to have contracted a
minor illness--a small fever, if you will. Please. Excuse me
while I take my medication, then I will join the others in the
parlor."


"As you wish, monsieur," the woman returned meekly and
turned toward the door. "But, please . . . do not tarry long.      The
safety of my guests is tantamount."


"I understand." LaCroix followed the innkeeper to the door.
Once she was gone from the room, he quickly closed and
latched it.


He traced her heart's retreat to the head of the stairs and
through the beginning of its descent to the ground floor. After
a quick survey of the upper landing revealed no humans
present, LaCroix crossed to the locked desk and his blood
supply. Opening the drawer, LaCroix noted the two bottles
still available to him. He grasped one, pulled the cork and
downed the contents so quickly that he felt a momentary
lightheadedness.


He stood there, considering the other . . . the last bottle at his
disposal. This daytime arousal, the promise of time spent in
close proximity to frightened humans with no outlet for
excusing himself from their company, the possibility that Julia
might be among those in the group--all these were factors that
LaCroix knew would fuel the hunger. Even now, just the mere
thought of the potentiality caused the beast to lurch within him,
to roll over and yawn, smacking its lips as if in anticipation of
the coming feast.


LaCroix lifted the last bottle to his lips and drained it.


He splashed water on his face and assessed himself. The blood
had brought color to his cheeks, a more human appearance to
his countenance. With a final glance toward the window,
affirming the storm's shielding of the sun, LaCroix left his
quarters.


The vampire found the other guests of the Pointte huddled in
the main room of the first floor. LaCroix took inventory of the
room and its occupants, noting that the Brackins, Julia and the
children were not present. A plywood covering had been
placed across the French doors leading to the porch, affectively
blocking the exit. The only other way out was down the
hallway and through the old kitchen. It was from this direction
that Mrs. Simmoneaux entered the room at the same time as
LaCroix.


"I need assistance," the woman said without preamble. "I
cannot find Trere, and the outside shutters must be attached."


The humans glanced at each other, then, like sheep, turned
back toward the dark woman. She avoided the Tinker sisters
and turned her attention on the young bridegroom. He nodded
and moved toward Simmoneaux, but not before his lover
clutched his arm, her face fearful.


The boy reacted by patting his wife's hand and offering her a
soft grin. Then he turned his full attention on the hostess.     "Just
tell me what I can do."
Mrs. Simmoneaux smiled, her face grateful. Then she turned to
look at LaCroix. "Can you help also, sir?"


The thought of going out into the day, even in its present
overcast state, chilled LaCroix. A drum of thunder caused the
walls to shudder as he stood there, contemplating the woman's
request.


A request he would never reply to.


Bunnie Brackin, disheveled and hysterical, burst into the room.


"Pete's gone!" she cried.   "My baby has disappeared!"


*********************************
End of part 24/64


*********************************
Roberta Brackin looked frantically around the room, her eyes
finally stopping on Lucien LaCroix.   She rushed to him,
clutching at him in her fright.


"Help me, please!" she pleaded.   "Peter's gone.   We've got to
find him!"


LaCroix looked down at the woman's hands which plucked at
his dark sleeves. Her anguish had left moist stains where she'd
touched.

"He's with his father, isn't he?" Annie Tinker spoke up, her tiny
eyes shrewd as she observed the vampire and Mrs. Brackin.
Bunnie turned to look at the elderly woman.


"Wha . . . what do you mean?" the blonde woman asked.


"Well, your husband ain't back yet, is he?   So I suspect the boy
is still with him."


Bunnie shook her head slowly, pushing herself away
from LaCroix.
"Why would Pete be with Aaron?" Bunnie was confused by the
older woman's suggestion.   "Aaron left in the wee hours of the
morning, while Pete was still asleep."


"That's not what I saw," Annie Tinker replied, her eyes
narrowing. "I was up getting some water around three when I
heard your husband leave the house. I saw him walk across
the lawn, heading around the corner to where he keeps his car.
Then, a few minutes later, I saw your Petey following him."


Bunnie's mouth opened as if to reply, but then shut as her
thoughts failed to solidify. She moved further away from
LaCroix, her back now toward the others.


"We all assume, then, that Peter is safe with his father," Mrs.
Simmoneaux took control of the group again. "Shall we
now take the necessary steps to assure our safety. Please, let us
go board up the windows."


The young bridegroom nodded and turned toward the outlet
which led to the kitchen. Mrs. Simmoneux looked pointedly at
LaCroix.


"Has anyone advised Julia Sanford of the storm situation?"
LaCroix said easily.


Avon Simmoneaux stiffened slightly.


"Then, I shall go take care of that matter, then return to help
you with the outside shutters," LaCroix informed the
innkeeper. He brushed past the mortal woman and headed to
the home's interior before she could respond.


Once out of view of the others, LaCroix moved with his unique
speed to the front area of the home. He crossed rapidly to the
door which opened to the hidden stairs leading to the upper
floor of the manse's older section. The door was locked, but a
quick jerk and tug removed the barrier. LaCroix stepped
through the portal into the dark recesses of the hidden stairway
and slipped into the tiny alcove beneath the steps.


Cramped by the lack of space, LaCroix leaned against the
planking and collected his thoughts.
<Hiding, old man?> an ethereal voice chastised him within his
head.


"Exercising caution," LaCroix answered aloud. Tentatively he
reached out toward the stable area, seeking Julia. The time of
day, the lack of rest, possibly even the electrical interference of
the storm -- all these factors made it difficult to find the woman.
Finally, though, LaCroix sensed a spark of her being. He did
not like what he perceived.


Julia's emotional level was high--arguably the only reason he'd
been able to sense her. She projected worry and a fight for
calmness and rationality.   Perhaps it was simply her fear
regarding the possibile hurricane coming, but LaCroix sensed
that it ran much deeper. He probed her mind and found one
word circling over and over in her thoughts.


Belinda.


<That damnable child again.>   LaCroix felt a surge of anger
which surprised him. He suppressed it quickly and began to
search again for why Julia was so distressed regarding this
particular one of her charges.


Another word surfaced.


Missing.


"Damn," LaCroix breathed aloud.


Children were such a nuisance.


*******************************


Peter Brackin huddled in a corner of the Parish Sheriff's office.
It was a satellite station--just two rooms and toilet. One room
was the entry, halved to house both the reception area and the
dispatcher. The officer manning the microphone and phone
was behind a glass window treated to be bullet proof. The
other room was a central area, containing three desks, filing
cabinets and an area of electronics equipment with which the
constabulary communicated with the outside world. It was in
this room that Peter Brackin sat, shivering. His clothes were
caked with mud, his face bearing scratches.
Pete had had a long, rough day.


The boy couldn't remember exactly when he'd woken up, but
he remembered the circumstances. A muffled encounter
between his parents was taking place in the other bedroom,
steadily increasing in volume and degree of anger. Pete had
pulled the covers over his head, but he could still hear the
inflamed words coming from the adjoining room.


Finally, Pete knew he must escape. He'd left his bed and gotten
dressed. With a single backwards glace toward his parents'
room, Pete slipped out the window and scurried out onto the
roof. He did not hear the Brackins' door slam moments later.


"It's all that damn vampire's fault," Pete angrily reasoned as he
slipped down the trellis vines to the ground below.
"Everything was okay before he came along and messed things
up."


As Pete dropped to earth, a loud boom of thunder shook the
area, making the boy pause.


But only momentarily. Gathering his courage, Pete looked
around, trying to decide where he would go. Then he saw his
father, striding toward the area where the vehicles were kept.


Stealthily, the boy had followed Aaron Brackin, watching as the
man got into the cream-colored Lincoln, turned over the
engine, and then threw gravel in his hurry to leave this place.
Peter felt a surge of sympathy for his father, knew somehow
what he was feeling.


"Damn vampire," Pete repeated softly.


And, Pete reasoned, as it was still dark, then the vampire was
probably with Julia Sanford, since he seemed to have a thing for
the mentor lady. Pete moved off again, this time his path
taking him toward the stables.


>From a distance, Pete saw them. Julia and that thing which
called himself 'LaCroix,' sitting on the wood swing just like two
normal people.   Hidden behind some barrels and scrap wood,
Pete positioned himself at a discreet vantage point and
observed them.


Boy, did he get an eyeful.


Pete had watched their foreplay in something akin to awe, the
rustlings of his pubescent nature causing him to feel choked at
times. The boy was embarrassed, but also so fascinated that he
could not turn away. Then, the vampire had bared its fangs,
prepared to kill its prey.


But, then, Beda had come out and caught them. Pete had
watched as the girl exited the house and stood watching the
drama before her. That had sure put a damper on the vamp's
plans--Pete smiled a little at this.


Then Julia had chased the kid back into the house, and the
vampire, all riled up and pissed off, had flown straight up into
the dark. Pete had tried to shake off his amazement at this
sight, tried to track the vampire's flight, but only got a general
idea of his direction. Pete had tried to follow LaCroix, but been
unable to keep up. By the time Peter caught sight of LaCroix
again, the vampire had been washing his hands.


After LaCroix had left, Pete went to the faucet, trying to see
what had required cleaning up. He had smelled the
overpowering metallic scent of the blood, even through the
water's dilution. Pete had gotten sick, heaving right there.


Pete knew the vampire had killed something, or someone, just
now. The boy hoped it was just another rat or dog or opossum
or something like that, but the word "someone" kept rattling
around in his brain. Pete looked back toward the stable area,
sighed and decided to go check it out.


But, not before he armed himself with one of the tomato staves
stacked near the tool shed by the chicken coop.


As quietly and as quickly as he could manage, Pete made his
way back to the stables. He had never known that the night
made so many sounds, and each creak and shuffle made him
start and look around nervously. Pete clutched the stake so
hard that his knuckles began to throb. Beads of perspiration
burst from his forehead, despite the cool air which preceded the
coming storm.
He found them, again sitting on the porch   swing, conversing.
The vampire had turned his head eastward,   and Pete realized
that daylight was close at hand. The boy    breathed a little sigh
of relief as the vampire left Ms. Sanford   and went in the
direction of the main house.


It was then that Pete decided that, instead of following LaCroix,
he should warn Ms. Julia.


Pete stood up, prepared to call to the woman, but stooped back
down as he heard the rustle of air above his head.   The boy
was frightened witless, expecting the vampire to drop on him,
but the presence passed overhead as if it was not aware of the
boy being there. Panting and shaking, Pete decided that he'd
wait until later in the morning to talk with Ms. Julia. There
were still enough dark hours left that the vampire would have
time to do some damage if he really wanted to.


Pete had decided that it might be better to find a place to hide
until morning.


He began considering his options. It probably wasn't a good
idea to stay too close to the main house. Pete squinted in
thought, recalling some of the vampire theories he'd read.
Seems he'd seen once that some vampires could move around
in the daytime, but couldn't use their magical powers and stuff.
Better, and safer, to get away from here until the sun was well
up.


That's when he remembered the abandoned shack on the edge
of the sugar cane field.


Pete had found the shed during an exploration several years
ago. He had wondered then why someone hadn't torn it down,
but then he realized that someone was storing some tools and
tractor supplies there. It had been in pretty bad shape back
then, and Pete figured it was probably a lean-to by now, if it
was still standing at all.


Still, it was a better possibility than sticking around here,
waiting to be eaten.


Pete looked at the single stave he still clutched. And, he
reasoned, he'd better take some time to arm himself a little
better than this. This LaCroix guy was a mean SOB, and Pete
had better be prepared for battle.
***************************


End of Part 25/64


***************************


The sky had grown lighter as Peter Brackin had begun the
long trek through the cane field. The stalks, green and
growing, waved around him about chest high, making rustling
sounds. The tractor had furrowed a clean path through
the rows, so walking was easy, despite the sucking mud left by
the recent rain. Peter kept a watchful eye on the ground,
vigilantly checking for snakes and other creepies as he made
his way toward the remembered shed.


Peter was carrying a heavy load, both physically and in spirit.
In his digging for weaponry, he'd located a canvas feed sack.
The hemp was ancient, coarse and brown, but still serviceable.
It sported the remnants of a paper label embrazened with a
checker board symbol.   Any feed product had long been
emptied from its interior, and the only smell it had now was
musty.


The boy had quickly filled the sack with various booty. He'd
added five more tomato vine staves, all approximately a yard in
length and sharpened at one end to make entering the soil
easier. The gunny sack turned out to be just the right
length for transporting them, Pete had noted in satisfaction.


Near a patch of fencing that Trere had been mending earlier in
the week, Pete had found a flat-head mallet. The boy had
hefted the tool and, grunting in satisfaction at the find, dropped
it into the sack. There had also been a pair of needle-nose
pliers. Uncertain of how he would employ them, Pete had
shrugged and added the tool to the pile.


Instruments of battle securely nestled in the pouch, Pete looked
around tentatively and remembered a must need for his
combat--garlic. Nervously, he stole back toward the main
house.   Outside the kitchen door, Pete paused, his breathing
labored. He looked up at the sky, which was still pretty dark.
Then, eyes squinted for maximum acuity of vision, Pete
looked up and along the surface of the building, finally resting
his sight on the window which opened to the vampire's
bedroom.
Pete waited, his vision wavering as he sharpened his   focus.
Then, he thought he detected a minor ribbon of light   around
the outside perimeter of the window. He blinked and    checked
again. Yes . . . there was definitely a light on in    the room.   The
vampire must have retired for the day.


The boy allowed himself to breathe again. He hopped up the
three stone steps which led to the kitchen door and reached out
gingerly toward the screened framework. It opened without
protest. Pete grasped the knob of the inner door and twisted it.
Like its outer mate, the door opened easily. Such was life in the
country--doors left unlocked in the residents' false feelings of
safety. A lucky break for Pete, but after tonight he planned to
make sure that Mrs. Simmoneaux started locking up at night.
Then Pete paused and grinned crookedly.   In this case, they'd
be locking the problem "inside," so it really didn't matter, did
it?


Peter didn't dare flip the light switch, but chose instead to make
his way in the dark. The tiny ceiling windows offered little
visibility and, cursing softly, Pete found his way mostly by
touch. This alerted him, though, to another need. A good
flashlight.


He found the torch before the herb, efficiently stowed in a
drawer near the rear door. It was one of the long necked ones,
not one of the squarish, squatty lanterns. Poorer beam, but
better if he needed it for bopping someone. Pete slipped the
light into his right rear pocket and an extra pair of "D" batteries
into his left. While reaching for the batteries, Pete's fingers
encountered a box of tea light candles. The boy dropped them
into the canvas bag, along with a small box of wooden matches.


Working his way along the counter, Pete pilfered additional
items for his growing arsenal: a couple of well-sharpened
butcher knives, one with a long, thin blade and one with a
serrated edge. Pete paused to heft a cleaver he found, then
grinned as he added it to the now clinking load.


Finally, as he moved past the potato and flour bins, Pete
spotted what he'd come inside for. Hanging on a series of pegs
in the wall were the drying vegetational yield of the garden,
pulled just after the fourth of July and before the rains
began--hot red peppers, net bags of oregano and sage, ropes of
onions and . . . garlic.
Pete reached up eagerly for the pungent cloves and grimaced as
his fingers touched their dusty plastic surface. "For decorative
purposes only," his mind spit at him as he drew back in
disgust. Then, with a second thought, Pete grabbed the false
garlic rope and pulled it down. Tossing it into the bag, Pete
muttered under his breath that he might be able to use it to
"scare" the vamp, if nothing else.


Pete turned and looked around the kitchen again, trying to
decide where Mrs. Simmoneaux might hide her seasonings. He
made his way to the double sink and reached up to open the
cupboard. Pete made a quick survey of the little spice bottles
before reaching up and grasping a container of crushed golden
powder. Pete chucked the pulverized garlic into the sack and
continued his search.


Just as the boy was about to quit looking, he found the small
plastic covered box with the twin garlic buds nestled within.
Grinning with supreme satisfaction, Pete tucked the box of
garlic into his windbreaker pocket.


Next, Pete made a raid on the refrigerator and secured a couple
of cans of soda and several sausage biscuits leftover from
breakfast. Pete dropped a box of spicy crackers into his bundle
and hoisted the pack onto his back. With a look around to
make sure he hadn't been observed, Pete left the house.


Now he was trudging the final yards to the spot where he
remembered the shack to be. Holding his breath just a little,
Pete emerged from the field and looked in the direction of his
memory. To his relief, the shed was still standing, none the
worse looking for the extra years of wear. Pete walked over to
the building and pushed open the warped door.


Inside, the shed smelled funny. Pete sniffed the mixture of
machine oil, rust and mold, trying to identify the odd scent. As
his eyes grew accustomed to the increased darkness of the
room's interior, Pete noticed the pile of yearling cane stacked in
one corner.


<That's odd,> Pete thought, dropping his sack to the floor.
Then his mind made a connection and the boy realized why the
cane had probably been heaped there. Some transient had
probably used this building as shelter from the recent rain and
had used the cane as bedding. Pete walked over to the mound
and studied it. It looked fresh cut.
Pete looked around, wondering if the recent resident might be
lurking close by. Outside, the day was growing brighter as
mid-morning encroached. Deciding that the shed's visitor
was probably long gone, Pete prodded the greenery with his
tennis-shoed toe.


It appeared soft enough, Pete decided, but the boy also knew
from experience that cane leaves could be pretty sharp. If he
was to use it as bedding, he'd have to be very careful about
laying down on it.


With the promise of rest, a dense weariness suddenly overtook
Pete. The lack of sleep in over thirty-six hours claimed its toll,
and the boy found that he could barely keep his eyes open.
Pete returned to the door, made a swift survey of the sky and
decided he was safe, at least from the vampire. Returning to
the pile of green, Pete lowered himself carefully to the bed of
cane.


The boy was surprised at the softness of the cushion and
allowed himself to stretch out further, exploring the resting
place. As he reached out to pat the pile down, Pete was
puzzled to find a lump inside the vegetation. The boy slid his
hand into the bowels of the cane pile and touched cloth.


Jerking his hand back, Pete was instantly awake again. He felt
sweat beading at his forehead. Pete steeled himself and
reached toward the cane, digging into and parting the stalks.


Trere's sightless eyes starred back at the boy.   Though he
hadn't expected it to be the handyman, Pete had kind of
expected to find a body. He wasn't even surprised to find what
he saw next--the twin puncture marks on the corpse's neck,
rimmed with crusted blood.


Pete did not expect the fly which exited Trere's nostril and
buzzed into the boy's face.


Pete screeched in terror and rolled across the cane. The stalks
and long leaves thrashed out at him, clawing at the boy's face
and exposed arms. Pete scrambled up and, sack forgotten, fled
from the shed.


Running with all his strength, Pete plunged back into the cane
field, no longer worried about snakes and rats and other minor
beasties. He gave no thought to the mud he splashed through,
the red clay raising in pellets, clinging to his clothing and
skin. Pete just knew he wanted to get the hell away from there.


He was still running full tilt when he broke from the cane field
onto the asphalt surface of the state highway cut-through.
Straight into the path of the oncoming patrol vehicle being
driven by Sheriff Raymond "Duke" LeFort.


Now, carefully stashed in a corner of the Sheriff's satellite
office, Pete waited for LeFort to return. A loud clap of thunder
reverberated outside and ran up the length of Pete's spine,
making the boy shudder involuntarily. He looked up as the
outside door opened and the Sheriff walked inside.


LeFort nodded to the dispatcher and spoke a few words which
Pete could not make out. Then, LeFort walked over to the boy.


"You hungry?" Pete shook his head. "Well, I am. What say we
take a walk over to the diner?" LeFort put his hand on the
boy's shoulder, a gesture indicating that "no" would not be an
acceptable answer.


As they crossed the street, heading toward the corner
establishment, Pete looked into the darkened sky. The sun,
which had come up earlier in the day, was hidden behind a
wall of gathering steel. The clouds were barely distinguishable,
just a darker shade of slate, rimmed in angry violet. The wind
gusted menacingly.


"Looks like the bottom is about to fall out," LeFort said, his gaze
following Pete's. "We'd better get on inside."


The place was tidy in appearance, with its chrome braced chairs
and plastic table clothes, but the lingering smell of the grease
caused Pete's stomach to lurch just a little. LeFort gave the
waitress a little wave, held up two fingers and guided Pete
toward a corner table. Across the room, the only other two
patrons, a couple of middle-aged men with grizzled faces and
ball caps sporting farm machinery logos, nodded at the Sheriff,
then returned to their private conversation about pest control
and crop prices.


The waitress, a just-past-teenager dressed in jeans and white
blouse, placed two glasses of tea on the table in front of Pete
and LeFort. Then, discreetly, she disappeared without asking if
they wanted to place an order. LeFort lifted his glass and took
a sip of the murky liquid.


"Found the body, Pete, just like you told me. Stuffed under a
pile of sugar cane in the tool shack." LeFort took another long
drink, watching the boy's face. "It was the Pointte's handyman,
Trere, just like you thought. Looks like he'd been dead a couple
of hours."


Pete shuddered at this last revelation. Allowing for the time it
took the Sheriff to call a deputy to transport Pete and then
return to the crime scene, the vampire must have deposited
the body not long before the boy's arrival.


LeFort watched the youngster with casual interest. "Just
finished supervising them loading the body into the
ambulance.   They're
taking him to Frier's Funeral Home, and Bud will determine if
we need to
call the coroner up from the city. Said, at first glance, that it
looked like
some animal had gotten ahold of Trere. Had a bite mark on his
throat
which cut clean to the bone. No other marks whatsoever,
except some
bruising on his upper arms and shoulders." LeFort took
another mouthful
from the tea glass, his eyes steady on Pete.


"Sure was a funny look on Trere's face, though. Kind of
surprised. Surprises me, too, because if it was an animal, then
you figure there'd be some claw marks. Heck, boy, you're more
scratched up from wrestling with the cane than Trere was."


Pete looked solidly into LeFort's face.   "So . . . what do 'you'
think he died from, Sheriff?"


LeFort glanced toward the window, watching the gathering
storm. "Don't know, Petey. But, I'll bet you have an idea or
two, don't you?"


Pete stared at his wilting tea glass. He moved his fingers along
the beveled surface, tracing a drip line down the condensation.
"Just some animal, I guess," the boy replied quietly.


"Yep, just some animal," LeFort agreed. He pushed back his
chair and stood up. "I guess we ought to get you back home,
don't you think?   Before this storm gets nasty."


LeFort noted that the boy had slid further down into the chair.
"Pete? You ready to roll, kiddo?"


Pete didn't budge. LeFort looked down at the boy, placing a
gentle hand on Pete's shoulder. As the lawman's fingers
came in contact with his flesh, Pete cringed.


Pete turned pleading eyes on LeFort. "Could I, maybe, just stay
at the office for awhile? You might need to ask me some more
questions, or something. I might remember something else."


LeFort nodded. "You might have a point, there, Pete. I keep a
place at the motel. Want to bunk down there for awhile?"


Pete nodded and stood. LeFort placed two bills on the table
and moved toward the diner exit, Pete following obediently.


They crossed the main street again, walking toward the long
building which housed the old motel. LeFort stopped in mid-
stride and turned to Pete.


"Forgot something I left in the cruiser." LeFort walked to the
parked patrol car and fished the keys from his trousers pocket.
He popped the trunk and watched as the lid slowly rose.


Inside the trunk was Pete's canvas bag. LeFort pulled the bag
from the dark interior and turned to the boy.


"Found this in the shack.   Yours?"


Pete swallowed hard, staring at the tote.   How much did LeFort
know? What did the Sheriff suspect?


LeFort opened the sack and looked inside. "Interesting
collection, Pete.   Looks like you got tent stakes and fish gutting
stuff in here. Planning a camping trip? "


Pete nodded furiously.   Camping trip.   Good answer.
The Sheriff gave the boy a sly look. "Where's your tent, boy?
Where's your rod and reel? Where's your mess kit and food?
You don't plan to live on Cheezer crackers and garlic powder,
do you?"


Pete just stared at the tall man.


"It's okay, Pete," LeFort said, deciding to ease up on the kid.     "I
ran away when I was about your age. I think all kids have to
do it."


Pete felt air enter his lungs again as LeFort, carrying the sack,
turned back toward the motel.


"Let's get you stowed in the motel room. I have to go to the
Pointte and break the news about Trere to Avon.   I'll tell your
Mom you're alive and well, and this running away stunt will be
our secret. Okay?"


Pete nodded and followed the Sheriff.


Overhead, the sky continued to darken.


****************************


End of Part 26/64


****************************


LaCroix left his spot beneath the hidden stairwell and moved
easily up the steep, narrow steps to the second floor of the
home's older section. At the head of the stairway, he emerged
onto a small square landing, flanked on three sides by closed
frame doors.


The vampire tested the first, only to find it opened into a small
linen closet. LaCroix detected the movement of a large
palmetto bug near the back of the lower shelf. Grimacing, he
closed the closet door and moved on.


He had slightly better luck with the second door, which was
directly opposite the first. It led into another small room, not
much larger than the linen closet.   This room had been
modified with plumbing fixtures some time back, and served as
the proprietress' bathroom. The bathtub, a turn-of-the-century,
claw-footed relic, was constructed of heavy, cream-colored
porcelain blemished by time. It stood against the far wall of the
tiled room and, above the tub's rim, was a small, smoked
window.


LaCroix moved to the window and looked out.   He saw only
darkness.


Yet, the frosted texture of the pane could be deceiving.    LaCroix
left the room and opened the third door.


The vampire strode into Avonne Simmoneaux's bedroom with
barely a glance around.   He had an impression of starkness
rather than comfort, with a bed, chest of drawers and stuffed
rocker the only noteworthy furniture. An oval, woven rug lay
atop the wooden floor. Framed family photos appeared the
only objects of adornment.


LaCroix crossed the room to the single window. It faced north.
The inside shutters had been firmly latched. LaCroix lifted the
hook, pulled back the slatted cover and peered through the
glass.


As before, his gaze met only a muted slate color. But this time,
the clear glass promised him that the outside was truly dark,
and not just an opaque disguise. LaCroix shifted his vision,
looking upward. The clouds were heavy, almost inseparable
from the sky. The sun was non-existent.


With his mind, LaCroix reached out for Julia and, from her
increased heart rate, found that her alarm had escalated. She
was still nearby, but seemed to have left the shelter of the
carriage house.   LaCroix pushed up on the window frame and
took a deep breath of the dense air.


Within moments, the vampire had pulled himself through the
window opening and dropped lightly to the ground. During
his descent and short sprint toward the woman's heartsounds,
his clothes became soaked by the mist which hung heavy
around him. LaCroix found Julia, just beyond the chicken
coop, calling Belinda's name.


"Julia," he said aloud, and just a bit harshly.   Startled, she
turned to him.


The enveloping moisture had drenched her, causing her hair
and clothing to cling to her face and form. Her eyes, wide and
stark, both welcomed him and pleaded for his help.


"Lucien," she said heavily. "Thank goodness. I heard the radio
warning and was gathering the children up to take them to the
main house, when I discovered that Belinda was missing. I
thought she was in her room, resting, but she was gone."


"Are you sure she's not somewhere within the stable?" LaCroix
inquired, knowing in the same instant that the child was not
close. Her heartbeat was not within his range.


Julia shook her head. "I think she's run away," the woman said
firmly. "It looks like some of her clothes and some food are
gone, too. Also, her pink rabbit is missing."


LaCroix raised an inquiring eyebrow.


"Belinda wouldn't go anywhere without that stuffed toy," Julia
nodded, as if affirming her statement to herself. "If the bunny
is gone, so is the girl."


"And what do you plan to do?" LaCroix moved closer to the
woman. "Shouldn't you be contacting the authorities?"


Julia shook her head. "I don't think she's been gone that long.   I
saw her just awhile ago, when she went to her room to take a
nap. We'd had another long talk about you and her over-active
imagination."


LaCroix remained politely quiet.


"I think she might have just slipped out in the last thirty
minutes or so. I think that we can find her faster ourselves than
waiting for the police to show up."


"And where do you propose to start 'our' search?" LaCroix
inquired sardonically. "Do you have any theory as to which
direction the child might have gone?"
Julia frowned.   "No," she finally conceded.


"Then, I suggest that we go back inside and make more proper
search arrangements."


Julia clenched her jaw. "But that would cost us valuable time,
Lucien. That baby is out in what could potentially turn into a
major storm front. We need to find her now!"


"I agree," LaCroix nodded, attempting to placate the woman.
"But running off into the storm, without a directional objective,
is reckless."


Julia's eyes shined hotly. "Well, I guess I'm just an idiot, then,
Lucien.   But that child is my responsibility and I intend to find
her."


The woman prepared to brush past LaCroix, but, as she did, he
caught her round the waist with one arm and lifted her. Julia
struggled against his hold, but LaCroix ignored her futile
efforts and carried her bodily toward the stable.


"Put me down," Julia sputtered, pummeling LaCroix with her
tiny fists. LaCroix twisted his head, avoiding a particularly
fierce blow, which caught him near the Adam's apple. If he'd
been a mortal man, that punch would have hurt.


The vampire paused beneath the shelter of an overhang,
placing the woman on her feet again. Before she could run, he
clasped her shoulders and turned her to face him.


"This 'He-Man' gig does not impress me!" the small woman
shouted in her fury. "Whatever gave you the idea you could
toss me around like a sack of potatoes?"


"The idea that you are reacting with your heart, rather than
your head, dear Julia," LaCroix replied.   Still holding the
woman tightly, LaCroix fixed his eyes on hers.   "There is a
good chance that the child is close by. I believe she is
intelligent enough to have found shelter, and I suggest that
we wait for the storm to pass before we set out to find her. The
only thing that you will accomplish by going out in this storm
is putting yourself in danger. If I sense that the child is in
trouble, I will go after her."
Julia's eyes glinted suspiciously. "And just how do you intend
to 'sense' she's in trouble, Lucien? Next thing I know, you'll be
telling me that you have super powers, or something. Don't
you think you're pushing this *hero* thing a little?"


"I am not a hero, Julia," LaCroix said, releasing his hold.     "I am,
though, a pragmatist. And that allows me to consider
something that you seem to have forgotten. You have more
than one child depending on you."


These words immediately sobered the woman.


After a silent moment, Julia spoke softly. "The kids are safe
enough, as long as they stay in the stable. I'm sure Avonne or
one of the others will eventually head out there, thinking I
don't know about the storm warnings, and take them inside the
main house."


Sensing that she was prepared to give chase to the truant child
again, LaCroix caught Julia, his fingers threading into the wet
folds of her soaked blouse.


"Don't be a fool woman. You can't find the child in this storm.
The only thing you will accomplish is your possible injury."


"Well I can't just sit here, can I?" Julia spat back at LaCroix.
"Would it really be worth going on, knowing that I hadn't at
least tried to find her? How could I live with myself? Beda is
my responsibility."


"The child chose to go out into the tempest," LaCroix said
simply. "Let her lie on her unmade bed."



Julia looked abashed.   "You can't be that callous."


LaCroix shrugged.   "I prefer to think of it as 'realistic.'"


Julia's eyes blazed in anger. "Okay, fine.    You go back to the
stable and keep your butt all safe and dry.   You watch after the
other kids. I'm going after Belinda."
LaCroix caught Julia again as she moved from the shelter.
Spinning the woman round, the vampire pulled her close, his
eyes catching hers again.


"No," he said. She opened her mouth to protest, but he crushed
her lips with his own. He released her, breathless, and moved
to the edge of the overhang, blocking her exit.


"I'll go after the waif," LaCroix ordered the woman back.     "You
stay here and attend to your other charges."


He vanished into the howl of the rising wind.


Julia waited a moment, pondering. Then, eyes stern, she
headed out after him, muttering. "Bull hockey, big guy.     My
kid, my responsibility."


*******************************************


Peter Brackin tossed fitfully on the motel's worn mattress. His
nightmarish thoughts were not born of sleep, for the child
found himself unable to achieve slumber, no matter how hard
he tried. Pete counted sheep, but their wool turned to leathery,
black wings, and their mild little faces took on an unearthly
glow. Instead of bleating, they snarled at him with exposed
fangs.


Pete finally gave up and sat on the edge of the bed, his eyes
hollow from exhaustion. He glanced over into the corner
where LeFort had stowed the boy's canvas bag. It lay in a
lumpy heap, waiting for him.


Waiting for him to do what?


"I'm only a kid," Pete protested to the stagnant room's walls.
"What am I supposed to do?"


Trere's vacant eyes kept sneaking into the boy's thoughts.    The
memory of the insect coming out of the dead man's nostril
made Pete's body shake anew.


The vampire was getting bolder.   Killing close to home and not
bothering to do that good a job of covering up his handiwork.
Another thread wound its way into Pete's musing. What
had his vampire book said? Three days later the corpse
would rise again to join the ranks of the Undead.


The thought of Trere lurching about like some zombie,
clamping onto the necks of the residents of the Pointte shocked
Pete to new awareness. This madness had to stop.


"I'm only a kid," Pete repeated softly.


He thought of Ms. Julia. He knew that the vampire intended to
kill the pretty woman--suck her dry like orange juice through a
straw. In fact, the vampire probably intended to kill everyone
before he was through--not a wise idea to leave witnesses,
right?


Then, like a fist slamming into his face, Pete realized what his
thoughts were leading to--what he'd been circling around, but
been to afraid to think about outright.


His Mom was one of those people LaCroix probably had on his
hit list.


Kid or not, Pete wasn't going to let the vampire kill his mother
without a fight.


Peter Brackin grabbed his tote and left the motel room. He was
greeted by a fierce slap of wind which braised his face and left
his eyes burning with hot tears. Pulling his windbreaker close
around him and hoisting the bag carefully over his shoulder,
Pete began the long walk back to Chennes Pointte.


****************************************


As a crackle of lightning streaked earthward, Belinda Rambo
sat and watched breathlessly. The child's eyes widened as
sudden light illuminated the outside, showing the hard shiver
which ran through the pine trees' limbs. Beda clutched her
stuffed toy to her chest, taking comfort in the touch of the
familiar.


"I think I blew it, Mr. Going," the red-haired child whispered.
"This is looking pretty bad."
Belinda Rambo had indeed taken shelter, but her haven of
choice was questionable. When the first large rain drops had
replaced the dense mist, Beda had begun moving faster
through the woods. The sky had quickly turned from slate to
pitch, further hampering her view. She'd run, blindly, through
the trees, lost and scared. When she came upon the concrete
building, she'd ducked inside without thinking.


Only after she'd entered had she realized where she was.
Looking around, Beda saw a series of ornate handles on the
concrete wall before her. This was definitely a lot older, but it
looked suspiciously like the place where they'd put her great-
uncle Moe when he had died. Beda had stepped forward just a
little and began reading the tiny plaques which had been
placed below the handles. Each had a name and a couple of
dates on it.


Yup, Beda realized.   She was in a family vault.


The child had turned to flee, but the fierceness of the storm had
beaten her back inside.


Now she was curled into a tight little knot, holding her pink
bunny in her lap and wishing she was back at the stable with
those other geeks. The thought of hot chocolate popped into
her head, and Beda sighed in anguish. She was cold and
hungry and very tired. Beda allowed her head to drop to her
chest and the tears to flow.


She was just nodding off when something popped outside. It
was a scrunching sound, like something big walking on wet
pine needles.


Something . . . or someone.


Beda was instantly awake, her fingernails digging into the
bunny's fleece as her fright increased. She heard the sound
again, louder as it approached. A shadow passed in front of
the crypt, paused, then moved closer.


Belinda looked around the vault, frantically searching for
something to defend herself with. If it had been someone
looking to rescue her, she reasoned, they would have been
shouting her name, not sneaking up like this. There was
nothing of substance lying loose in the mausoleum, not even a
wayward branch blown in by the wind.


In horror, Beda watched as fingertips, followed by a hand,
reached to catch the edge of the crypt door and pull it open
further. Whatever it was, it was coming inside.


*********************************


End of Part 27/64


*********************************


LaCroix moved away from the shelter, fully aware that Julia
would choose to follow him rather than do the sensible thing
and return to the stable to take care of her other charges. He
smiled slightly, admiring her spirit, her dauntless
stubbornness.


It was what made her special. Gave her blood the promised
bite he so looked forward to tasting.


And, despite this newest impediment to his plans, LaCroix
would have the woman. Of that, he had no doubt.


The wind, though gusting fiercely at times, was still
manageable to move through. The vampire turned away from
the cluster of buildings, heading toward the pasture area,
which would have been the logical path of a runaway. As he
walked, LaCroix heard a mechanical sound and paused. He
quickly identified it as the growl of an automobile engine,
muted by the crush of the elements.   Ducking slightly, LaCroix
changed his original direction and chose a path which would
take him back toward the main house.


Julia cursed softly, wondering where he was heading now.
Her ears, not as acute as his, had no idea that someone had
pulled into the Pointe's driveway. She shifted her sight
between the tree grove beyond the pasture and LaCroix's
retreating form. Finally, with a sigh and an uncontrollable
curiosity, she followed LaCroix, discreetly.


LaCroix smiled as he sensed her behind him.
He stopped within view of the house, noting the white sedan
bearing the mark of the Parish Sheriff on its side door.   Behind
him, Julia's steps slowed, then stopped.


LaCroix knew she was not within visual range of the lawman's
vehicle. He began moving again, paralleling the driveway and
allowing Julia to come forward, her guise of prudence
protected. Her muttered, "What is LeFort doing here?" advised
LaCroix that the woman had discovered the Sheriff's arrival.


"Perhaps, someone called for help," LaCroix declared softly,
close to the woman's ear.


Julia jumped and spun in shock. While she had been so
engrossed in contemplating LeFort's presense , LaCroix had
circled and come up behind her.


"Dammit!" she yelped, striking his chest with her closed hand.
"I don't need this crap from you!" She lifted her fist to hit him
again, but LaCroix grabbed her hand, halting her.


"Don't," he said warningly. Not waiting a reply, he released the
woman and returned his attention to the drive. "I thought you
were returning to the stable."


"I thought you were going after Belinda." Julia tried to keep her
tone strong, but her voice faltered. She had not been prepared
for the threat she'd heard in LaCroix's voice.


"It appears that we are both derelict in our assigned duties, "
LaCroix said, his eyes still on the home, concentrated on the
back door where he assumed the Sheriff had entered. Julia was
about to answer, but his raised hand stopped her. The kitchen
door opened and LeFort's tall frame emerged.


"Avonne!" the man's voice wrestled with the wind's howl.
"AVONNE?"


A repressed shout answered from somewhere beyond, and
LeFort moved off toward it.   "As to why the good Sheriff is
here at this moment, I have no idea," LaCroix answered Julia's
earlier question more fully. "But at least he should be able to
help her with the shutters."
"And us with the search," Julia nodded.


LaCroix looked down at the woman, amused again. "I was
under the impression that you did not want his assistance."


"No," Julia met his eyes and argued.   "What I said before was
that I didn't want to *wait* for him to get here and organize a
search party when Belinda was probably not that far ahead of
us. As long as he's here, let's utilize him."


"He'll still most likely delay the process while he organizes a
*posse*." The vampire twisted his lips slightly.


"You might be right," Julia returned with a frown.   "Back to
plan A."


"I search for the wayward child, and you return to the others?"


"No, that was plan B.   Plan A is we both go looking for
Belinda."


"You *are* determined, aren't you?"


Her eyes were glowing with triumph. "One of my finer
qualities," she replied. "I'm like a terrier with a rat, when I
make up my mind."


"An interesting analogy," LaCroix offered, moving again, his
direction focused once more on the pasture and beckoning tree
line. "Just be careful that the rat doesn't turn and bite the
source of its aggravation."


"Hmmmppfff," Julia retorted, but decided that a closer, discreet
distance was still the best way to follow the dark man ahead of
her.


******************************


As the fingers tightened their grip around the door facing,
pulling it further outward, Belinda Rambo knew that she had to
do something quick.
Like a spider, the child scrambled up and skittered across the
room, taking a position beside the door. She flattened herself
against the concrete wall, clutching her fuzzy bunny tightly.
The door opened further, and the shape began to enter.


With a sound which could pierce the coldest heart, Beda
uttered a warwhoop that, to quote an overused passage, was
loud enough to wake the dead. Holding the stuffed toy by its
lower appendages, Beda swung the pink rabbit with all her
strength. The rain-soaked bunny impacted the advancing form,
striking the intruder in his mid-section. The metal voice box,
hidden inside the toy's stomach, added to the momentum and
impact of the weapon.


"YEEEOUUUCHHH!!" Peter Brackin doubled over in pain.
Beda pulled the rabbit back and swung it in an arch, bringing it
down on the boy's head.


Pete dropped the gunny sack and lifted his hands, trying to
thwart the girl's assault. The rabbit struck his upper arms, and
Pete cried out again.


Belinda jerked back and, clutching the toy to her, tried to dart
past Pete. The boy was still sufficiently within the doorway,
though, to block her escape, which he did with a determined,
outstretched arm.


"No you don't, squirt!" Pete gasped, grabbing the little hellspite.
Beda shrieked again, and Pete almost let her go. Ears ringing,
the boy held the girl and shoved her back inside the tomb.


Pete quickly closed the crypt door as tightly as he could and
turned to face Beda.


Her shrill voice again filled the air, an unabating sound fueled
by young, healthy lungs. Peter looked at the screaming child,
angered and fascinated at the same time.


Anger finally won.


"Put a sock in it, pest," Peter said, giving the little girl a
shoulder push. It was the child's injured shoulder and the
touch made her gasp. Beda's voice quickly stifled and her eyes
widened with threatened tears.


"Sorry, Beda," Pete was genuinely remorseful.


"Okay," the little girl sniffed. She tightened her hold on the
pink bunny and blinked. "What are you doing here anyway?"


Pete shuffled his feet. "I got caught in the woods by the storm.
Just ducked in here for shelter."


"What were you doing in the woods?" Beda pressed, her pain
forgotten as her curiosity increased.

"Going home," Pete answered.   Then his eyes narrowed.   "What
are *you* doing here?"


Beda shifted uncomfortably. "I got stuck in the woods, too.      I
didn't know this was a tomb until I was in it."


"A what?" Pete looked around for the first time since he'd
entered. He blew out a low whistle as he noted the sealed
drawers outlined in the far wall. "Kewl."


"Cool?" Belinda said incredulously.   "You are so weird, Peter
Brackin. This place is not *cool.*    It is SPOOKY!"


"Then why did you stay in here?" The boy was moving closer
to the burial notches, reading the nameplates with interest.


"'Cause it was raining so hard," Belinda replied, following the
older child.


"Jeesh, Beda. This place is old. Check out the name and dates.
'Agatha Melancon -- 1847 to 1872.'"  Pete moved to the next
marker. "'Foster Melancon -- 1831 to 1869.' This is beyond cool,
Beda. They were alive during the Civil War!"


"They didn't live very long," Beda observed, squinting as she
made some mental calculations. Then her face brightened a bit.
"They were in their thirties, so I guess they were pretty old at
that."
Pete was   ignoring the youngster as he stood on tiptoe, trying to
read one   of the higher notations. "I can't make this one out, it's
so old,"   he said, reaching up to wipe the dingy surface with his
sleeve.    "Okay, I can make out a little now. 'B . . . Bar . . .'"


"Barnabas?" Beda hugged her bunny tightly, a shiver of
memory just beyond her reach.


"Nahhh," Pete said, finishing his buffing. "Barqueon." Pete
grimaced, which caused Beda to laugh. Pete grinned at the kid,
then made his face grotesque again. "Barqueon Pillferdy, to be
precise. Cherished husband of Laura Pasquan Pillferdy."


Beda continued to giggle. Pete, delighted at having given the
child this tittering fit, strutted to the next chamber. "And here,
ladies and gents, I am proud to have the pleasure of
introducing you to . . ." he took note of the nameplate,
"Pleasance Melancon, who is resting comfortably next to her
husband," Pete leaned forward to read, "Aaron . . ."


The boy stopped reading, frozen by the name.


And remembering why he had ended up in this place.


"Keep going, Pete," Beda was clapping her hands in delight.
"This is funny."


"Not really," Pete said, his change in mood quickly sobering
Belinda. The little girl looked at him warily, suddenly
frightened again.


"What's wrong?"

"Nothin'," Pete said. Then he looked coldly at the child in front
of him. "Nothin' you would understand, anyway. You're too
young."


"Am not," Belinda said defensively, jutting her chin.


Pete eyed her curiously.   "What grade are you in, anyway?"


"I'll be in third," Beda answered.
"Just out of pre-school," Pete scoffed. He walked past the girl
and went to where he'd dropped his bag by the door.


"Now you're being mean again."   Beda followed him, her voice
angry.


"Am not," the boy said, opening the canvas and looking inside.
"I just don't want you to get hurt or in my way."


"What do you mean?" Beda was near now, trying to see inside
Pete's bag.


Pete snapped his hands together, closing the bag from her
view. "Don't be a pest."


"Don't be a pain," she replied.   Beda would have much
preferred to argue with the older child, but a more pressing
need surfaced.   "I'm hungry. Do you have any food in that
bag?"


Pete was reluctant to open the sack in front of Beda, but his
stomach was growling too. "Yea," he replied, reopening the
canvas. Beda, of course, moved in to take a peek. She started
to reach her hand inside, but Pete caught it and pushed her off.
"Careful. I have some knives in there."


"Yea?" Beda looked inside with undisguised nosiness.   "Geesh!
Whatcha planning to cut up?"


"Whatever needs cutting," the boy replied. He reached
carefully inside the tote and brought out the box of crackers.


"What's with all the pointed sticks?"   Beda was totally clueless,
but interested, nonetheless.


"Fishing poles," Pete replied, drawing the canvas closed and
returning the sack to the floor. He moved to one of the walls
and sat down on the floor.


"Nuuhhuhhh," Beda admonished, moving over to join him.
She squatted quickly and pushed her hand into the now open
cracker box, even before Pete could help himself to one. Beda
plopped herself down by Pete and popped several of the spicy
squares into her mouth.


"Okay, smartass, what you think they're for?" Pete asked,
engrossed in watching the girl chew noisily.


"Don't know," Beda said through a mouthful of food.     "Bu ah du
no der naw fishin poles."


Pete grinned crookedly.    "Say what?"


Belinda rolled her eyes in disgust.      "I sayd," she replied, spitting
crumbs, "'der naw fishin poles.'"


"Huhhh?"


"I sayd." Beda's voice raised to a dangerous octave, and Pete
cut the game short by holding up his hand.


"Okay, okay, kid. I gotcha. Yur right. They ain't fishin poles."
Pete leaned forward, searching Belinda's green eyes. "Can I
trust you, Beda?"


Belinda Rambo nodded seriously, matching the inflection of
Pete's question.


"Okay, but you have to give me your word of honor that what
I'm about to tell you goes no further than you and me, okay?"


Beda nodded gravely.


Pete sighed dramatically. He looked into the child's eyes and
said slowly. "They're wooden stakes."


************************


End of Part 28/64


************************
Belinda blinked and waited.   "And?" she said finally.


Pete blinked, then gave her a hard look.   "You know . . .
wooden stakes."


"And?"


Pete shook his head.   "Why did I even bother?"


Beda reached out and hit the boy's upper arm with her fist.


"What?!!!" Pete yelped.


"Don't treat me like a baby!" Beda threatened.


"So don't act so klewless," Pete yelled back.


Beda, took a deep breath, regarding the pre-teen boy. The
haunting image of that thing which called himself Mr. LaCroix,
hunched over Ms. Julia's neck, with his eyes glowing and his
sharp teeth ready to bite, was playing over and over like a slide
show in the little girl's thoughts. Ms. Julia had assured the
child that she had imagined it all, probably been dreaming
and sleepwalking as a result of her injuries.   Mr. LaCroix, Beda
was told, was a very nice man.


Beda, of course, knew the significance of wooden stakes.   She
just wasn't going to be the first one to give a name to her fears.


"Okay, Pete," she said. "I'm klewless about the wooden stakes,
except that you almost killed me with one." Pete winced
slightly. Belinda pursed her little lips in satisfaction at her barb
finding its mark, then continued without pausing.  "As my
Aunt Packie would say, 'enlighten me.'"


"You have some really weird relatives," Pete said, shaking his
head, then he leaned closer to the child, whispering in her ear
conspiratorially. "Nosferatu."


"YUCK!" Belinda jerked a hand to her face and swiped it across
her cheek.   She glared at the other youngster and began to
sputter.   "You spit on my face!!"


"Sorry," Pete said, but his grin contradicted any true remorse he
might have vocalized.


"So, what the heck is a Nos . . . Nosf . . . a Nosfart, anyway?"
Belinda quirked her face, frowning at the boy.


Pete shook his head. "Nosferatu," the boy repeated the weird
word, his tone lowered in reverence. "You know . . . vampire."


"Ohhhhhhhh," Beda's eyes grew wide again.   There.   Pete had
said the word. "Vampire."


For just a moment, the children looked at each other.


"Vampire," they said in unison.   Both waited, wondering if the
other knew more.


"You're planning to kill a vampire?!!" Beda looked at Pete,
surprised at the grudging awe she suddenly felt for the boy.


"Yea, right. Peter Brackin, fearless vampire hunter," Pete
scoffed, not yet ready to admit too much to the other child.
Then he looked seriously at the little girl. "You don't really
believe in vampires, do you, Beda?" Pete said, hoping that his
fears would be justified by her affirmation.


She misinterpreted his scoffing as ridicule and turned cold. "Of
course not, Pete. Everyone knows that vampires aren't real."


"Yea, right," Pete tried to hide his disappointment, but his face
betrayed him. Beda watched him closely.


"Do you believe in vampires, Pete?"   Beda said quietly.


False laughter.   "Of course not."


"Then why do you have all the wooden stakes?"
Pete didn't answer.   Beda waited.


"I'm going to make a movie," Pete announced. He looked at the
girl, eyes dancing now. "Yea, that's it. I'm going to make a
movie, just like my Dad used to do. It'll be about vampires
terrorizing a pre-school and the little girl who foils their plan.
You can star in it. 'Beda the Vampire Slayer.'"


Pete braced himself for the pounding that the little girl inflicted
as she cursed him.   Breathless, Belinda finally quit hitting the
older child and sat back. Pete was still doubled over in
laughter, trying to catch his breath.


"I can see it now," Pete chortled. "You doing handstands and
sommersaults and swinging from chandeliers, killing
vampires."


"Okay, jerky-face," Beda pouted in anger.    "If you're making a
movie, where is your camera?"


Pete stood up, mirth vanished, solemn again. Finally he
shrugged. "Didn't bother bringing it, because the battery was
down."


"So why did you come at all?" Beda pushed.


Pete was just about to give in and tell the girl the truth when he
noticed a plastic sack laying over in the corner.


"What's this?" Pete said, heading toward the bundle.


"That's mine!" Belinda cried, running to intercept his path. She
reached for the bag, but Pete was faster. He lifted it, blocked
Beda with his back and looked inside. He found several
t-shirts, a pair of shorts, some frilly undies--which made him
grin--an empty King Don package and a couple of fruit twists.


"How come you were yelling about being hungry?" Pete asked,
giving Beda a cold look. "You had food."


"That was a snack," Belinda defended.   "And the Fruities are my
breakfast."
Pete stuck his hand in the bag and stirred the contents.      He
withdrew a huge chocolate candy bar and held it up, his
eyebrow cocked in question.


"Gimme that.   It'smine!"   Beda jumped for the sweet.


"Not anymore." Pete dropped the candy bar back into the
plastic bag, then carried the whole bundle over to his canvas
and dropped it inside, despite Beda's protests.


"You can't steal my stuff," Beda was shouting.


"I'm not stealing, pipsqueak," Pete said. "I'm pooling our
resources. What do you need this stuff for, anyway?" Pete
turned and looked at the girl, suspecting he already knew the
answer. "Unless you were running away."


Beda stopped short, staring uncertainly at the boy.


<Caught her,> Pete realized.


Belinda's face looked kind of droopy.    "So what if I am?"


"How come you're running away, Beda?" Pete asked.   "Ms. Julia
seems pretty nice to me."


"She's okay," Beda shrugged. "She can get a little bossy at
times, but she's a lot of fun mostly."


"Your parents having problems?"


Beda's expression was shocked.    "What do you mean by that?!!"


"Nothing," Pete replied. Obviously, family difficulties had not
caused the little girl to feel the need to flee. "So, if you're not
having any problems, why are you running away?"


"I didn't say that there wasn't a *problem*," Beda snapped, but
was instantly sorry she'd said a thing.
Pete pounced.   "What is the problem, then, Beda?"


The girl was mute.   Outside, the trees sounded like they were
breaking.


Beda cut her eyes and gave Pete a sharp look.   "If you make fun
of me, Peter Brackin, I'll hurt you."


"I double-dog, swear to eat dirt, swear that I will not make fun
of you, Beda Rambo," Pete vowed solemnly.


The little girl sighed.


"You remember what we were talking about earlier?" Belinda
said softly.   "You know . . . monsters?"


Pete nodded.


"I think I saw one."


LeFort finished helping Avonne Simmoneaux and the young
male guest, Robert Colkee, latch the heavy outside shutters.
The wind was increasing in fierceness.


Her pressing task finished, Mrs. Simmoneaux looked toward
the stable, her expression worried. "I wonder what has
happened to Julia and the children," the woman said. "Mr.
LaCroix went after them some time ago and has not yet
returned."


"I'll go check," LeFort told her, already moving toward the
carriage house. "You and Robert get back inside. Make sure
you have emergency stuff ready, in case you lose power."


Avonne nodded and, leading the bridegroom, made her way to
the kitchen door and vanished inside.


LeFort was already striding toward the stable area. The wind
tugged at him, threatening to topple the tall man. LeFort
arrived at the cottage door and rapped on it sharply. Inside, he
could barely make out the muffled voices of frightened
children.


"Who's there?" a tinny voice finally called from the other side of
the door.


"Sheriff LeFort," the lawman answered.   "Let me in, please."


After a few moments, LeFort heard the metallic sound of
someone turning the deadbolt. Heather pulled open the door
and peered out.   Seeing it was, indeed, the sheriff, she opened
the door fully. LeFort stepped inside and immediately all four
of the children quickly flanked LeFort, plucking at him and
offering a cacophony of unsolicited information.


"Whoa," LeFort said over the din. The girls silenced, except
Heather, who said "But . . ." before LeFort's look stopped her.


"Okay." LeFort looked around at the little group. They didn't
look any worse for wear, just abit anxious. "Any of you know
where Miss Julia is?"


"She's *Ms.* Julia and, no, we don't know where she went," the
troubled one, Liddy, glared as she spoke. "We figure she went
out looking for Belinda, though, because she's gone."


"Who's gone?" LeFort wanted to make sure he'd heard the girl
right.


"Belinda," Liddy said with exasperation, while the others
nodded.


"And Julia went after her?" LeFort was confirming his thoughts
aloud.


Liddy rolled her eyes. "Do you have a hearing problem,
Sheriff? We just said that."


LeFort glared at the skinny girl. "I'm hearing you loud and
clear, young lady. Now hear me. Gather up the stuff you'll
need for tonight. I'm fixing to take you over to the big house."


"Why?" Corlie asked.
"Because we have a hurricane coming this way, and I think
you'll all be safer over there with the adults," LeFort said.


"What about Beda and Ms. Julia?" Theresa protested, her pretty
brown eyes widening in concern.


"I'll go find them, after I get you all safely tucked away," LeFort
said. "Now, get a move on. Quick!!"


His tone of voice sent the girls scurrying. They ran out of the
stable's main room, through the door leading to the bedrooms.


While the children were busy getting their things, LeFort went
to the window and starred out into the darkness of the stormy
day.


<This doesn't look good,> he thought, watching as a bolt of
light crackled above the tree tops. The Sheriff looked around,
then walked over to the telephone which sat on a side table
near the kitchen entrance. LeFort lifted the receiver, listened
and heard nothing. Dead.


<Not good at all,> LeFort thought bitterly, returning the
receiver to the cradle. <Not good at all.>


*********************************


They were past the grove, moving into an area that they had
not yet explored.   LaCroix, his progress slowed terribly by the
strong wind, knew that Julia must be faltering badly. He
turned around, reaching out with his hand to offer her
assistance, but, as she had done several times before, she
waved him off.


LaCroix's leg brushed against something hard and he looked
down. It took a moment for him to realize that it was the iron
grating which surrounded the olive tree. He cast a quick look
upwards and noted that the uppermost branches were bowing
dangerously.


"This is not a safe place, Julia," he shouted to the woman.   His
words were plucked from his mouth, half of them lost in the
wind.   Julia knew he was saying something, but had no idea
what.   She nodded and continued trudging after him.


LaCroix tried to quicken his pace, but his body felt leaden. He
did not know if it was the daylight hour still upon him, the
pressure of the atmosphere or a combination of both. LaCroix
only knew that he disliked the sensation and would be glad
when this particular adventure was over.


<So why not end it?> the thought came to him, unbidden.
LaCroix frowned. Overhead, lightning flashed, bleaching the
landscape with stark light. LaCroix shielded his face from its
painful brightness.


"Lucien!" Julia's cry penetrated the constant turmoil of toneless
noise which surrounded them. LaCroix turned quickly and
looked back.


The woman was on the ground, having tripped over a root,
rock or other object. She was trying to rise, but the wind's
fierceness was beating her back down. Cursing softly, LaCroix
turned to go back for her.


<What are you doing here, LaCroix?> he thought, making his
way slowly back to the downed woman. She was struggling
for something to grip, to aid her, but could find nothing.    Julia
lifted her head to shout again but, seeing him coming, she
closed her mouth and smiled gratefully.


<Why do you continue to play this silly game?> He reached
her, bent and extended his arm. Julia lifted hers, thankful,
now, to accept his help.


<You could end it now, simply, with no one the wiser.> He
pulled the woman up, her weight nothing in his arms. She
clung to him for a moment, then lifted her face and looked into
his.


<No one would question it when they found her body. Just a
victim of the storm.> Her hair was a mass of moist tangles,
snarling around her face, dirt covered where she'd struck the
ground. Her eyes, however, were luminous.


<Take her, LaCroix.>
Julia laid her face to his chest again.   "Thank you," she
whispered.


<Feed.>


The lightning flared hotly, searing LaCroix eyes, which flamed
yellow in response. Inside the vampire's belly, the beast
roared. The thunder echoed the cry.


<End this--NOW!>


*******************************


End of Part 29/64


*******************************


Her heart pounded against his chest. How did the poets phrase
it? A tiny bird, its wings fluttering.


That was Julia at this moment.


A tiny creature which he could gently hold or crush with one
squeeze of his fist.


Heavy rain circled within the wind gusts now, soaking them
quickly. Julia's already-dampened hair felt like kelp in
LaCroix's fingers. Her scent was sticky and hot.


Now.


LaCroix lifted the woman's chin, his thumb to one side of her
jaw while his long fingers extended across her other. He
looked into her hazel eyes, mortal and warm, tinged with fear,
but of the elements, not him. If she noted the amber in his eyes,
she gave no indication that it was out of the ordinary.


Without lifting his hand from her jaw, LaCroix moved his index
finger and placed it gently on her lips, caressing them.
"No more fear," he whispered.   She relaxed, visibly, her eyes
radiating trust.


He lowered his mouth to her neck, fangs extended.   The sharp
canines of the vampire grazed her neck, piercing the
epidermal layer no further than that of a minor abrasion.


The blood let from the resulting scratch was minor, but the
taste it offered was not. LaCroix licked at the droplets
hungrily, pressing his tongue to the tiny wound. Julia moaned,
clinging to him, everything else forgotten.


Now.


LaCroix lifted his head, prepared for the strike which would
drive his fangs home, prepared to sate his lust with the dusky
life the woman's veins offered.


Overhead, the sky crackled with horrific menace, flashing
brightly with the pearlesque obliqueness of an obscene smile.
For a moment, LaCroix's eyes turned upward.


In the very crown of the pine tree overhead, something stirred
more viciously than the wind demanded. With a rending tear
which severed cambium from heartwood, the apex of the pine
splintered and began to plummet toward the couple.


The woman, hearing the limb as it crashed downward, looked
up, matching the line of vision of the creature which held her.
The branched mass plunged swiftly, its pointed shards
extended. Instinctively, the vampire flung himself out of
danger, leaving the woman standing alone.


LaCroix turned from his retreat, locking eyes with Julia.   He
read their fright, their betrayal.


Sluggish and painfully slow, the vampire reversed his direction
and threw himself at the woman, knocking her bodily out of
the path of the broken tree trunk. As they fell to the ground, a
jagged branch struck LaCroix's leg, impaling his thigh to the
bone.


The vampire shrieked in anger and pain.   He wriggled, trapped
under the wood, the weight of the brown needles heavy on
him. Julia, partially under LaCroix's thrashing body, pulled
herself forward, trying to break free.


Grunting, the woman managed to drag herself from under
LaCroix's weight and, still laying on her side, twisted to assess
his situation. All she could see was that he was pinned
under the broken limb and its heavily laden branches. Julia
tried to stand, but the wind beat her down, so she chose to
kneel and try to pull the branches off the downed man.


"Oh, God, oh, God," Julia kept repeating the oath as she pulled
aside the pine needles and saw the branch bored deeply into
his flesh.


"Get this damned tree off me!" LaCroix cried out. The wound,
though not life threatening to the vampire, was causing
extreme discomfort.   With all her strength, Julia tugged and
twisted at the tree limb. With a sucking gasp, the limb was
pulled free from his flesh.


The resulting gush of blood from the open wound appeared
massive. Julia quickly tore at her clothing, stripping it to
tourniquet length. She tried to tie the cloth around LaCroix's
leg, but he slapped at her and pressed his hand to the puncture.


"LEAVE IT!!" he screamed against the wind as Julia bent again
to aid him. She sat back on her heels, frightened by his tone.
LaCroix turned his face away, grimacing against the pain.


In a moment, he removed his hand.   To Julia's amazement, the
blood flow had ceased.


"It was a minor cut," LaCroix assured the woman, but he did
not push her away as she reached to help him to his feet. "But
we might not be so lucky should such circumstance occur
again. We must get out of this storm. We must find shelter."


Julia nodded.   "Any suggestions?" she shouted into the gale.


LaCroix, leaning on her slightly, looking around. "This way,"
he indicated with a jut of his chin, and, supported by her
arms, the vampire limped toward the edge of the tree line.
Belinda and Pete just looked at each other, exhausted. They'd
discussed monsters, especially vampires, at length and had
finally said *his* name. The children couldn't even remember,
now, who'd said it first.


"So, you were running away from Mr. LaCroix, too?" Belinda
asked.


Pete shook his head. "I started to," the boy confessed, "but I
was heading back when the rain started."


"Why?" Beda was incredulous.


"Because I didn't want to leave my mom alone with that
vampire there," Pete said simply.


"But you're still afraid?"


"Oh, yeah." Pete looked the little girl directly in the eye.
"Scared clear to my guts. But, my dad left her all alone, and I
can't do that."


Belinda smiled at the boy. "You have," she quirked her face in
search of the word, then brightened as she retrieved it,
"nobility."


"Yea, right." Embarrassed, Pete dismissed the compliment and
stood up. The hard cement floor had flattened his rear end,
and he began rubbing the stiffness away.


"So, what are you planning to do?" Beda inquired.


"As soon as I can, I'm going back to the house to be there for
my mom," Pete said simply. He looked over at the canvas sack
wistfully. "I just hope I'm not too late."


Beda nodded in understanding, then a thought struck her.
"That's what you were doing the night I got hurt, wasn't it?
Looking for stuff to kill the vampire with?"


"Yea," Pete replied. "And, that's the night that he almost killed
me." The boy looked at Beda and nodded to her wide eyes.
"He was about to bite me and you both."


"I knew it!!" the little girl declared, jumping up excitedly. "I
knew it wasn't a dream or my 'magination. It was real, and he
was going to bite me!"


Then she stopped, horrified by the reality of what she'd said.
An odd look came over her small face.


"You know, Pete," Belinda said quietly.   "In a weird way, this is
all kind of kewl."


"What do you mean?" Pete tried to sound shocked, but in
truth, he wasn't.


"You know, finding out that vampires are real and that we have
one." Belinda knew that she probably sounded stupid, but she
didn't care. She was excited about the discovery, knowing she
wasn't crazy and vampires weren't just fairy tales.   The danger
she was might be in had been pushed back into a tiny corner of
her mind.


The same tiny corner where Pete now pushed his fears. The
excitement of the shared knowledge, of knowing a secret,
titillated him.


"It is kind of kewl, isn't it?" Pete agreed.


The children continued discussing the vampire, exchanging
information and speculating on what his life must be like, how
old he must be. They skirted discreetly around the subject of
killing and drinking human blood.


"What I've really been   wondering about," Pete said finally, "is
where his coffin is?"    The boy was stretched out on the floor
again. He'd taken the    knives and stakes out of the canvas bag
and wadded the tote up   into a pillow of sorts.


Beda, who had done the same with her bundle of clothing, sat
up slightly.   "What do you mean?" the girl queried.


"Well, vampires are supposed to have to sleep in the dirt they
were buried in, right?" Beda just shrugged, so Pete continued.
"According to the stuff I've read, they usually carry the dirt
around in a coffin."


"Yuck," Beda turned up her nose, but she'd heard about the
coffin thing, too. She just preferred not to think about it.


"I snuck into his room one night." Pete's words got Beda's
attention and she looked at him, amazement on her face.
"There was no coffin in there, so he has to have hidden it
somewhere else."


"Ohhhhh, where do you think he stashed it?" Beda asked
eagerly, her eyes shining.


"He's a pretty smart vampire," Pete nodded his head
thoughtfully. "He'd put it somewhere it wouldn't be noticed."


"Somewhere like . . .?" Beda prodded.


"Somewhere like . . . this."


The children stared at each other in sudden realization.


"You don't think . . .?"   Beda said, her voice frightened.


"That he stuck his coffin in one of these chambers?" Pete
finished her thought, looking at the wall. "Don't know," he
shrugged, then turned and grinned at the girl. "But don't
worry. Even if he did, we're safe till after dusk. He can't come
out in the day, remember? Hopefully, the storm will be over
and we'll be long gone by then."


***********************


Jostled by the punishing wind, LaCroix and Julia emerged into
the clearing.   They were immediately thrashed by its increased
rage, unsheltered now by the towering giants of the grove.


"Lucien." Julia clung to him, hiding her face in his shoulder for
protection. The vampire placed his hand on her head,
shielding her, and looked around quickly.
He was wet, blinded by the rain, in frightful pain and furious.


Though the wound on his leg was relatively healed, the loss of
blood had left LaCroix weakened. He fought to keep his head
lifted, to focus his sight. Ahead and to the left, almost hidden
in dense growth, he saw something.


"There," he shouted, pointing.   Julia lifted her face and looked
also.


"It looks like a graveyard," the woman cried back.


"With an above ground crypt almost hidden in the vines."
LaCroix began pulling the woman along in his haste. "We can
take shelter there."


Then, the rain stopped. The wind whispered and stilled. The
sudden lack of sound was almost as painful as the constant
howling had been. LaCroix straightened and began searching
the brightening sky.


"I can't believe it!" Julia almost cried out in her relief as she
pointed up. "The gods must be smiling. It looks like the storm
is over."


"Improbable," LaCroix noted, watching as the gray haze above
them took on a whitish cast and the clouds became discernable,
parting slightly. "I suspect this is that calm which occurs just
before the real tempest begins. I suggest we hurry."


Grabbing Julia's hand, LaCroix sprinted painfully toward the
distant crypt. The woman could not keep his pace and he was
soon dragging her.   So intent was he on reaching the shelter,
lest the sun appear, he did not note the heartbeats of the
children until he was already through the door.


******************************


End of Part 30/64


******************************
Belinda and Peter were laying sprawled on the concrete floor
when LaCroix burst into the crypt. They both shrieked and
jumped up, intent on escape, but his large figure blocked the
only exit.


>From behind him, Julia peered around, taking in the children in
one glance.


"Beda!"   the woman cried, her voice pitched high in excited
relief.   "Thank goodness we've found you."


While Pete's yell had been brief, the girl continued to scream,
paying no mind to the mentor. LaCroix glared at the
red-haired child, his eyes bidding her to quiet.


The child ignored him, her cries increasing as she saw him
move toward her. LaCroix stopped, pursing his lips as he
considered the girl.   The vampire turned, glancing over his
shoulder at Julia, who was edging past him, reaching for the
child.


Noting LaCroix had turned his attention from her, Belinda
stared beyond him, toward the open door of the crypt and the
escape it offered. Like an agile kitten, she feinted right, intent
on moving past him. Beda's sudden silence betrayed her,
alerting the vampire.   LaCroix blocked Beda as she tried to run,
catching her by the upper arm.


The red-haired girl began shrieking again, her shrill voice
thrumming inside the vampire's cranium.


"Cease your incessant keening!" LaCroix ordered, fixing the
child with a cold stare. Beda choked to suppress her cries,
gulped, then began screaming louder.


"Let her go!" Pete's voice joined the melee. The boy reached
down to the floor, grabbed one of the wooden spikes and shook
it threateningly at LaCroix.   The vampire moved his eyes from
Pete, to the stake in the boy's hand, then back to the boy's face.
The boy shuddered slightly under LaCroix's cold stare, but held
his ground. Standing before the vampire, Pete assumed a
spearman's stance and repeated his words. "Let her go!"


LaCroix's eyes glittered gold momentarily before he dismissed
the boy and returned his attention to the struggling Belinda
Rambo. Holding the child firmly and away from him, LaCroix
swiveled to face Julia, who was circling around him, trying to
get inside the crypt.


"Do something with her, Julia," LaCroix demanded, thrusting
the child toward the woman.


"I will, if you'll *allow* me to get to her," the woman retorted,
pushing past him.   LaCroix released his hold on Belinda and
the child tumbled, sobbing, into Julia's arms. Instinctively, Julia
embraced the girl, pulling her close.   "Shuuuhhh, Beda. It's
okay," Julia soothed, stroking the girl's hair. "No one is angry
at you. We're just glad you're safe."


Belinda clung momentarily to Julia, her face buried in the
woman's stomach, her weeping muffled. Then, the child
pushed back so that she could tilt her head upward and look
into the woman's face.


"But we're not safe," Belinda moaned in protest. She rotated in
Julia's arms, turning to look at the now-stolid vampire, her
head
tucked close to Julia's body. "Not as long as *he's* here.   He's a
monster!"


Julia chuckled, holding the child tighter. "Mr. LaCroix is not a
monster, Belinda. He came out into this storm tonight to help
me look for you. Would a *monster* do that?"


LaCroix had moved away from Julia and the child, continuing
to watch them impassively. His attention was diverted,
though, when he heard Pete mutter softly. "He might for a
meal."


The vampire turned, his eyes icy as he appraised the boy.
Pete's face paled slightly as he realized the vampire had heard
him. The boy gripped the wood in his hand even more
tightly.


A faint smile tightly in check, LaCroix realized that under other
circumstances he might have enjoyed toying with the boy
further. But, if nature held true to course, the abated storm
outside would soon resume its more forceful demeanor. There
was no time for games. He chose to reason with the child
instead.
Within a blink, LaCroix was beside Pete, his hand firmly
grasping the boy's shoulder.   Pete winced, cried in surprise
and dropped the stake. LaCroix kicked the wood away,
watching as it skittered across the floor.


"While Julia calms your young friend, there, let's discuss your
future, young Brackin," LaCroix said, guiding Pete bodily along
a path away from both the females and the implements of
killing scattered near them.


At the far wall, LaCroix stopped, tightening his hold on Peter
until he was almost crushing the boy's clavicle. The vampire
lowered his voice, so that only Pete could hear.


"Tell me, young Brackin," LaCroix's tone was calm and
reasonable. "What is your favorite television show?"


The question surprised Pete, and his confusion overshadowed
his fright for just a moment. "Huhhh?" was all the boy could
manage.


"Television . . ." LaCroix persisted patiently. "I'm sure you have
one, don't you? It's that electronic box in your bedroom which
injects your mind with pablum, ranging from MTV in digital
stereo surround sound to home repair segments and cartoons
about lemon-colored children with perpetual bad hair days . . ."


"I know what a television is," Pete said defensively. Outside, a
sudden flash of light illuminated the sky, which was darkening
once more to a dusk-like pitch.


"Good . . . now we're getting somewhere," LaCroix replied with
some satisfaction. "So tell me, Peter, what is your favorite
program? Rugrats? Goosebumps? Real Monsters, perhaps?"


"PPPPPLLLLLEEEEAAAASSSSEEEE," Pete rolled his eyes in
irritation. "Those are kid programs." Then Pete recanted
somewhat. "But, I have to admit, Goosebumps is pretty good
sometimes . . ."


"Yes," LaCroix nodded, "but it's not your favorite, is it?"
"No," Pete said, shaking his head. Then the words were out of
his mouth before he could stop them. "I like Freakazoids the
best."


A loud clap of thunder rumbled through the concrete burial
chamber, causing the foundation to shudder. Pete started,
looking past LaCroix to the open doorway. The vampire
turned also, noting that the storm had returned in full force.
Water flowed from the eves of the crypt, thick tendrils of liquid
which looked almost brown against the brackish gray sky.

"Ahhhhhhhhh," LaCroix released his hold on the boy, smiling
with thinly disguised triumph. "You enjoy watching cartoons.
How charmingly typical of your generation. Escapism in its


purest form."


Pete's expression became slightly miffed. "If you were gonna
make fun of what I like, why'd you ask me what it was?" the
boy snapped.


"Because, boy," LaCroix's smile spread with chilling efficiency.
"To have knowledge is to have power."


The vampire leaned in close to Pete, his low voice threatening
in the youngster's ear. "If you would like to continue to
experience the pleasure of watching *Freakazoids* during its
tentative time on the air, young Brackin, I suggest you heed my
words.   If you plan to live to enjoy brandishing your remote in
the future, cease speaking of monsters in front of Ms. Julia, and
do as I say from now on. Do you understand?"


Face void of color, Pete nodded.

"Good," LaCroix stepped back, taking his eyes from the boy and
looking toward Julia and Beda. "Let us hope that Ms. Julia has
succeeded in calming young Belinda."


Sensing LaCroix was looking toward her, Julia raised her face
and glanced his way in return. She still held the girl, but
Belinda appeared more quiet now, accepting of the gentle
rocking motion Julia offered in her hold. The woman smiled,
serene, and nodded consent for LaCroix to approach.


"Storm's back," the copper-haired woman murmured as the
vampire stopped before her. "I guess we're here for awhile."
"So it would appear," LaCroix agreed, looking through the
partially open crypt doorway.


"Pete okay?" Julia asked softly, glancing toward where the boy
stood, well away from the other three.


"For the time being," LaCroix replied, observing young Brackin
for a moment. The vampire quickly turned back to Julia. "And
the girl?"


"She's coming around," Julia nodded. "I think she and Pete
were in here, telling each other ghost stories. Add that to the
obvious atmosphere of this place," Julia looked around and
gave a stage shudder, followed by a wide grin, "and it's no
wonder it had them seeing monsters."


"Especially with young Belinda already having such a superior
impression of me," LaCroix drawled, looking down at the child.
Beda returned his look, hiccupped, then pushed her head closer
to Julia's torso.


"I guess we might as well get comfortable and wait this gale
out," Julia sighed, prying Belinda off her just enough for
mobility. "Looks like the kids have some makeshift cushions
over here."


With Belinda still clinging to her, Julia moved toward the
scattered clothing and knapsacks. She paused, remembering
something, and turned to LaCroix.    "Your leg, Lucien. Is it all
right?"


"As I told you before, it was merely a scratch," LaCroix smiled.
When Julia did not look convinced, LaCroix slapped his thigh
soundly.

As he did, something louder than thunder rumbled outside.
The earth trembled below the tomb's granite flooring, then
lifted with a sluggish heave. The mausoleum seemed to be
suspended at an angle for a moment, then with shattering force,
slammed back to the earth, but not at the flat it had lay before.
It pitched forward, halting at an incline. A fault erupted within
the morter, its line streaking along the maze created by the
placement of the stone blocks.
The humans and vampire were tossed around within the crypt
like plastic toys. Belinda commenced shrieking again, flailing
her arms as her small body rolled across the floor. LaCroix fell,
sprawled across Julia. From beneath the heavy man, Sanford
grunted and struggled. "Can't breathe," was her muffled cry.


Peter had been thrown into a corner of the edifice, his body
slamming against a wall. Shaking and bruised, the boy
clambered to stand, only to lose his footing as the stone
building shifted again. The mausoleum was pushed upward,
then dropped forcefully, twisted at an angle such that the tomb
casings now hovered above the interlopers' heads.    The
movement rolled LaCroix from atop Julia and sent him
slamming into young Brackin. In fascination, LaCroix and Pete
watched as the seals overhead broke, the cement cover
crumbling, allowing the long dead occupants to begin sliding
from their resting places.


With a force which reverberated through the skulls of the living
within, the massive tree which had been uprooted outside
crashed down upon the roof of the vault, crushing it. In that
same moment, a skeleton--more dust than bones--came to rest
beside Julia. The woman turned, saw the skulled face parallel
to her, and screamed.


LaCroix struggled to a semi-standing position. Wind, rain,
loose limbs and debris of unrecognizable origin swirled around
him. He peered through the sheeting moisture until he located
Peter Brackin.


LaCroix grabbed the boy forcefully by the upper arm and lifted
him to his feet. "If you don't do as I say, we are all going to
die," LaCroix shouted. Pete nodded, too frightened of the
storm to defy the vampire. Under other circumstances, LaCroix
would have been smugly pleased, but as his own safety was in
peril at the moment, the ancient simply nodded back. "Get the
girl--forcefully if you must. We must get out of here."


Without further notice of the boy, LaCroix reached down and
bodily pulled a dazed Julia to a standing position and moved
toward what was left of the crypt opening. Pete obeyed the
vampire's instructions and caught Beda by the hand, dragging
her after the disappearing adult figures. At the doorway,
LaCroix, one arm firmly around Julia's slumped form, turned
and extended a hand toward Peter. Pete paused for a moment,
and LaCroix's eyes narrowed. "Don't be a fool, boy. We must
help each other, or we'll all die."
Eyes wide with fear and wonder, Pete reached out toward
LaCroix, placing his palm in the vampire's. LaCroix grabbed
the boy's hand tightly and pulled him hard, just managing to
drag the children outside as the mausoleum imploded into a
mass of rubble.


"What now?!!!" Pete shouted against the wind's screech as
LaCroix pulled them along through the sucking mud.   They'd
run, as well as they could, for the tree line, trying to get some
shelter from the torrent. The wind and rain continued to thrash
at them, threatening to knock them to the cloying ground.
Overhead, the limbs and branches swayed and cracked.


"We must find shelter," LaCroix replied, his own voice thrown
back into his throat. "Don't go into the forest -- it's not safe."


"No kidding," Pete said, watching as a shattered pine crown
plummeted downward, crashing a mere six yards from where
they moved.


LaCroix ignored the boy, using his limited vision to search for
some type of refuge. "You've explored these parts, Brackin. Do
you know of a cave or something of that nature?"


"A cave?" Pete shook his head in bewilderment. "We're in the
flats of Louisiana swampland. Where do you think there'd be a
cave?"


LaCroix pursed his lips, blinking water from his eyes and
scanning the landscape as he struggled to steer the party slowly
forward. "A structure, then perhaps?"


Pete shook his head.


A flash of ground lightning streaked in front of them, causing
the three mortals to shout in surprise. Beda tightened her hold
on Pete, numbing the boy's hand.


But in the burst of light, LaCroix had seen it. Almost
completely obscured in a massive covering of naked,
shoulder-high brambles and unkempt vines, was the outline of
a building. "There!" he shouted, pointing toward it.


Brush clawing at them, tearing clothing and scratching
skin, the quartet flailed their way through the muck and
growth to the structure hidden in the briars.   LaCroix's fingers
came to rest on rotten planking. He didn't bother searching for
a door, but used his fist to create an opening. LaCroix threw
Julia into the shelter, then turned for the children. Both started,
as if they would run, but the vampire grabbed them and
scowled into their faces. "Don't be foolish."


Timidly, Pete and Beda allowed themselves to be pushed
inside by the tall ancient, who quickly followed them.


****************************************


End of Part 31/64


****************************************


Stepping inside their meager shelter, LaCroix straightened and
surveyed the dim room. Nearby, Julia had slid to the floor, her
back braced against a wall. She looked dazed, but in no
immediate danger of ill health. The two children had retreated
to a far corner. They huddled together, whispering and
watching the vampire.   LaCroix snorted slightly, then chose to
ignore them, directing his attention, instead, to the sanctuary.


To say the structure was neglected was such an understatement
as to be comical.


LaCroix guessed the building to be not less than ninety years
old. It was one-story, uncharacteristic for a main residence of
its day. LaCroix assumed that it must be a home built for a
secondary child, unfit to live in the main home, destined to
inherit little else from the estate but disdain. That, or a hunting
lodge of sorts.


The room they now occupied appeared to be a parlor or sitting
room, with a sagging ceiling suspended at least twelve feet
from the floor. The textured stucco was pocked with oval
brown stains, indicating past and present leaks. Rain seeped
from several places, but the roof appeared to be relatively
sound.


The lower part of the wall was exposed, bare paneling, a
moldered gray in color.   The years of grime had soaked into
the grain, adhering to the wood like paint. Four feet from the
baseboard, a line of molding sliced horizontally along the wall.
Above the still-smooth facing, remnants of coarse wallpaper
fluttered in jagged strips, like grasping hands extending dying
fingers in imploration. The print was faded, suggestive of
flowers withered and dried on a grave.


But, even in its present state, one could tell that this home had
once held magnificence.   Just as it had once been occupied by a
curious mind.


LaCroix strolled easily across the hardwood floor, careful for
any dangerous sections. Despite some warping, the planks
were sound and held firm under the vampire's weight. Some
items of furniture were still housed here, among them several
carefully crafted rosewood chairs of French design popular in
the late 1700's. The legs were straight and sturdy, with flute
grooves carved into the surface. LaCroix smiled, remembering
that this particular style had reached its zenith during the first
excavations of the newly discovered remains of Herculaneum
and Pompeii. The vampire touched the low, medallion shaped
chairback as he walked past.


A massive Empire chest dominated one wall. Its corner posts
were reeded and its front was carved with large, detailed
designs. On closer examination, the motif itself was unusual--
not the pretty flowers and birds usually representative of the
time period. This piece had obviously been a special
commission, with the carvings depicting raptor birds
consuming carrion and nude nymphs cavorting freely with
Satyrs and other mythological beasts.


The top of the mahogany chest was marble, chipped in places,
but smooth and of rich coloring.   A number of curious items
were on its surface, including several books, metallic
instruments and a pipe stand, with a squat bulldog brier still
housed there.


LaCroix paused, giving the room another quick glance. In his
survey, LaCroix noted iron wrought candelabras, thickly coated
with tallow, shelves holding additional books and curiosities
and various animal remains mounted on the walls.   The latter
showed signs of insect infestation and were laced with spider
webs.


A soft hand on LaCroix's shoulder caused the vampire to start.
He turned, almost too swiftly, to find Julia standing before him.
"I'm sorry I flaked out so badly back in the crypt," Julia said, her
voice regretful. "I'm not usually that wimpy."


LaCroix caught her hand and squeezed it reassuringly. "There
is nothing for you to apologize for, Julia. Your reaction was
perfectly understandable. Despite the artistic beauty some
associate with the end of mortal life, death is not pretty. Why
do you think that all creatures fight so to avoid it?"



Julia sighed as LaCroix released her hand. "You're being
gallant again, Lucien, and I appreciate it, but, I really need to
shore myself up for the sake of the kids. Acting like some
heroine in a B-grade melodrama isn't helping foster their
positive attitude about all this, is it?"


LaCroix nodded in agreement and looked toward Peter and
Belinda, who were standing near a doorway, like two
frightened fawns ready to flee at the first sound of gunfire.


"Yes," he murmured, "we must remain strong for the children,
mustn't we?"


Across the room, Pete and Beda were having a less calming
conversation.


"I thought you said he couldn't come out in the daytime!" the
girl was berating the boy, her eyes fixed on the tall, dark figure
across the room.   "Well there he is, bigger than a . . ."


"Yea, yea, I know," Pete cut Beda off, his own gaze never
shifting from LaCroix. "I screwed up--my data was wrong.    So
sue me, okay? Jeesh."


"If I live, I just might," Beda said, jutting her chin, eyes blazing.
"Now we're stuck in here with him again. Where do you get
your vampire information from anyway----comic books?"


Pete gave the girl a cutting look, and Beda rolled her eyes in
mock exaggeration. "It figures," the girl spat.


Pete sighed, then he turned to Beda, his tone serious.   "Beda . . .
you can't mention vampires to Ms. Sanford, okay?"
The girl gave the boy a sullen expression.   "Why?"


"Because if you do," Pete said solemnly, "I believe he'll kill all of
us."


Beda grew thoughtful.   "What makes you think he won't
anyway, Pete?"


The boy shrugged his shoulders and looked back towards
LaCroix. "I don't know, but I think he needs us and will
put up with us as long as we don't mess with him."


"I was wondering about that," Belinda said. "Why do you think
he brought us along, rescued us almost, instead of just saving
himself?"


"Don't know," Pete replied honestly.   "Maybe it's as simple as
needing us in case he got hungry."


Belinda's eyes grew large.   "You mean he's toting us around like
a picnic basket?!!"


"Maybe, and maybe not," Pete said, running a hand through his
tousled hair and looking around. "I saw him eat a rat once.
Maybe he'll dine a-la-rodent again. There should be plenty of
them running around in this place."


"Huhhhh?" Belinda looked perplexed for a moment, then
grasping Pete's meaning, she choked. "Rats? You think this
place has RATS?!!"


"Don't get goofy on me, Rambo," Pete admonished the girl. "Of
course this place has rats . . . it's old and rotted. Rats like rot.
But," Pete looked toward the vampire again, grinning
grudgingly, "he'll shoo them off, fer sur. And," Pete grinned
down as a mollified Beda, "if he doesn't want rat for supper,
you'd probably do."


"Do what?"


"Do for dinner," Pete replied.
Belinda squelched her face in fury, small fists clenching.
"You're a jerk, Peter Brackin."


"I know, but you push me into being one." Pete replied.


A loud clap of thunder boomed from nearby, rattling the
house and startling its occupants. Julia fell against LaCroix,
and he embraced her tightly. The hint of fear flowing through
the woman's veins excited LaCroix leaned over her.   He'd
listened in on the children's conversation and knew that,
in some respects, they were correct. LaCroix felt a gnawing in
his entrails and knew that he would have to feed . . . and soon.


"You'd best go to the children," LaCroix whispered close to
Julia's ear. "If the storm is frightening to us, remember what
they must be feeling."


"Of course," Julia pushed from him and turned toward the
youngsters. She smiled. "It will give me something to focus on,
and I need that." LaCroix nodded and watched as she walked
across the room.


As Julia spoke with the children, LaCroix glanced quickly
around and made a decision.   "You three stay here," he called
to them. "I'm going to check on the other parts of the structure,
to make sure that it is sound. Don't wander off," he
commanded. "I'll be back shortly."


As LaCroix moved through the home, it became evident that
they had chosen the right section for shelter. The rear of the
structure, which had once provided the sleeping quarters, was
caved in, its wall bowed, the roof gaping. Here, the
rain-soaked wind slashed at LaCroix's face and he quickly
shut the door, moving back inward.


Toward the north front, there was a tiny kitchen area. It was
mostly storage, with ceramic wall and floor tiling. Near the
center of the room, a pot bellied store stood, its giant flue pipe
extending upward. On impulse, LaCroix flipped open the door
to the firing chamber and found remnants of a newspaper
which had been used to ignite its final blaze. The date on the
banner was still visible.


1963.
LaCroix slammed the grating shut, wondering which of his
deities was mocking him. The date, the storm--too many
coincidences. A flare of anger shot through the vampire, then
settled like burning coals in his belly. Impassive in appearance,
LaCroix stared into the void . . .


*******************


Cambodia, 1883


Deep within the darkness, a primate screamed. From LaCroix's
side, the small woman returned the cry, her imitation
shockingly accurate. There was a skittering overhead,
movement among the branches, then all was silent.


"It appears that you have won the challenge, my dear," LaCroix
said with amusement as Chantha preened with her victory.
She smiled and jumped easily onto one of the large stones,
allowing him a glimpse of the wilder nature she usually held in
check so well. Chantha spread her arms wide, her face raised
to the heavens.


"Is it not exquisite, Master?" She looked down, the vines
against her face like the frame of a perfect portrait.


"It once was, I'm sure, my dear," LaCroix looked around, then
back up at the woman, his expression tolerant. "It,
unfortunately, is a ruin now."


"Only for those without sight to see its true beauty," Chantha
rarely challenged LaCroix, but he was disparaging her
homeland. "I do not understand how you can defend its grace
to your son in one breath, then ridicule it in the next."


LaCroix shrugged. "I gave that pretty speech to Nicholas
almost a year ago, mon chere. It served my purpose at the
time. It has no purpose now."


The girl turned from him, looking further into the remains of
Angkor. She caught sight of the Wat's coned spires, only
"rediscovered" some two decades previous by the Frenchman,
Henri Mouhot.
The silence of the jungle was almost oppressive as LaCroix
waited for Chantha to speak. Her voice barely audible, she
finally asked him her question.


"Why did you bring me here, LaCroix?"


Her use of his name, instead of the more formal, respectful title
she commonly chose, did not go unnoticed by the elder
vampire. Even before he spoke, she knew the answer.


"To say goodbye, my dear."


Her eyes did not betray her with tears as she turned to study
him. "This is your wish . . . to leave me?"


"It is as it must be," LaCroix replied simply. "I could, of course,
take you with me--by force, if necessary. But where would be
the victory? I have cherished your company because you have
enjoyed mine.   To have less of you," he shook his head and
smiled thinly, "would be like eating sour fruit. I might as well
have Nicholas by my side."


Chantha laughed at this analogy. Eleven years of attending to
LaCroix's needs and whims, of listening to his discourse about
his troublesome son, had given her some insight into the
relationship between the two males. In this, LaCroix was
correct. If his decision to move on was unalterable, then it
would be best for him to go alone, rather than have a grieving
woman by his side.


"Then, Master," her tone was gentle as she extended her hands
downward to him, "let us enjoy our last night together to the
fullest."


LaCroix responded by lifting his arms to her, finding his fingers
grasping air. She had risen like a ghost into the night, her
laughter ringing through the foliage.


The elder vampire followed her, skimming above the streets,
canals and buildings leading to the ancient monastery.   She led
him over the moat, which had been designed to suggest the
oceans at the edge of the world. LaCroix hovered over the five
central towers, the peaks of Mount Meru, dwelling place of the
gods, until he sensed her. Slowly he dropped to the ancient
gateway, and passed along the paved walkway through the
three galleries which led him into the heart of the temple.
Chantha waited for him there, among the shadows of ancient
conflict carved into the walls.   She had positioned herself
before a relief of Vishnu, one of the three Hindu gods to whom
the Wat was dedicated.


For some reason, this place made LaCroix uneasy, but he could
not identify the reason. He moved toward Chantha with
precise footsteps, stopping at her side.


"Vishnu," LaCroix drawled.   "The god of preservation.   He
suits your unchangeable will. "


"Yes," Chantha replied, turning her dark eyes to him,
swallowing him whole. "I know myself, Master. My question
is, do you know yourself?"


At LaCroix's arched eyebrow, Chantha laughed easily,
extending an arm to each of the carvings flanking Vichnu.


"Brahma," she said, pointing to the figure to the left. "the
Creator. Siva," she turned to the right, "the Destroyer."


She turned slowly, facing LaCroix, her eyes confronting him.
"Do you know yourself, my Sire? Are you of Brahma or Siva?
Creator or Destroyer?"


LaCroix was quiet for a moment, then responded with the
paradox of truth. "I am a hybrid, my dear. Like Mendel's pea."


Chantha sniffed in discontent.   "You avoid my question."


"Au contraire," LaCroix replied. "I have advised you factually."
He leaned into her, overshadowing her with his presence.
"And, like the plant, I have taken the strength of my dual
natures and dominated with them."


"Are you saying that I will not survive, because I choose to
remain in my homeland?"


"Non, ma petite, you misunderstand my point," LaCroix's voice
betrayed his growing annoyance.
"And there is a point to this?" Chantha's tone abruptly became
teasing.


LaCroix sighed in exasperation. "Were that you were not so
dear to me." He reached for her, but, again, she was gone.


*****************************************


End of part 32/64


*****************************************


The rain outside slapped at the building, shaking the
foundation of the decayed structure. The sky blazed
perpetually bright with lightning that showed no sign of
ceasing.


LaCroix could sense the others, the woman and two children.
They were still in the front room, per his instructions. The
vampire allowed himself a brief smile that they had obeyed his
will.


>From the kitchen, LaCroix passed into a corridor. Like the
parlor, the wall was split one-third of the way up from the
floor, with wall covering above and bare wood below. The
paper here was not tattered, but simply worn in spots to the
point of being non-existent. What covering remained
suggested vertical stripes, thin and perhaps once green in color.
Several faces in faded oil and umber photographs, surrounded
by heavy dark frames, peered down from where they'd been
hung.


The hallway led back toward the front of the house. To his
right, LaCroix could hear the mortal sounds becoming louder
as he advanced. To the left, the interior of the home, he
detected death.


LaCroix stopped before the mantled door on his left, which led
off the hallway. He laid his hand flat on the wood and pushed.
Hinges skreighing in protest, the door began to open,
slowly . . .


***********************
Cambodia, 1883


She led him northward, her flight the course of a butterfly,
flitting just out of his reach. From time to time, her laughter
came back to him, coaxing him to quicken his speed.


A short distance from the Wat, LaCroix sensed her descent. He
followed the woman down, alighting on a well worn path. As
he strode further along the road, LaCroix found himself
walking between two sets of dark brown stone guardians, their
headdresses curved, some smiling and some frowning. On one
side were the gods, on the other, the demons. Each file held the
body of a seven-headed serpent--a naga. Their vacant, closed-
appearing eyes seemed to follow LaCroix as he passed them,
approaching the ancient city of Angkor Thom.


In front of him, almost hidden in the jungle's arms, was a
massive stone wall. Upon closer examination, LaCroix noted
an entry into the compound beyond.   Four carved faces, hard
gray dusted with green mold, guarded the gateway into
the old city. Each of the faces pointed in an opposite
direction--north, south, east and west. It was a theme repeated
throughout the Thom, their smiling faces and ornate
headdresses most prevalent on the forty-nine towers of the
Bayon. LaCroix felt uneasy, looking up at those faces, but did
not recognize a reason for his discomfort, so he did not pause.
The vampire entered the temple, knowing Chantha was within.


Like the Wat, the Bayon was a history carved in stone. Huge
reliefs depicted armies of marching men, chariots and
elephants. Tan colored foot soldiers with spears threatened to
fling themselves from the carving should anyone try
to interfere with their mission.   Amid the display of arms,
scenes of festivals and simple daily life could also be found.
LaCroix knew some of the history of this place, and ticked it off
in his mind as he walked.


After the Cham of Indochina had invaded and sacked Angkor
Wat in the late 1100's, King Jayavarman VII had decided that
the gods of Hinduism had failed him.   Jayavarman had moved
his capital to the north, building a walled city and temple in
homage to the Buddist gods.


Inside the Bayon, LaCroix paused, listening for Chantha. He
found her easily, for she did not shield herself, and followed
her into the heart of the shrine.
"Chantha," LaCroix growled as he strode along the trenched
walkway, gouged deep by the steps of long perished pilgrims.
"I grow tired of this game. You are wasting precious night."


Her laughter, just beyond, vexed him further.


At the doorway into an internal chamber, LaCroix paused, a
placid smile slowly replacing his irk.


Inside, a fresh carpet had been rolled open on the stone floor,
rimmed by a variety of ceramic dishes holding squat candles.
The soft light they cast flickered, causing the columned
Apsarases to appear to dance in life as well as in stone.


A large silver tray was at the center of the rug. It held two
gilded goblets and a large porcelain urn, which LaCroix knew
was filled with blood.


The vampire's smile deepened as he stepped fully into the
room. He realized that Chantha had sensed his restlessness,
discerned his plans to leave, and had made this journey earlier,
alone, laying out this repast for their final time together.


"Are you still annoyed, my Master?" the woman's soft voice
caressed his ear. He turned, intent on keeping his irritation
long enough to scold her, but stopped, stricken dumb, when
her image was within his view.


She had changed clothing. Gone was the simple blouse and
sarong of beige, rough silk. Now, she stood as a goddess.


Chantha moved forward, the folds of her ruby silk dress
glowing with a sheen as bright as fresh let life. The gown wove
tightly around her body, catching each curve. Her slender arms
emerged from capped sleeves, the shoulders tipping upward to
a curved point. Draped diagonally from her shoulder to her
waist, Chantha wore a black sash, studded with gold, precious
stones and embroidered stitching.


She had unbraided her long hair, pulling it back into a single,
flowing mane.   Atop her head, she'd placed a three-tiered
crown.
LaCroix swallowed hard, unable to speak. If she recognized
the reason he'd lost his tongue, Chantha discreetly gave no hint
of her knowledge.


"Are you still annoyed, Lucien?" she repeated, moving toward
him. The lilt of her voice was heady, dulling his mind like a
drug. She stopped some three feet before him, her head
slightly bowed, her dark lashes shielding her eyes.


"Non," LaCroix found his voice, his words husky.   "All I feel
now is . . . desire."


************************************
"Find anything interesting?" Julia said, her voice near LaCroix's
shoulder.


He did not turn at her arrival, but simply paused in his
movement. "I thought I advised you to remain in the other
room."


"Advise? It sounded more like a *command* to me," Julia
sniffed, trying to see through the crack the partially opened
door formed. "I'm over my *shrinking-violet* stage now, so
when the kids heard you rummaging around outside, I figured
I'd come check. Forgive me?"


LaCroix ignored her platitudes, choosing instead to maintain
his concentration on the ajar doorway.   The air thickened as he
moved to open the door further.


"Ms. Julia?" Belinda's high voice called from up the hall. "Is
everything . . .?" the child's speech abruptly halted upon seeing
the vampire standing by the woman.


"A-okay, Beda," Julia smiled reassuringly. She turned to
LaCroix.   "It is, isn't it?" she asked, her voice low.


"The rear of the structure is uninhabitable," LaCroix remarked,
deciding it would be best to deal with the woman's questions
before proceeding. "The exit door from the parlor leading to
the rear opened into a small diamond shaped passage. One
door lead to the sleeping quarters, which have collapsed."
"Oooooooo." Beda had ventured a step closer, her curiosity
outweighing her fear. LaCroix cut his eyes at the girl briefly.


"The second door opened into a food preparation area. That
room is fairly intact. From there, another door opened into this
passage, separating the south side of the home," LaCroix tilted
his head toward the outer parlor wall, "from the internal area,
which I was just about to explore when you . . . ladies . . .
arrived." LaCroix offered Belinda a slight sneer then smiled
innocently at Julia.


"So you haven't been in there yet?" Julia said, her attention fully
on the doorway where LaCroix's hand rested.


"Non," LaCroix replied absently.


Julia grinned. "Well, what say we check it out?" the woman
said, then her voice lowered slightly, "but if you keep speaking
French to me, I can't be held liable for my actions, you
understand?"


The vampire quirked an eyebrow, as if he did not understand
her meaning.


"Pheeeewwwww, something smells," Beda's tinny voice
interrupted their interplay. LaCroix looked down, surprised by
the child's closeness.   He smiled despite himself.


"An astute observation, Ms. Rambo," the ancient remarked.
"Can you identify the foul odor?"


Belinda looked up in surprise, partially at the proximity she
had willingly allowed herself to come to the fiend and partially
because of the almost amicable tone in his question.


"Errrrr, I don't know," the child shrugged, edging back just
slightly, her curiosity still high.   She sniffed the air and
wrinkled her nose. "It sure does smell old, though."


"Yes," LaCroix agreed, amused by the child's desire and
willfulness battling her obvious fear of him. "I believe the
dictionary would refer to it as -- 'mustiness.'"
While Belinda mouthed her new vocabulary word, the vampire
eased the door open, exposing the dank darkness within.
While Julia and Beda strained to see inside, LaCroix's expert
vision quickly scanned the room.


"Hey."   The two females jumped as Peter Brackin walked up.


"I was wondering when you'd choose to join us, Mr. Brackin,"
LaCroix said drolly.


"I had to . . . take care of some business," Pete said evasively,
his cheeks coloring slightly.


"He had to go pee," Beda clarified. Pete glared at the girl, his
face reddening further. The girl ignored him. "Mr. LaCroix . . .
did you find a bathroom in here?"


Taken aback, LaCroix looked down at the child.   Then, he
shook his head.   "If the structure was ever equipped with
indoor facilities, Ms. Rambo, I suspect they were rendered
useless when the rear of the home fell in."


"I guess this means we'll have to rough it, huhh, Ms. Julia?"
Belinda sighed, her face wistful.


"Seems so," Julia nodded.   "Want me to go with you?"


Another strong clap of thunder resounded outside, causing the
house to tremor.   "Please," Beda smiled up gratefully.


"Come on, kid, let's go find us a powder room," Julia said,
taking the little girl's hand. The woman looked at LaCroix and
turned down the hall in the direction he'd come. "Kitchen safe,
you say?" LaCroix nodded and the two females moved away,
disappearing behind the closed door.


Leaving LaCroix and Peter Brackin alone.


The vampire sneered slightly at the boy.


"If you fright easily, young Brackin, I suggest you run -- *now*"
************************************


End of Part 33/64


************************************


Pete had been trying to see into the darkness of the musty room
when LaCroix's words of warning were spoken. The boy
looked up and recoiled slightly, his mind racing with possible
meanings.


LaCroix became aloof again, returning his attention to the
shadowy interior.   "There's something unpleasant in there."


"Oh . . ." Pete released his held breath with a deep breath of
relief. LaCroix's eyes creased, but his amusement did not play
across his features. The boy reddened, his voice faltering
slightly. "I thought . . ."


"That I might be planning mayhem?" LaCroix looked down at
Peter, his eyes twinkling now. Pete blinked in confusion,
and when his vision cleared, the vampire's face was carefully
neutral again. LaCroix faced the door.


"You can actually *see* in there?" Pete asked, deciding that
changing the subject was the bright thing to do, considering . . .


"Yes," LaCroix replied as he finished pushing the door open.


"So the night vision thing . . . that's fact, huhh?" Pete said,
squinting into the dim room.


"When one partakes of a balanced diet, yes," LaCroix's voice
was mocking, and Pete realized he'd been just a bit too familiar.
The boy stepped back quickly, not seeing LaCroix's quick
smirk.


As the door finished its passage, a waft of long contained air
emptied from the room. The force of the staleness struck Pete,
causing the boy to balk.   "Damn, what died in there?"
"Like Ms. Rambo, you have a keen sense of olfactory
observation, Mr. Brackin. Something indeed has *died* in this
room."


The short hairs on Pete's neck prickled as LaCroix moved
across the threshold, disappearing into the dank room.


Pete followed the vampire inside.   The boy sensed more than
saw the vampire move across the room, a shadow against
darker shades. With the slight light from the hallway barely
helping, Pete's eyes gradually adjusted and, with sight, the
boy's intake of breath sharpened.


The room was rectangular and windowless. It might have been
designed to be a dining room, but the only thing remotely
suggesting this use was the large table at its center. There were
also tables, of all sizes, along each wall, interspersed with
shelves, file cabinets, rolling carts and a desk.   Instruments,
medical and mechanical, were everywhere, as was a clutter of
paper and books, wires and tubing. It was a maze and a
workshop, a cornucopia which would delight the mad scientist
in most every child.


Pete looked around in wonder. A sink had been installed at
one end of the room, with a low counter to one side and
a small utility door on the opposite. LaCroix had stationed
himself near the water source, and was examining something
on the center table.    Pete walked around the room, skirting the
table, intent on seeing what had drawn the vampire's attention.


A metal folding chair was pushed against the table, covered by
what looked like rotted pieces of cloth. A pile of rubble, half on
the table and half on the chair's back, was discernible. To the
side of the brownish mass was what appeared to be a slip of
plastic, the size of a soup bowl, with yellow-stained plastic
tubing extending from it.


"What is it?" Pete said, wrinkling his nose.


"I would surmise that *it* is the former occupant." LaCroix
reached down and brushed aside the debris, exposing the
chalky surface of a skull.


Pete stood rooted, staring at what he now recognized as an
emaciated cadaver. The boy wanted to puke, wanted to run out
of the room as fast as his legs would allow, but he'd be damned
if he'd give the vampire the satisfaction.


"Wha . . . what do you think happened to him?" Pete choked
down the bile, his voice unsteady.


LaCroix had watched the boy's reaction, listening to his
quickening heartbeat with interest. "He died," LaCroix replied.


Pete gave the tall being a quick, irritated look. "Like, I can tell
he died. How? What happened, and why is he in here?"


"I'm not a mystic, Mr. Brackin," LaCroix chided. "But, I can
assume from making some observations, that our companion
was not a popular personage among his peers."


"What makes you say that?" Pete, over his initial fright, was
examining the corpse with new interest.


"The room we first occupied, Mr. Brackin, did you notice the
windows?"


"Windows?" Pete looked confused.   "I don't remember . . ."


"They were boarded, Brackin. Nailed shut." LaCroix's voice
grew impatient.   "What little remained of the glass panes was
broken, shattered."


"Oh," Pete said, giving a cursory glance in the direction of the
other room.


"The windows had been vandalized, Brackin," LaCroix
lectured.   "Projectiles had been hurled at this home by those
bearing ill will or, at the least, lack of manners."


"Huhh?" Pete said, perplexed.


"Someone threw stones at the house," LaCroix simplified.
"I believe that would be a fair indication that our friend was
disliked or feared, perhaps both." A brief thought flickered
through the vampire's mind, but LaCroix quickly pushed it
aside, continuing. "So, he died, alone and unclaimed. A
hermit that no one missed, or, if they did, he was of no concern
to them."


"Oh." Pete looked back at the body.    "How long has he been
dead?"


"I would venture to guess, based on decomposition and the
state of this room, perhaps thirty odd years," LaCroix said,
nodding at his estimation.


"Can you tell what killed him?" Pete asked.   The boy reached
out, tentatively touching one of the corpse's shoulders. It
disintegrated like an ashy cinder at his finger's contact, and
Pete pulled back quickly.


"Not without the services of a coroner," LaCroix said, suddenly
amused with himself, then his voice changed, becoming oddly
soft.   "Sadly, I don't hold the acquaintance of one any longer."


"What's that on his . . . face?"


LaCroix looked at the pile of plastic covering the mouth orifice
of the skull. "It appears to be a *mask* of sorts, " LaCroix
decided.


His eyes followed the extended tubing, searching for a possible
source.   The plastic pipe stretched down from the table surface
at an arc, going under it. The other end of the tubing was
attached to a large, red cylinder with a metal wheel at its
spigot.


"Oxygen?"   Pete asked, staring at the tank.


"Perhaps," LaCroix allowed, "but I would surmise that oxygen
would be too ordinary a compound for our friend to be using."
The ancient reached down, wiping the surface of the receptacle.
He quickly uncovered a label, and, upon reading it, his
eyebrows lifted in some surprise. Then, a slow smile spread
across LaCroix's lips.


"What?" Pete asked urgently.


LaCroix turned to the boy, his amusement undisguised.
"Oxygen," he said simply.
Pete looked stunned for a moment, then the boy began to
laugh. LaCroix chuckled, encouraging Pete to exhibit increased
jolity.


"What's so funny?" Belinda's annoyed voice questioned from
the doorway.


Pete jumped, turning quickly toward the girl.      "Don't come in
here!" he hissed.


"Why?" Beda asked, advancing defiantly.


"Because there's a dead body in here!" Pete replied.


Beda stopped, uncertain. "Really?" She had not yet become
accustomed to the new darkness and stared across the room,
skeptically.


"Yep," Pete nodded.     "Old dead guy.    Really gross."


Belinda tilted her head.    "What's he doing in here?"


"You're not very observant are you?" Pete reprimanded the girl.
"Didn't you notice that someone had boarded up the windows
in the other room because someone threw rocks through the
windows?" When Beda turned around to look toward the other
room, LaCroix caught the boy's attention, raising an eyebrow.
Pete shrugged and grinned.


"Yea," Beda said, looking back toward Pete, "I noticed.        So
what?"


"So . . . this guy died and no one ever found him. Been in here,
decaying, for almost a hundred years or so." LaCroix turned
his face so that the children couldn't see, holding his laughter in
check by sheer will.


Beda frowned. "Yuck."


"Yeah," Pete nodded.    "Major Yuck.     Where's Ms. Julia?"
Beda looked back down the hall.    "She's still checking out the
kitchen."


"You better go back and keep her there until we can . . . get rid
of it," Pete suggested. "You know how scared she was of the
one in the crypt back there."


Belinda stared at Pete, curious.   "Are you trying to get rid of
me?"


LaCroix looked expectantly at Peter Brackin. Pete shrugged
and addressed the girl. "I was just thinking of Ms. Julia.     If you
want her all upset again, then . . ."


"Okay, okay," Belinda agreed grudgingly. "I'll go back to the
kitchen, but only after I see the body. Okay?"


"Okay," Pete agreed.


The red-haired girl came forward slowly, studying the mass of
clothing and debris which had been identified to her as a body.
"Doesn't look like much, does it?"


Pete, quick and quiet, moved into position behind the girl.

"It's not all that scary," Belinda concluded, her eyes never
leaving the corpse.


"No . . . not until it does this!" Pete shouted, poking his fingers
into the other child's ribs. Belinda shrieked, causing LaCroix to
fall back, his expression now one of mild annoyance.


"PETER BRACKIN!!!"   Belinda screamed, turning and striking
at the boy.


Pete stepped back, avoiding the blow and laughing heartily.
Then he sobered. "Go find Ms. Julia and keep her occupied,
Belinda. I'll get rid of the body."


The girl quieted. "Okay," she said, giving the cadaver a last
look. "It's not much anyway, except a gob of bleh." Beda
shivered and stalked away.


When Belinda had left the room, LaCroix turned on Pete. "Was
it necessary to irk the child to a vocal display, Mr. Brackin?"


"I like to tease her," Pete said.   "I like to see her jump."


"Well, I, for one, would appreciate it if you would refrain from
prodding her henceforth, if you intend on retaining a future,"
LaCroix warned. Then the ancient turned from the properly
repentant-looking boy and gave his full attention to the body.
"I do agree with your hypothesis that it would be best to
dispose of the remains before we continue our examination of
this room. Judging from the sound of the storm outside, there
is a good chance that we will be here for sometime, and this
internal part of the structure may be our soundest choice for
safe refuge. Sharing it with our scholarly friend, here,
as you pointed out, might not set well with the ladies. Search
the room and see if you can locate something to put him in."


"Like what?" Pete looked around the room, perplexed.


"A box--it wouldn't have to be too large, judging from the
decomposition.   One about the size of a small chest should do."


"What about the longer bones?" Pete persisted, staring down at
the legs of the corpse.


"We'll just throw them into one of the cabinets," LaCroix
replied, his eyes darting along the shelf tops. "Ahah." He
reached up and lifted down an old cardboard filing box. "This
should do nicely." LaCroix quickly dumped the paper
clippings and file folders into the center of the table and
began scooping the mortal's remains into the receptacle. "Get
the femurs, boy.   Bring them along."


Pete, expression disgusted, did as he was told, grabbing the
lower part of the corpse and following LaCroix. The vampire
opened the front panels of a metal bureau and quickly stuffed
the remains inside.


"There, all neat and tidy again," LaCroix said, brushing his
hands as he straightened. Pete did not respond, and LaCroix
noticed that the child's attention had been captured by
something else.   Peter Brackin's eyes were wide in wonder.
LaCroix followed the boy's look and, like the child, found
himself staring in amazement.


Tacked to the surface, barely visible under the years of grit, was
a playbill advertisement for an upcoming movie house
attraction. The actor gracing it tattered surface had slicked
black hair, phosphorescent eyes and prop fangs
protruding from his mouth. The word *Dracula* in large,
wavering red lettering was still legible.


But, while the poster captivated young Brackin, LaCroix was
much more interested by an object lying on a shelf near the
playbill. Though tarnished by age, the silver bracelet's intricate
carving was still discernable.


Especially, as it matched the motif of LaCroix's ring.


*****************************************

End of Part 34/64


*****************************************


The small, choking sound that Peter made shook LaCroix from
his reverie. The boy's eyes were fixed on the poster, bulging
slightly.


In one swift motion, the vampire reached forward, grabbing the
bracelet and discreetly slipping it into his pocket. Then, his
hand moved toward the playbill, catching it by a tacked end,
prepared to rip it from the wall.


"Don't!" the boy's voice was a tense blend of command and
pleading.   LaCroix paused.


"Why are you fixated with such rubbish?" the ancient hissed.
"It's an obscene mockery designed to titillate.   Perhaps you find
some perverse pleasure in such things, but why risk rousing
young Belinda's passions again? Listen to the blow outside and
think of the girl. Our situation is perilous enough without a
constant reminder of *fearsome vampires* lurking in every
corner."


Pete blinked in surprise at LaCroix's outburst.   "I wasn't even
thinking about . . . you," Pete said, finishing his sentence with a
voice so low that LaCroix could barely hear it above the wind.


"Then why leave it pasted to the wall?" LaCroix questioned.


"It . . . it . . . it's one of my    . . . Dad's," Pete blurted out, his
voice near tears.


LaCroix turned, now genuinely interested. He perused the
poster and returned his attention to the boy.


"I see no resemblance between this actor and your . . ."


"Not the actor!" Pete explained.    "It's one of the movies that my
Dad produced."


LaCroix looked back at the poster, quickly scanning the credits.
There, listed as Executive Producer, was the name: Aaron
Brackin.   Underneath it was the name Walter Brackin, listed as
Associate Producer. The vampire turned to the boy, eyes
glittering with amusement.


"Your *father* made B-grade horror *flicks*?" LaCroix could
barely contain his laughter.


Pete stiffened, tears immediately squelched.    "What's so damn
funny about that?" the boy snapped.


"It better explains your fascination with things best left alone,"
LaCroix muttered.    "And," he leaned closer, smiling so that his
teeth were visible, "adds further credence to my explanation of
events, by pointing out your over-active imagination, should
you try to expose me."


Pete's eyes widened with understanding.


"Now, if nothing else, I believe we should remove this from
plain view, so as not to further disturb Ms. Rambo," LaCroix
remarked, looking at the poster.   "And, in deference to its
historical merit regarding yourself, I believe it would be
acceptable to preserve it for your future amusement."
Without waiting for Pete's response, LaCroix reached up and
carefully untacked the poster. It was brittle, but LaCroix
managed to roll it loosely.

He handed the cylinder to Pete. "Why not tuck it away, Mr.
Brackin? It should fit in the same compartment where we
placed the previous owner, don't you agree?"


Pete accepted the rolled poster and nodded. He opened the
cabinet door and put the paper inside. LaCroix watched the
boy. When Peter's back was turned, the vampire reached
inside his pocket and touched the bracelet cradled there.


"Historical merit," LaCroix murmured, his thoughts drifting.


**********************
Cambodia, 1883


LaCroix reached for Chantha, but the female anticipated his
move and stepped away, quickly. Head still bowed, she circled
her sire, watching him through veiled eyes.


"Desire, my master," she laughed gently.   "What is it you
desire?"


LaCroix stood rigid, not turning to follow her orbit. "I'm sure
that you are capable of surmising that answer, my dear," he
replied dryly.


Chantha reached out, stroking two scarlet fingertips across his
cheek in a rapid gesture.


"But I so enjoy the sound of your voice, Master," she cooed.
"Tell me your desires."


LaCroix made no response, silently watching as she moved
from his peripheral to his full vision. When he did not reach
for her hand, Chantha moved it to LaCroix's other cheek,
caressing the pale flesh, her fingers lingering at the corner of
his mouth. Involuntarily, his tongue darted to touch them, and
she pulled away quickly, laughing.


LaCroix glowered at the female.
Chantha's expression changed to a pout. "Oh . . . you are
perturbed at me.   Upset because you cannot possess and
control."


"Rubbish," the ancient replied. "I am simply irritated by your
games and wasting of precious time . . ."


"Rubbish," she mocked him, her dark eyes suddenly hard.
"Time is of no consequence to creatures such as us.   Do you
have a boat waiting? Then, let it wait . . . or catch another on
morrow evening.   Do you fear the sun will find you deep
within these walls? Fear not, my master, for I have been
here before and I can assure you that not a ray filters through
around the edges of these stones."


Chantha's voice lost its edge, growing softer, as did her eyes.
"Lucien," she breathed, "your annoyance with me . . . it is just
your practiced way of obtaining what you think you want . . .
on your terms.   Absolute submission to your control is the only
means by which you choose to affirm loyalty and affection
shown you. You are so frightened of shedding that
self-possessed mantle that you wrap yourself so tightly in . . ."


"Be careful, my dear," LaCroix warned, his face frozen, his eyes
hot.


". . . that you won't allow anyone to seek closeness, without the
barrier keeping them away." Chantha stepped toward him, her
passion giving her bravery. "Is it really so inconceivable to you
to accept that one might simply seek your company because of
caring? That there might be an ecstasy for you in freedom not
obtainable by the route of control?"


"From Nicholas, I would have expected this speech," LaCroix
said evenly, his voice low.   "But from you? You cannot begin
to understand the liberties I have granted you. I have given
you free rein to explore your nature, uninhibited by my
constant presence. I have 'trusted' you, like I have trusted few
of my children, to know and be true to yourself. And, this is
my reward? Your pettiness and accusations of control?"


LaCroix moved away from the woman, snarling to himself.
"And, what you consider *control*, I prefer to call
self-preservation. I have not survived for almost two-thousand
years by giving into whimsy each time it suited me."
LaCroix looked steadily at the woman, his vocal volume
slightly raised, his words carefully enunciated.     "I have
*never* asked of my offspring *anything* which I was not
willing to give of myself, Chantha. That is why your
whimpering irks me so."


The ancient masked, his eyes looking at her, but hidden. "And,
I fail to see its significance in this case. Why are you stabbing at
me so, woman? I am giving you complete freedom."


"You give me nothing," Chantha said softly. "You take. You
are taking away yourself."    She moved to stand in front of him,
staring him full in the face. As he watched, she allowed a
single tear to fall from the corner of one eye. "I understand
your conflict, my master. As you know, I too raised a barrier
around myself. It was my source of safety which allowed me to
survive the tortures inflicted on me during my mortal
existence. Although the thought frightens me, I am willing to
drop my guard this one night, my master. Are you? Are you
willing to simply embrace me, love me, make love to me . . .
without all the self-imposed restrictions you have chained us
with?"


LaCroix looked genuinely confused.   "I don't understand . . ."


"Then," she said softly, moving away, "let me explain."


Somewhere within the chamber, a gong struck, startling
LaCroix. He quickly listened and found what he sought--four
human heartbeats some hundred yards away, tucked within a
stone alcove.


"They are musicians hired by me," Chantha explained,
positioning herself discreetly between the elder vampire and
the humans, lest he decide to dispose of them . . . too quickly.
"A gift to you . . . on our last night together."


"I seek no gift, except your company . . ." LaCroix began, but
her dour look stopped him.


"Again . . . you must always have *your* way," she sighed.
"Cannot you simply accept what I desire to give you? Is it
really so difficult for you?"
LaCroix was silent a moment, but then he smiled.   "Yes," he
said.


The small woman sighed again, but her bearing told LaCroix
that she was amused by his reply.    With the speed and ferocity
of a panther, she was against him, attached to his chest.   She
crushed her lips to his, and positioned her weight to force him
down to the floor. LaCroix allowed the assault and found
himself sprawled on the rug, his body held captive by
the savagery of her caresses.


Then she was off him again, gliding away like a apparition.
Frustrated, he sought to rise and follow her, but she turned and
planted a small foot firmly in his chest, pushing him back down
into a sitting position.


"If you arise from that spot," she warned, "I will vanish."


LaCroix sat back, waiting.


The gong rang again, soon joined by the strains of a bamboo
flute and a rattling of brass bells. The strings of a sitar
reverberated and merged with the notes. Chantha walked
toward the temple altar, then turned back, facing her sire.


"You are familiar with the folk myth of Mekhala, my master?"
she said.


"Vaguely," LaCroix acknowledged with a nod.


"It is the tale of the eternal contest between a ghost and a witch
. . . Ream Eysaur and Mekhala." Chantha's eyes gleamed with
secret delight as she began a verbal oration of the story. "Both
the demon and the sorceress served a magical and powerful
hermit, using their time with him to learn his spells.   Both were
bright and talented and worked hard to please their teacher,
who cared for both pupils equally. Once his apprentices were
trained, the hermit decided to test them, to find which was the
more intelligent and worthy to succeed him. He gave them a
task, saying, 'Whichever of you can bring me the first glassful
of morning dew, I will make that dew into a keo monorea--a
magic crystal ball--and with the possession of that ball, the
owner can have everything he or she wishes."


"And you accused me of being controlling," LaCroix quipped,
but hushed at her glance.


"To many, Ream Eysaur and Mekhala represent thunder and
lightning," Chantha continued. "Rain, you see, is necessary for
the prosperity of the people. That is why the demon and the
sorceress are so important. For others, the rite is one of
fertility," she paused, giving LaCroix a long, hungry look.
"Ream Eysaur pursues Mekhala, the chaste maiden, leaving
the male exhausted, while the female continues on her way."


"Not all males would be so exhausted that they would let the
female escape," LaCroix countered, his eyes smoldering with
promise.


Chantha laughed, then grew serious. "I am Mani Mekhala," she
said, assuming a posture of such grace that LaCroix's breath
caught in his throat.   "I am the Goddess of the Waters. My
palace lies beneath the sea." She lifted a delicate hand,
displaying a small clear, polished stone held in the crux of her
thumb and forefinger. "This night, I face the wrath of my
brother, my lover, Ream Eysaur, the Storm Spirit. Our struggle
begins as I leave my home to attend the Abode of the Gods."


The music rose as Chantha knelt, in regal court pose, in front of
LaCroix. She faced east, her arms outstretched straight, her
legs lifted at the knees, parallel to her back. No further words
were spoken as she began the dance, and LaCroix fell into the
rhythm of its story.


Chantha, as Mekhala, was on a platform, in her watery palace,
preparing for her annual pilgrimage to honor the King of the
Divinities. With a quick movement, the female turned to the
right, emulating a preparation for flight. She extended her left
arm three times, conjuring up the magic powers which would
allow her to do so.


Then, the woman rose, assuming a flying position. She stood
on one leg, grasping her other limb behind her back, almost
touching her body. The movement gave the impression of a
soaring motion as she seemed to effortlessly lift herself into the
air.


But only to fly a short distance before her travel was
interrupted. Her dance being solo, Chantha alerted LaCroix to
the demon's arrival by a shocked look on her pale face and a
raised hand in his direction.
"I am Ream Eysaur?" LaCroix asked, raising an eyebrow.


Chantha smiled gently.   "Only if you are willing to allow me to
win," she replied.


The music washed over them in a fierce crescendo as LaCroix
considered her demand.


*********************************


End of Part 35/64


*********************************


"So, where'd you put the dead guy?" Belinda's tinny voice
brought LaCroix coldly back to the present.   The child was
standing in the darkened doorway, peering in intently.


"He disintegrated when we tried to move him," Pete advised
the girl.


Belinda wrinkled her nose.   "Yuck."


"Double yuck," Pete agreed, moving away from the corpse's
hiding place.


"Must you murder the English language by continuing your use
of *slang?*" LaCroix frowned at both children.


"What are you . . . some kind of *teacher*?" Belinda said,
cocking her head and mirroring LaCroix's expression. The
vampire's frown deepened.


"Yea," Pete chimed in. "What's the matter with *yuck*?"
LaCroix turned and gave the boy a chilling look.


"Yuck, yuck, yuck," Belinda repeated quickly.


"You sound like one of the Stooges," Pete grinned as he walked
up to the girl.    Before she could react, Pete grabbed her neck
in the crook of his arm and began rubbing her scalp with his
knuckles.   "Woowoowoowoowoo."


"STOP IT!!" Belinda shrieked through her giggles. LaCroix
heaved a heavy sigh.  He moved toward the door, shaking his
head.


The children froze, Pete concurrently releasing his hold on
Belinda. "Where ya goin'?" the boy asked, his voice suddenly
serious.


"I find myself in desperate need of adult company," LaCroix
replied, giving the children a dismissive glance. "I'm going into
the cooking area to speak with Ms. Julia. I hope, during our
absence, that you will use your time wisely and tidy up this
area," LaCroix glanced around the room, "as it will most likely
be our point of dwelling while we wait out the storm."


"How come?" Pete asked, while Beda looked around.


"As I explained," LaCroix turned and addressed the children
patiently, "the room where we first entered is open to the
elements, due to the makeshift portal I created in our need to
get inside. The back portion of the house is collapsed and the
kitchen will most likely be the next area to fall, due to its
being on the north side of the house and taking the brunt of the
storm."


Beda frowned.   "And you think we talk funny.   Jeesh."


LaCroix sighed again, turning once more to leave the room.
"Just clean things up, all right?" Then he was gone.


With LaCroix gone, Pete quickly moved to assume control.
"You heard him, kid. Get this place cleaned up."


Beda placed her hands on her hips, her posture staunch.    "Get
real," she sneered.


"Aren't you afraid of making him mad?" Pete asked, changing
his tactic. Belinda took the bait, sobering instantly.
"Gee," the little girl shivered, "I almost forgot.   Most of the time
he just seems like any other grownup."


"I know," Pete agreed, "but trust me. He ain't like no grownup
we know. And," the boy's eyes narrowed, "if you don't do what
he says, he might just bite you."


"Okay, okay," Belinda capitulated, then glared at the boy, "but
he told *both* of us to clean up. So, if you don't help me, I'm
telling."


"Yea, yea, yea," Pete responded, giving in reluctantly.   "You see
if you can find a broom, and I'll get some dust rags."


"Okay," Belinda said perkily, and skipped off in search of
cleaning tools.


"Brat," Pete muttered under his breath, but he began looking
around for cleaning cloths. He opened several cabinet
drawers and soon found one containing old towels. When he
lifted them out, some were dry rotted, but many were still
viable. Pete tossed the unusable ones into an elderly trash
container and began wiping surfaces with one of the others.


>From the other side of the room, Belinda announced her failure
to find a broom. "No luck," she chirped.


"Check the little closet over there," Pete pointed toward the
inset near the sink. Belinda walked over, opened it and
whistled sharply.


"What?" Pete looked up, interested.


"Come see," Beda said, her eyes growing wider as she surveyed
the closet contents.


Pete didn't much care to show Beda any interest in her find, so
his actions were almost reluctant as he walked over to her side.
He peered over the child's shoulder and gasped.


"Oh, WOW!" Pete said, his eyes and mouth forming circles.
Inside the closet, along with the sought broom, was a crippled
mop and a metal dust pan. There were three shelves within,
two laden with old cleaning supplies. The third, the bottom
shelf, held one huge cardboard box, its corrugated edges
sodden and pealing. It was the contents of the box which held
the children in awe.


Inside the container was a pile of carefully sharpened
whitewood stakes and a wooden mallet, its surfaces curled
from much usage. A large, ornate crucifix was nestled there,
also, its brass trim glinting yellow in the subdued lighting.


"Oh, Jees . . ." Beda began, but Pete quickly clamped his hand
over the child's mouth. He grabbed the broom, and pulled
Belinda back, slamming the closet door shut with his foot.


"Don't scream or start cursing," Pete instructed the child,
searching her eyes for agreement. Her responding look was
cold, but she nodded. Pete released his grip on her mouth.


"What did you do that for?" Belinda sputtered as she caught her
breath.


"Because I didn't want him to hear and come in here and find
that stuff. He'd probably get pissed. He's quiet right now, so
let's just keep it that way, okay?"


"Okay, okay," Belinda snapped, regaining her composure. She
ran a hand through her hair and looked back toward the closet.
"What is that stuff *doing* in there?"


Pete shrugged. "Maybe the guy who lived here knew about
vampires, too." Pete remembered the poster tacked on the wall.
"That would make sense."


"What would?" Belinda looked at Pete, suspicious.


"That, if the guy knew about vampires, he'd have stuff to kill
them with," Pete replied.


"Oh," Beda looked worried.


"Look, you've got to be cool about this, Beda," Pete said quickly.
"You can't let him know that we know that stuff is in there.
And, we can't let him find it, either. If things get hairy, and he
gets mean, we might need that stuff, okay?"


Beda didn't answer right away, but finally nodded.   "Okay."


"Okay," Pete breathed out harshly. "Now, let's try and keep
him happy and clean up a little, okay?"


"Okay." Belinda took the broom and attempted to sweep it
across the floor. The straw crumbled like raw, dry spaghetti,
leaving bits of thatch littering the surface. "It's rotten," the girl
complained.


"This whole *thing* is rotten," Pete snapped, "but we're
stuck here, so let's make the best of it until we can escape."


"When will that be?" Beda whined, stabbing the floor with the
broom.


"I wish I knew," Pete replied, listening as the wind sharpened
its howling push against the little house. "I just wish I knew."


**************************************


LaCroix entered the kitchen, looked around and quickly located
Julia. She was squatting near the far wall, inspecting the
contents of a lower cupboard.


"What are you searching for?" he asked, walking up to her.


"Food," she replied simply. "I know the kids must be hungry,
and my stomach is rumbling as well. I know it's a longshot, but
I thought something might have survived the years here."


"Has your investigation been successful?" LaCroix asked.


"So far, no," the woman replied. She reached inside the pantry
and extracted a metal can, its label faded with age. One end
bulged, seeping putrification. Julia sighed, replaced the can
and stood up.    "Anyone for take-out?" she quipped.
LaCroix's eyes strayed momentarily to the woman's pulsing
jugular vein.


Julia stooped at another cupboard and opened the door. Her
fingers played across another selection of canned goods, until
she settled on one. She pulled the orange and brown papered
tin from the cabinet and examined it more closely. "This one is
intact," she commented. Julia looked up and grinned brightly
at LaCroix. "How do you feel about beans?"


"I understand they cause gastronomical problems," LaCroix
replied, stepping back as Julia rose.


She ignored him, looking around the room. "Now, I just need
something to open it with."   Julia walked over to a counter,
placed the can on the surface and opened a drawer. "Ah hah!"
she announced in triumph, pulling a discolored can opener
from the drawer. Julia pierced the can with the sharpened
hook. The pressured contents hissed slightly, but did not
bubble or spew. Julia rotated the opener's mechanism, prying
the can's lid off with little effort. The woman lifted the tin to
her nose and sniffed.


"Do you think they smell okay?" Julia thrust the can toward
LaCroix. The vampire looked at the legumes, floating slowly in
a thick tomato-base liquid. Their spongy whiteness and
pungent scent repulsed him.


"I'm sure the children will find them . . . yummy," LaCroix
replied, making a smacking noise.


"Beggers can't be choosers," Julia reminded him, lifting a spoon
from the still open drawer. The spoon was stainless and looked
in good repair. "I just hope this doesn't poison us all."


"That would be a waste," LaCroix agreed.


Julia gave him a chastising look, then headed toward the door,
the vampire following.


His eyes once again sought the curve of her throat.


***************************
End of Part 36/64


***************************


When Julia arrived at the door of the center room, she was
surprised to find the children inside, busily straightening up.


"My goodness, this is nice," Julia said brightly, giving Pete and
Beda a warm look of approval. "You've got it looking much
better."


"Thanks," the kids said in unison.


"I found some dinner, if you all want to try it," Julia said,
placing the beans on the table. "But," she warned, "I have to tell
you that they might be tainted. If they don't taste good, spit
them out, okay?"


The boy and girl nodded. Until Julia placed the beans on the
table, neither of them had let themselves think about how
hungry they really were. Now, the spicy scent wafted to their
nostrils, making them salivate.


At that moment, LaCroix stepped into the room.   The hungry
children looked up, their mouths drying.


"Lucien," Julia said, turning toward the vampire. "I have a
feeling we'll need some water, either to wash our dinner down


or wash out our mouths if this stuff tastes bad." She gave
LaCroix a pleading look. "Can you stick one of these glass
beakers outside and fill it up for us?"


LaCroix looked taken aback for a moment, then smiled. "I
suppose, Julia, that I might be persuaded to perform that task,
but I shall expect recompense in the future."


"But of course," Julia smiled back.   "I have a feeling that it
would be my pleasure."


"I certainly hope so," LaCroix said, taking one of the more intact
glass containers from a nearby shelf. "And, as I do not care to
consume any of those *beans,* please feel free to start your
supper without me." He offered Julia an almost regal salute,
then smiled wickedly at the children before vanishing out the
door.


Julia sighed and turned her attention toward the bean can.
"We're sure lucky he's here with us. He makes me feel a lot
safer."


Belinda and Pete exchanged a disbelieving look.


"Ms. Julia . . ." Beda began, but Pete elbowed her ribs, causing
the girl to grunt, swallowing her words. She turned viciously
on the boy. Pete shook his head fiercely, two fingers clasped to
his lips. Unhappily, Beda stilled.


Just outside the door, LaCroix smiled to himself. Satisfied that
the children would keep silent, he moved down the hall and
entered the first room they'd occupied.


The wind had discovered the makeshift opening, and the floor
was now drenched inside where LaCroix had broken through
the wall.   As he walked toward it, his foot encountered a large
puddle. Looking up, LaCroix noted the source of the massive
leak, moving aside just in time as not to be its victim.


Standing in the center of the room, LaCroix positioned the
container to catch the rain water. He washed the beaker out
with the first cupful, then collected another for drinking
purposes. While waiting for it to fill, he listened to the storm,
trying to gage its intensity.


If anything, it appeared to be growing in ferocity.


*****************************


Cambodia, 1883


LaCroix's thoughts were disrupted by Chantha's laughter.


"Do not fear, my master. I would not dishonor you by asking
you to portray the one who loses," the small woman said, her
dark eyes dancing.
"I had no fear, my dear," LaCroix replied, "for if I assume the
role of your demon, I shall play the part to win."


"But," Chantha responded, "that would not be true to the story,
so that cannot be. We must, therefore, have another
performer." The woman raised her delicate hands and clapped
twice, sharply.


>From the shadows, a mortal male appeared. LaCroix was
surprised, for again he had not detected the man's heartbeat.
The male appeared to be in his early twenties. He was dressed
in traditional sarong and gilded jacket, his head covered
completely by the dragon-like mask of the demon god he
portrayed.


LaCroix's studying of the male before him was so intense that
he almost failed to sense another mortal presence as it slipped
up quietly behind him. The ancient turned abruptly, his eyes
catching those of the girl who approached him. She stopped
abruptly, face forward, waiting.


"She is for you, my master." LaCroix looked toward Chantha as
the woman spoke. He turned his attention back to the mortal
girl. "To serve you . . . in every way."


The girl, for she could be no more than thirteen years old,
stood unmoving, waiting for LaCroix's instructions. She was of
peasant stock, LaCroix recognized as he examined her, not long
taken from the rice fields. Although she had been scrubbed
clean, there was still a hint of soil beneath her fingernails. She
was dressed simply, her skirt and blouse of soft tan silk. Her
hair was pulled back, held from her face by a single ribbon.
She was exquisitely beautiful, and LaCroix imagined she
resembled Chantha when the woman had been near that age.


"She waits your bidding, my master," Chantha coaxed LaCroix.
"Shall she pour drink?"


LaCroix nodded. The girl quickly stepped forward, kneeling
formally beside the sitting ancient. She lifted the urn and
positioned it over one of the goblets.


Although Chantha had trained the girl well in the formalities,
her inexperience and nervousness were obvious from the
trembling of her hands. She almost spilled the contents as she
poured, and LaCroix reached out to steady her arms. At the
coldness of his touch, the girl flinched involuntarily, her eyes
darting to his. They swelled in awe as he caught her within the
iciness of his own.


Chantha's mirth broke the spell, diverting LaCroix's attention to
the staging area. The girl, finished with pouring, held the
goblet toward LaCroix with both hands. He accepted the drink.
Thinking her duty complete, the child rose, prepared to flee,
but LaCroix stopped her with a single, "Stay." Chantha nodded
in approval as the girl knelt, remaining rigidly beside the
ancient.


LaCroix smiled at his consort.   "Continue your dance, my dear."


Chantha turned toward her mortal companion. Wordless, he
brought forward an arm which had been hidden behind his
back, his fist clenching a jeweled hatchet. He lifted his other
hand toward Chantha, miming the tale.


"He is the Storm Spirit," Chantha said softly.    "He is Ream
Eysaur."


"As has already been established," LaCroix responded dryly.


Chantha ignored her sire's heckle.   "He says he wants to talk,
but I distrust his motives."


The demon stepped forward, trying to snatch the crystal from
Chantha's fingers. But, in touching the stone, he pulled back,
shaking his hand as though burned.


"He cannot take it by force," Chantha chided, as she moved
away, then circled her partner. "Nor can I escape him, for his
hatchet, when thrown, is swifter than me. Therefore, we shall
talk."


The gongs and flute entoned softly as Mekhala and Ream
Eysaur sat down. LaCroix watched as the demon attempted to
ease closer to the maiden, only to have her move away, keeping
just out of his reach.


The ancient took a sip from the goblet he held.   The contents
were sweet, but very cold.   The heart of the girl beside LaCroix
fluttered nervously.


Ream Eysaur moved closer, and again the maiden moved
away. Sensing that politeness was getting him nowhere, the
demon rose, as did the goddess. Arms extended, bodies
poised, they circled each other. The sitar and flute notes
swirled with them.


Chantha stopped, her head tilted provocatively.   "You seek the
crystal?"


The demon nodded furiously, causing the mask to tilt back and
forth. Teasingly, Chantha extended her hand, the stone nestled
in her palm. Ream Eysaur reached for the crystal, but Mekhala
clasped her hand shut, moving away and laughing.


"I mock him," Chantha explained.   "Why would I give him my
power?"


The demon raised his ax, his other hand pointed at Mekhala.
Chantha froze, looking at him in shammed fear.   "He demands
the crystal, or I shall forfeit my life," she explained.


"Indeed," LaCroix replied, leaning back. He could smell the
sweat of the young actor hidden behind the mask. LaCroix
glanced over at the girl who still knelt fixed by his side. Her
heart was thumping rapidly as she sat, engrossed in the play.


"I will not surrender either without a fight."   Chantha stretched
out her arms in protective fashion, her co-actor doing the same.
"Therefore, we do battle." The players began circling each
other, miming a furious confrontation. "Sensing that his
physical strength is superior, Mekhala makes a decision. He
may defeat me in battle, but he shall not win." Chantha threw
the crystal into the air and it appeared to explode. The metallic
sound of the gongs clanged deafeningly. The girl beside
LaCroix cried out in astonishment, her heartbeat maddeningly
swift.


"It is the lightening," Mekhala cried out, as Ream Eysaur
dropped his axe, clutching his eyes. "He has been blinded."


As though stunned, the demon collapsed to the ground.
Chantha turned, preparing to leave. Ream Eysaur lifted his
head, his eyes still unseeing, his lips moving silently.


"What did he say, my dear?" LaCroix questioned as the music
swelled, then began to fade. Chantha stood before him, her
body straight. "He said that the battle is not over . . . that we
are not through." She sought LaCroix's eyes, locking with him.
"That he will be back."


"A pretty fairy tale," LaCroix responded, never wavering from
her gaze.


They stared at each other for a long moment, then she broke
from him. Between the dance, the challenge and his
unflinching denial of her entreaty, LaCroix could sense that her
emotions were high. Her eyes began to glow amber.


"I hunger," she said.


She was upon the male in an instant, knocking the mask from
his face and sinking her fangs into his taut throat.


The girl beside LaCroix screamed and jumped up. As she
turned to flee, LaCroix caught her wrist, pulling her back
down.   The vampire turned his face, his attention back to
Chantha, watching as she tossed the drained male aside and
began advancing toward him and the girl.


"Non," LaCroix shook his head, his own eyes now as golden as
hers. "You *gave* this one to me, and I shall have all of her."
Chantha stopped, smiled wickedly and turned. In a blink, she
had vanished. LaCroix listened to the scuffling and grunting as
the musicians parried her assault, then died, one by one.


LaCroix returned his attention to the terrified girl. She was
trembling violently, her arm nearly dislocated where she'd tried
to wrench it from his grasp.   He caught her with his eyes and
she silenced, drowning in their golden depths.


>From the corner of his eye, the ancient noted that his consort
had reentered the room. Upon seeing LaCroix and the girl,
Chantha halted, watching them intently.


LaCroix pulled the girl down to his side, rolling over so that he
faced her.   He smiled gently at the child. "Avez-vous jamais
ete avec un homme?" he asked her.


Her eyes tearful, she shook her head no.


The ancient pulled her close, until her body curved into his.
She still trembled, but already fear was giving way to the
wonderment of tenuous passion. The girl's expression was
almost one of surprise as new sensations began coursing
through her, blocking the fear.


LaCroix extended his arm, reaching far down the girl's frame
until he touched the calf of her leg. Slowly, his long fingers
moved up the limb, caressing her inner knee and stroking her
thigh. The child and Chantha moaned in unison as his hand
slid under the material of the girl's skirt and moved upward
between her legs. His other hand sought her breast.


Stroking her gently, LaCroix positioned himself over the girl's
throat. Her eyes were closed now, caught in the ecstasy of his
touch. Chantha leaned forward, her eyes raking over them
greedily.   LaCroix paced himself to deliberate slowness,
pleasuring the child until she cried out. Then, as her passion
swelled to its fullest, he took her.   From a distance, he heard
Chantha's muffled cry of lust.


The girl's blood rushed into him like a fountain, warm and
sweet as a tropical garden.   LaCroix drank her in, never
allowing the flow to cease. All too soon, she was empty. The
ancient lifted his head, his eyes seeking his consort.


Across the room, Chantha sat cross-legged on the floor. Her
passions had so overtaken her that she had pressed her fist to
her mouth, biting her own hand and drawing hard from the
wound.


LaCroix rose, the child's husk falling away from him like a
dried flower. He moved to Chantha and took her hands, lifting
her. He pressed her wound to his mouth, licking at the trickle
of blood still there.


***********************************


End of Part 37/64
***********************************


A low, deep sound within the winds of the storm caught
LaCroix's attention. He focused beyond the broken wall,
listening intently.


The rumble came again, more concrete this time.   And closer.


It was not human.


LaCroix watched as it edged through the opening, its body low.
It knew LaCroix was within, and it moved forward cautiously,
its eyes tight on the vampire.


The ancient stood still as the coyote advanced further into the
room, its growling increasing. Clamped within the canine's
jaws was the stiffened carcass of a cottontail.   LaCroix
conjectured that the beast had caught his dinner during the
short lull some hours back, only to find himself caught in the
storm again, with no time to eat.


And now, it had discovered shelter, that neither the beast nor
LaCroix wanted to share.


The coyote growled again. LaCroix returned the snarl, warning
the creature to be gone. The canine stood firm.


"You, my friend, have chosen the wrong den in which to seek
refuge," LaCroix addressed the animal, keeping his voice low.
A hint of cruel amusement flickered across the vampire's face.
"I believe this might by construed as one of those 'only in the
*hardest* of times.'"


LaCroix lunged at the creature, catching the coyote by the
scruff before the animal could react. The ancient snapped the
animal's neck so quickly that the canine still clenched the rabbit
as LaCroix drained it.   The dog's blood was musky and wild,
nearly choking LaCroix as he drank.


The vampire dropped the coyote and stood erect, his chest
heaving. The blood stung like acid on LaCroix's tongue. When
he had been mortal, LaCroix had been forced to eat thymus--a
taste he had abhorred. Drinking of dog had the same retching
affect on the vampire as that particular sweet bread had had on
the mortal youth.


Bending down, LaCroix pried the coyote's jaws open. The hare
dropped to the floor. Walking to the jagged wall break, the
vampire threw the canine's shell outside, then stooped and
retrieved the rabbit and water beaker. He walked swiftly
across the room, down the hall, and into the inner chamber.


Julia met him, grabbing the glass container and taking a
mouthful of the water in a rapid movement. She hurried across
the room, positioning herself over the rusty porcelain sink. The
woman spat the water into the drain.


She turned, her expression wistful, her shoulders still shaking.
"Bad beans," she explained.


"Unfortunate," LaCroix commented, his eyes straying to the
children, who were seated at the table, their faces troubled. He
looked back at Julia, a smile twitching his lips, "but in another
way, fortunate. Not all tasters have retained their life while
practicing their craft."


"Har, har," Julia said, regaining her humor. She swiped a hand
across her mouth, displacing the water drops clinging there.
She spotted the rabbit within LaCroix's grasp. "What's that?"


LaCroix held the creature up for clearer viewing.   "Supper," he
offered.


Beda looked at the rabbit, her expression shocked. "You killed
a bunny?" The child's eyes welled with tears as she repeated.
"You killed a *bunny*?"


"I did not kill the *bunny,*" LaCroix replied thickly, he voice
sharpening.   "I killed the coyote that killed the *bunny.*"


"Oh," Beda said softly.    Then she began weeping in earnest.


LaCroix looked helplessly at Julia. The woman shrugged and
went to comfort Beda, who rose and wrapped her arms around
the mentor. Belinda continued to sob softly into Julia's belly.


Julia turned to LaCroix.   "Did the coyote look rabid to you?"
The vampire shook his head. "The animal appeared perfectly
healthy, and the hare is a recent kill."


"Then, why don't you and Pete take it into the kitchen and see if
you can find anything to skin it with?" Julia suggested, as
Beda's grip around her tightened. "Then, Beda and I will take
care of cooking it," she looked dejected, "unless we have to
settle for rabbit tartar."


"As you wish," LaCroix replied, then looked toward the boy.
"Come, young Brackin.   You can amuse me with a
demonstration of your *survival* skills."


Pete gulped, but followed the vampire, if less than willingly.


******************************


Cambodia, 1883


LaCroix pressed Chantha's hand to his lips, his tongue
delicately rotating over the wound she'd inflicted there. Her
eyes widened in sensuous pleasure as the sensations of his
touch permeated her body, coursing through each vein.


"Did she . . . please you, my sire?" the woman said softly, once
she'd gained enough composure to find voice.


"She pleased me," LaCroix replied, his eyes finding hers.     "Just
as you please me."


"Ahhhh," Chantha moaned, her intake of breath sharp as
another wave of bliss flowed through her. LaCroix's lips
hardened on her hand. He drew deeply, pulling life from the
woman.


The ancient snaked his arm around the female. His hand firmly
cupping her buttocks, he lifted her. Her legs instinctively
encircled his waist, her head thrust backward, her neck
stretched taut. Holding her tightly, LaCroix moved toward the
carpet and lay her gently down, releasing his hold on her hand.
He stood above his offspring, towering over the woman, before
kneeling to join her.
****************************


"See if you can find something to skin the animal with,"
LaCroix instructed as he and Pete entered the kitchen area.


"Can't you just use your teeth?" Pete muttered, when he
thought himself out of LaCroix's hearing.


"I could," LaCroix replied, slapping the carcass down on a
cutting block. He looked toward boy, eyes glittering. "But, it
might be messy."


Pete swallowed hard, but did not reply. He turned, opening a
drawer and riffling through it carefully. The boy extracted a
long blade and turned toward LaCroix. "Will this work?" he
asked.   Then Pete stiffened, realizing he held a knife on the
vampire.


For a moment they stood there, staring at each other.


"You haven't eaten in a while, have you?" Pete said, breaking
the silence. "I guess you're getting hungry, aren't you?"


"I'm sated at the moment," LaCroix replied, his eyes glinting
with suggestiveness.


Pete's eyes widened.


"But, that is not to say the hunger will not return in the
imminent future," LaCroix continued.   "I suggest you take
quick care of your own needs, Mr. Brackin, and not worry so
about mine. You never can tell when you might need your
strength."


Pete swallowed again as LaCroix accepted the knife, hilt
extended, from the boy. The vampire turned his back on Peter
and began gutting the rabbit. "Why not look around, Mr.
Brackin, and see if you can find cooking fuel. We'll need tinder
and matches, if available."


"Okay," Pete replied, glad to be able to move away from
LaCroix and his culinary activities.


Skinning the hare reminded LaCroix of another moment, now
lost in the passage of time. It had been a hard winter, one spent
alone, before Nicholas and even Janette. He'd sought solitude
and darkness after Divia's death, and found himself among the
peasants of some forgotten forest in Germania.


They had proved superstitious folk, and after several months
they began guarding their homes with garlic and other
barbarian repellents. Food had proved scarce for LaCroix, and
the snows prevented him from moving on. He was forced to
guard his sources carefully, rationing himself.


Eventually, though, he found himself drawing from only two
remaining larders--the stable hand and the elderly woman
who'd been hired to clean. LaCroix had not needed the
servants, but one must keep up the pretence when living
among the mortals. Now, he was happy to have them tucked
away in his cellar.


But, to keep them viable, he had to nourish them. Grain soon
ran out, and LaCroix was forced to hunt small animals to feed
his *guests.* He became quite adept at snaring, skinning and
spitting game, until he tired of it and began feeding the meat
raw to his prisoners. The woman died of infection a short time
later; the male lingered longer.


LaCroix almost starved to death before the spring melting
allowed him to leave what he'd thought to be a sanctuary.   He
had learned many lessons that winter--the need for moving on,
the need for discretion and self-control if one was to survive
and the need to be very careful when choosing a place to lay
one's head.   As he dressed the rabbit, here in this dilapidated
kitchen in the backwoods of southern Louisiana, LaCroix could
not help but smile wanly, wondering if he'd learned any
lessons at all.


Why did he continue to play with these humans? Why did he
allow himself to hunger, when he could easily take them all
and calm the urging within?


"How's this?" Pete asked, walking up with an armful of
splintered wood.


"Is it dry?" LaCroix questioned, impressed by the boy's find, but
unwilling to show it.


"Pretty much," Pete replied. "I found a box of old wood over
by the back door. I guess they used it in the cook stove. The
bigger logs, though, look moldy."


"I see," LaCroix said.   "Were you able to find any matches?"


"Yea," Pete replied, fishing a book from his pocket. "I kind of
cheated on that, though, cause I already had them with me."


"Perfectly acceptable," LaCroix remarked.


Pete watched with interest as LaCroix quartered the rabbit.
"Where'd you learn to do that?"


"I used to keep pets," LaCroix said dryly.


"Oh," Pete said, his voice uncertain.


The vampire smiled inwardly.   "Why don't you go remove the
debris from the stove's interior? We'll see if we can
start a flame, Mr. Brackin," LaCroix said.


********************************


Cambodia, 1883


Chantha was anything but limp in LaCroix's arms. As he
joined her on the matting, she pushed herself up and attacked
him fiercely. She tore the black silk from LaCroix's chest,
pressing her face to his skin. Her tongue danced across his
flesh, teasing and nipping in her lust. Her teeth drew blood,
which she licked greedily.


LaCroix clasped her upper arms, forcing her attention lower.
She obliged, her eyes wicked. She nuzzled his belly, her lips
and tongue circling his navel. He groaned and clasped her
head, pushing it down, bidding her carresses become harsher.


She obliged, breaking briefly from him to rip away the cloth
that covered his lower body. Chantha reattached herself to his
flesh, her suckling increasing in ferocity, wantonly taking and
engulfing his loins. LaCroix cried out as the burn she ignited
spasmed through his body.


He let her stay until he was to the point of human rapture, then
pushed her away. She looked at him, confused, until she
discerned his attentions. Holding her prone on her back with
one palm on her chest, he lifted her sarong with his other hand.


LaCroix slid his hand along the length of her soft, inner leg,
much as he had pleasured the mortal girl before taking her life.
Then, he went further. Removing the hand from his mate's
chest, LaCroix lifted the female's hips and buried his face into
her womanhood.


Chantha moaned and writhed at her lover's touch, her eyes
glazing in the intensity of the pleasure.   She panted and
groaned, both begging him to cease and continue. She cried
out again and again as the torrents of lust moved through her,
unabated, for what seemed eternity.


Then LaCroix rose, positioned himself and entered her, as a
mortal man would a mortal woman.   They coupled, pressing
against each other hard and fast, moving to the rhythms of their
senses.   As her climax approached, Chantha looked skyward,
her eyes falling on the stone etched faces of her gods.


"Khymer!" she cried out as LaCroix thrust his fangs into her
throat.


***************************


End of Part 38/64


***************************


"What's going on in here?" Julia pushed through the kitchen
door only to be assaulted by a cloud of black smoke.


"We are attempting to cook your repast," LaCroix replied, while
Pete made furtive fanning motions with one hand and shielded
his nose with his other.   "I feel our attempts, though, have been
less than successful."
"I'd have to agree with you," Julia coughed, moving further into
the room. She looked the length of the pot bellied stove, her
eyes stopping on the broken flue. "Didn't you notice that the
vent was . . . collapsed?"


"Of course we did," LaCroix said impatiently, eyeing the flames
with growing discomfort. "That is why we kept the fire small.
Correct, Mr. Brackin?"


Pete nodded, though his eyes were watering so badly that he
was unable to see.


"We assumed," LaCroix continued, "that, with this room being
as open to the elements as it is, the natural draft of the place
would dispel the fire's by-products sufficiently."


"Well, it appears your assumption was incorrect."   Julia walked
over to the stove and looked around for a moment. She spied a
long rod, hanging from the stove's side, and retrieved it. The
woman began poking at the burning sticks, until their glow
became more pronounced and the smoke began to dissipate.


"It just needed some oxygen," Julia announced triumphantly,
standing up and smiling at the other two. Then her expression
turned stern and she extended a hand, palm up. "Turn in your
merit badges, boys. You blew it."


"I yield to the female's superior culinary skills," LaCroix said,
extending his own hand. He clasped Julia's and drew it to his
lips, his eyes twinkling.


Pete began coughing fitfully and LaCroix gave the boy a
warning glance.


"Chauvinist," Julia retorted, but she did not withdraw her hand.

"Always," LaCroix agreed with a smug smile.


"Fire's gonna die," Pete announced quickly.


"In time," LaCroix agreed, his tone causing Pete to flinch.
"Pete's right," Julia said, now reluctantly extracting her hand
from LaCroix's grasp. "I'd better get to making good on my
brag. Where's the rabbit?"


"On the counter," LaCroix indicated to behind the woman.
Julia turned and retrieved it, examining the carcass closely.
"You did a good job cleaning this, guys. I'm impressed."


After making sure that the fire had properly rendered the
surface clear of contamination, Julia seared the meat, then laid
it on the stove, allowing the low fire to slowly cook it. The
scent soon wafted through the room, causing the two
mortals to sniff hungrily.


"Somethin smells good."   A high voice announced Belinda's
entry into the room.


"We're cooking Thumper," Pete said, giving the girl a wicked
grin.


LaCroix smiled inwardly, secretly pleased with the boy, but
managed to retain a stern countenance as he turned toward
Pete. "Mr. Brackin . . ."


Pete looked pained.


" . . . why not find a receptacle suitable to put your supper in?"
LaCroix suggested. "Then I'll take the container into the far
room and give it a wash."


"Okay," Pete agreed hurriedly, then shuffled off to the other
side of the kitchen area and began poking among the cabinets.


"Ms. Rambo," LaCroix turned to the child. Beda tore her eyes
away from the roasting rabbit and looked into the vampire's
face. LaCroix had been prepared to give the child an order, but
stopped when he saw tears glistening in her eyes.


"Beda," LaCroix's voice was almost gentle. "You do understand
that the rabbit is needed to feed you, Peter and Ms. Julia, do
you not?"
Belinda began to nod slowly.    "Yes."


"And, that each chicken, fish or . . . " LaCroix's face took on a
pinched aspect, " . . . cow, which you consume at the supper
table, was once a living animal?"


"Of course I do."   Beda's face puckered in sublime offense.      "I'm
not stupid."


"I see," LaCroix said, straightening his posture. "Then you
agree that it is better that the rabbit provide you nourishment,
than to waste its death?"


Belinda nodded, then her expression changed to one of sorrow
again.


"What is the matter now?" LaCroix asked, his voice gruff with
exasperation.


"I was thinking of Mr. Going," the child said, her voice
breaking. "He died, too."


LaCroix turned to Julia, perplexed.


"Beda's stuffed pink bunny," the woman offered, flipping the
smoking hare to its other side.


The child sniffed and nodded.    "He got killed when the crypt
fell on top of us."


"Ahhhhhh," LaCroix replied in understanding. "I do
sympathize with your loss, Ms. Rambo. But, I am certain that
once our ordeal is over, someone will replace your 'bunny.'"


Beda's expression turned stern.    "I don't *want* another one.    I
like *that* one."


LaCroix looked taken aback, then perturbed.     "Don't be
absurd, child. It was just a plush toy."


"But it was *my* toy!" Beda announced flatly, eyes flashing.
"Get over it," Peter said, walking up and giving the girl a nudge
in the ribs with his elbow. Then he added in a low voice,
"Remember who you're talking to."


Beda hushed immediately, her eyes now riveted on LaCroix.


"Here," Pete held out a flat, metal container in the vampire's
direction. "Will this do?"


LaCroix accepted the receptacle. He turned it over, examined it
and began nodding. "Acceptable, Mr. Brackin. Well done."


Pete found himself responding rather pridefully until Belinda
elbowed him. "Remember who you're talking to," she said,
voice hushed.


LaCroix had turned his attention away from the children, and
was striding toward the door. "I shall return shortly," he
announced from the exit.


"Beware of marauding coyotes," Julia warned as she prodded
the rabbit for doneness. "You might not be so lucky the next
time." LaCroix smiled, then vanished from the kitchen.


**********************************


The evening meal concluded without further mishap. Even the
storm outside appeared to quiet somewhat while the tired
vagabonds ate their supper. LaCroix easily refused his portion
of the rabbit, explaining simply to Julia that the children
needed the nourishment more than he. The woman had
protested, but finally acquiesced to LaCroix's insistence that
they each eat a full third of the meal. The children accepted his
lack of appetite with wide, knowing looks, but said nothing.

After the meal, the vampire encouraged the entourage to get
some rest, while able.   The children exchanged glances and
started to object, but Julia interceded and shooed them across
the room. LaCroix watched for a short time as the woman got
the children settled along the far wall. Then, he took post near
the door, seating himself and extending his long legs into as
comfortable a position as possible.
A short time later, from the darkened corner where he'd chosen
to retire, LaCroix watched through slitted eyes as Julia moved
toward him. She slipped to the floor, seating herself beside the
ancient, her slender legs stretched to their full length. Her
hesitance to speak told LaCroix that she feared waking him, so
he smiled and spoke first.


"Have you succeeded in quieting the children?" he asked
casually.


"I think so," Julia sighed, thankful that he was awake, her need
to talk apparent. "They're still pretty wired, but considering
what we've all been through today, it's to be expected."


"I agree," LaCroix said, glancing toward where the children
huddled near the old sink. The wind outside had begun to roar
fiercely again, but its wrath seemed blunted in this interior
room. The children were still, a state which pleased LaCroix
immensely. "If they remain silent, exhaustion will most
likely induce sleep in a short time."


"Yep, I suspect you're right," Julia nodded, allowing her body to
slump slightly against his. When he did not protest, she
snuggled closer. Although his skin was cool, his proximity
gave her a sense of warmth. She reached out, taking his hand
and entwining her fingers in his.


LaCroix noted the gesture with bemusement. Julia remained
silent now, content to just rest against him, to draw strength
and security from his presence. He listened to the gentle,
steady beat of her heart, letting his mind fall into its rhythms.


The minimal blood which remained in LaCroix's belly was cold.
Julia's sweet scent rose to him, stirring the hunger. The woman
sighed, allowing her head to rest on the vampire's shoulder.


The beast stretched, its claws extended, raking LaCroix's
entrails.


Julia reached out, brushing her fingers gently along LaCroix's
upper thigh. "How's your leg? You've been so stoic about the
whole thing that I'd almost forgotten your wound."


"It turned out to be no more than a scratch," LaCroix replied
mildly as the woman's hand rested on his leg.
"It was much more than a 'scratch,'" Julia replied, her curiosity
now roused. "You'd better let me take a look at it. It may need
attention." She reached toward him, intent on examining the
injury.


"And, what do you propose to 'dress' it with, Julia?" LaCroix
said with amusement.   He looked around, then back to the
woman's face. "There does not appear to be an abundance of
pharmaceuticals available. And," his voice grew more gentle,
"there is insufficient light for examination. Accept my words
for tonight, and I'll allow you to inspect it in the morning."


"Afraid to let me play 'doctor,' Lucien?" Julia grinned slyly, but
she pulled back in compliance to LaCroix's request. Then, her
expression grew soft and her hand moved to caress his cheek.
"I can't help worrying about you, you know. I owe you a lot,
and I want to thank you."


LaCroix arched an eyebrow, surprised by her words.   "What
have I done to deserve your appreciation, Julia?"


"For just being you," the woman smiled, tilting her face to his.
"For being here with us, sticking this out with such good
humor, for being strong for us all."


"You overestimate me, Julia," LaCroix chided. Within him, the
beast growled as if amused. The ancient frowned.


"No, no I don't, Lucien," the woman's face turned serious and
she squeezed his hand tightly. "Having you here has meant a
lot to me. I know you didn't have to come looking for Beda
with me. You could be warm and safe back at the estate right
now, but your nobility wouldn't allow me to go off alone on my
fool's errand. You're a good person, Lucien LaCroix."


LaCroix opened his mouth to make snide comment, but closed
it again without a word. During her speech, Julia's heartbeat
had quickened, the tide of her blood rapid through her veins.
The beast, already alert, sniffed and snarled with delight at the
promise the woman offered.


"And," Julia said softly, "I think I'm in love with you."
Before LaCroix could make reply, she pressed a finger to his
lips, her eyes glowing. "Please don't say anything. Let this be
my moment, okay?" The ancient didn't speak, his own eyes
clouded, his emotions carefully checked.


Julia swallowed slightly, then continued. "If I'm living some
kind of fantasy, let me enjoy it for awhile longer . . . and if I'm
not, and you share my feelings, let it be your secret until you
feel the moment is right for you to tell me."


Outside, a cracking sound, louder than the wind, rumbled
across them. Julia started, her expression worried. "Do you
think this thing is almost over?"


"I would suspect not," LaCroix replied, his voice thick.   "In my
opinion, the worst is yet to come."


Julia's expression darkened.   "What makes you think that?"


"Experience," LaCroix replied, his eyes distant.


**********************************


Cambodia, 1883


Spent, Chantha looked at her sire through sleepy eyes.


LaCroix lay still beside her, eyes open, staring at the ceiling
above him. He seemed engrossed in the stone story unfolding
there.


Chantha reached out, her delicate fingers whispering against
his pale cheek. "My master . . . my lord." Her voice was as soft
as cloud feathering.


LaCroix inclined his head slightly, regarding the woman.
"Your ploy appears to have worked, my dear," he said, his
voice rueful. "I judge the hour to be near dawn. I have, as you
suggested I might, 'missed my boat.'"


"And that disturbs you so much?" the dark-eyed woman teased.
The elder vampire's eyes glittered dangerously.   "It goes against
my . . . plans."


Chantha sat up, gathering her discarded clothing to her. "And,
that is the most important thing, is it not? That LaCroix's
*plans* must be adhered to." She rose, slipping her blouse on
quickly, knotting it with jerk. As she moved to pull on her
sarong, LaCroix grabbed the hem of the skirt and pulled it
sharply from her hand. Chantha turned on him, eyes blazing.


"Yes," he smirked, tossing the garment over his shoulder.


She attacked from the air, falling on him with pummeling fists.
LaCroix laughed, rolling her over until she was beneath him,
his naked chest pressing against the cool silk of her bodice. He
smothered her struggles by burying his face into her hair, his
lips exploring the gentle curves of her face and throat.


She arched to him, her lower body unrestrained by clothing.
As she felt him again strafing against her inner thigh, she
moaned deep in her throat.


"Damn you," she whispered, her arms embracing him. "Why
now? Why, after all these years, do you make love to me thus?"


LaCroix pulled back.   He looked at Chantha with hooded eyes,
his face flickering with hidden thoughts.


"I made love to you as a mortal would, because I knew it was
what you desired," he said, his voice carefully measured.


"And, you are saying you did not desire it also?"   Her eyes were
dark with gathering storm.


LaCroix shook his head. "Mortal love-making is a waste of
energy," he said simply.   "The true and only ecstacy," he
reached out with two fingers and jabbed at Chantha's jugular,
"is in the blood. The sharing of life."


"A 'waste of energy?'" Her eyes flickered.   "You term our
lovemaking a 'waste of energy?'"
LaCroix nodded absently. "Mortals procreate through such
intimacy," he said. "We are superior beings--evolved. Our
procreation, our *intimacy,* is through the sharing of ourselves
through the blood. All else is gluttony, and clinging to a life
well left behind."


"So, you are saying that you debased yourself in such a manner,
to placate me?" Chantha's voice was low. "A *farewell* gift,
perhaps?"


LaCroix looked sharply at the woman, noting her irk.   "Not the
terminology I would have used, my dear, but . . ."


She moved to strike him, but he caught her wrist easily and
pushed her away.


It was he who rose this time, abandoning her where she lay
exposed and half-naked on the carpet. He stooped, picking up
his own silk and cinching it at his waist.


"In all these years that we have been together, you still cling to
the memories of your mortal life." His voice was even, yet
barely above a whisper.   "You still have this need to hold onto
human pretenses.   A need to be one with your people, not
apart and superior. It is a need, I fear, which will ultimately
destroy you." She opened her mouth to protest, but hushed at
his expression. LaCroix's face was stone.


"I recognize it is your way," the vampire said simply. Then he
turned, angry, fist and face clinched in rage. "But, do not
expect me to stay here and watch your ruin." He slammed his
closed hand against a stone pillar, its column carved thickly
with Apsarases, the divine dancers.   Some of the ancient stone
crumbled as sand and drifted to the ground. The elder
vampire turned on the female, spreading his arms wide. "Look
at the carnage you have rendered here. How can you expect to
remain in their world, to cohabitate with them, if you continue
to thrust their noses into your waste?"


Chantha's face wavered a moment near tears, then flushed with
her own fury.   "You selfish hypocrite," she seethed. "You
enjoyed it as much as I."


"Of course I did," LaCroix sneered back, "but I am leaving this
place! You are staying! You wish to remain within their midst.
If you are to survive, you must show discretion. The humans
are weaker, yes, but they are not fools. They will miss their
family, their companions, and will look for them and their
killers. And, in number, they can destroy us."


He was at her side in a blink, lifting her to her feet. She
struggled for a moment in his grasp, then stood still, eyes
averted from his face.


"Chantha." LaCroix(LaCroix's) voice was thick. "I fear I leave
with you not learning any of the lessons which I have striven to
teach you. I fear your death is imminent and . . . it saddens
me."


She looked up. His face was raw, guileless. Her own anger
softened. "You are a brute, my master. But I recognize that
your cruelty is because of your caring for me." LaCroix looked
up and away, exasperated. Chantha reached up, catching his
chin, forcing him to face her again.   "I care for you also, my
sire. And, I ask that you have confidence in your teaching of
me. Let us argue no further this day, and part as past lovers
tomorrow."


A single tear now escaped, its downward path leaving a moist,
ruby trail down her cheek. LaCroix reached to brush it away,
and she caught his hand, pressing it to her lips.


*****************************************


End part 39/64


*****************************************
For a moment, LaCroix stood there, watching the woman as she
held his hand to her face.


Then, coldly, he pulled it away and turned from her.


"You misunderstand me, ma petite." His words of endearment
held the cut of sarcasm. "I am simply trying to
protect my *investment.*   To blithely throw yourself away by
excessive behavior is not a very flattering statement regarding
my teachings. It might send a wrong message to the
*Community.*"


Chantha had subdued herself, now matching LaCroix's
contriteness.


"As if you care what your precious Community thinks of you,"
Chantha said scornfully. "If their thoughts and endorsements
were so important, you would have left me long ago, or more
aptly destroyed me for my wrongful behavior."


LaCroix stood regally, unmoving, his face betraying nothing.


Sensing an upper hand, the woman pushed him.


"If the esteem of others of our kind is so consequential, then
why did you defend me to your son?"


LaCroix caught her by the throat. As his thumb compressed
against bone, she began struggling, clawing at him to gain her
freedom.


"Never . . ." he whispered, his words measured, " . . . challenge
me in such a manner again. I don't like it."


He released her as suddenly as he'd seized her, casting her
aside and walking to the far wall.


Chantha stood there, wide-eyed, gasping.   She clasped her
bruised throat, amazed at the welts rising there.


Outside, a distant echo of thunder resounded loudly, mocking
the silence within the chamber.


LaCroix looked at the woman, his blue eyes feverish with
conflicting emotions, though his face betrayed none.


"So much for our last romantic evening together, ehhhh, ma
lis?" Absently, LaCroix reached into the pocket of his covering,
fingering something there.


Chantha's curiosity was immediately piqued, but she was wary.
LaCroix, she knew from past actions, could be most cruel. But,
he had never hurt her like this before. But, then again, she had
never been quite this bold . . .
He looked up, as if he'd heard her thoughts. They searched
each others eyes, tentatively. Gradually, the feelings there
solidified.


The woman bowed her head, suddenly submissive. "Forgive
me, my sire," she said softly. "I should not have bid you choose
one child over another. I was wrong."


LaCroix nodded slowly.   "Yes . . . you were," he replied flatly.


Chantha did not move.


"And," LaCroix continued, "your recognition of that fact gives
me hope that you may have some chance of survival after all."


The ancient strode over to the wall, his eyes intent as he
studied the battle scenes played out on the stone. "If you learn
nothing else from my teaching, Chantha, then know this." The
sternness of his voice commanded her full attention. LaCroix
placed his cold hand on the carvings, his fingers spread wide to
encompass as much of the scene as possible.


"One of your own Asian counterparts imparted this wisdom in
his thesis on the art of warfare," LaCroix began. He was
rewarded by the woman's slight stiffening. Chantha's eyes
narrowed, but she continued to listen without comment.


The elder warrior moved his hand slowly along the wall as his
voice rang with powerful resonance within the enclave. "' . . .
there are five traits that are dangerous in generals. Those who
are ready to die can be killed; those who are intent on living
can be captured; those who are quick to anger can be
shamed; . . .'" LaCroix paused for a moment, his eyes distant.
"' . . .those who are puritanical can be disgraced; those who love
people can be troubled.'"


LaCroix looked intently at the small woman who graced his life
at the moment. "'When on surrounded ground, plot. When on
deadly ground, fight.'"


He ceased speaking, waiting.


Chantha averted her eyes, shrugging.   "I see not how the words
of a Chinese concern me," she said, her voice carrying a trace of
scorn. She rose to full height, a heritage of pride in each inch.
"I and my people were superior in life to your Sun Tzu.   I am
far greater now than then, so I see no application in your
quotes."


LaCroix smiled thinly. "Then, my dear, all that is left is for you
to enjoy the spoils of war."


He reached into his garment again, extracting an object. It was
circular in shape and gleamed highly, even in the dim inner
light.


LaCroix relished the sharp intake of the female's breath as he
extended the hand which held the bracelet. Assured that he
had her full attention, LaCroix tossed the wrist-piece toward
Chantha. She caught it in mid-air and began to examine it
eagerly.


Finally, the dark-eyed woman looked up, her face shining with
undisguised delight.


"It matches your ring," she stated, her look darting to his
forefinger.


LaCroix nodded, gratified that she was pleased. "Of course, the
Italian artisan who crafted my ring is long dead," the ancient
reminded her, "but, I was gratified to find a local craftsman
whose skill with silver was admirable. He took great pains to
duplicate the design." LaCroix lifted his hand to admire his
own possession, then gave the woman a sly glance. "I trust
you are pleased?"


Chantha started to slip the bracelet onto her wrist, a gesture to
demonstrate her delight. Then, she stopped short.    Slowly,
with the grace of Kbach, she moved toward LaCroix. She
halted before him, her head down, fully subservient to her sire.
Chantha extended both hands, the bracelet offered on the
pillow of her palms.


LaCroix accepted the offering, then reached for the woman,
taking her slender arm and pulling it toward him. Mutely, he
slipped the adornment over her hand, sliding it along the
coolness of her pale flesh.
Chantha regarded his gesture with no comment. As LaCroix
finished placing the bracelet on her wrist, she lifted her misted
eyes. "You do love me, my master. Can you not say the
words?"


LaCroix paused. "I do *care* for you, my dear," he said finally,
adding, "as I care for all my possessions."


Stubbornly, the woman lifted her chin.   "You love me, LaCroix.
Why can you not say the words?"


LaCroix's lips curled.   "Because the answer would distress you."


She waited. The thunder crashed louder outside, resonating
like the gong of the now dead players.


"I chose not to love you, Chantha," LaCroix finally replied. "For
to love, is to be weak. ' . . . those who love . . . can be troubled.'"


***********************************


A sharp clap of thunder startled Julia to wakefulness and she
almost shouted aloud as she was pulled from sleep.


LaCroix reached out for her instinctively. "It was only
thunder," he said, touching the woman's shoulder. "Don't cry
out and wake the children."


Julia glanced quickly across the room, trying to adjust her eyes
to the darkness. A flash of lightening crept through the
structure's cracks, illuminating the interior slightly. Beda and
Pete still huddled together, sleeping.


"Sorry," Julia felt embarrassed now.


LaCroix allowed her a reassuring smile. "There is no cause for
self-admonishment, Julia. You were startled and your reaction
was understandable."


The thunder pounded again, its proximity seeming to rattle the
very foundation of the shelter they occupied. The woman
shivered, and drew closer to LaCroix. "I'm such a wuss."
The ancient inhaled her. The combined scent of her strength,
fear and life essence stirred him. LaCroix rested his face in her
hair, breathing softly of her.


Julia moaned, then pulled back slightly.   "The children," she
reminded both herself and her companion.


" . . . are asleep," LaCroix pointed out, then pulled the woman
back to him.   He touched his lips to her ear, then began to
circle her lobe with his tongue.


"Oh . . . shit," was her only verbal response, before entwining
her arms round his neck and joining him fully.


*****************************


"Is he biting her?" Beda whispered, nudging Peter in the ribs for
perhaps the tenth time since they began their feigned sleep.


"No," Pete replied, squinting at the adults opposite them.
"Looks like they're just necking."


Beda frowned. "Why would anyone want to *neck* with a
vampire?" the girl said. "Why do people want to neck at all?     I
don't get it."


Pete looked down at the younger child. "You will in a couple
more years," he said, then for good measure reached out and
tweaked the girl's freckled nose. "But, for right now, you'll just
have to settle for this."


Belinda Rambo slapped at Pete.   "Quit it!" she hissed.


Pete stopped quickly, glancing toward LaCroix and Julia,
fearful that their deception might have been observed. The
vampire and woman were so engrossed in themselves that they
didn't appear to have taken notice of the children.


"Sorry, B-Brat," the boy offered, settling down again.    "Just got
carried away."
"Yea . . . okay," Beda accepted the apology grudgingly. "But
you better quit picking on me and figure out what we're going
to do about *him!*" The girl looked pointedly in LaCroix's
direction.   She watched as the vampire's hand moved down
Ms. Julia's back, slipped under her blouse, then rose up her
spine again, hidden by the fabric.   "Are you sure he's not biting
her?"

Pete looked again, just to be certain, and nodded. "Pretty sure,
Bedamax, pretty sure."    Then, the boy's eyes darted toward the
closed door of the broom closet and its hidden, secret contents.
"I sure hope so, anyway."


***********************


End of part 40/64


***********************


<So easy,> LaCroix thought, allowing his lips to trace the
woman's) jawline. It would be so easy to take her now, to
quench the cold fire of hunger which gnawed at his entrails.
He side-glanced once more at the children.   They still had not
moved, their sleep undisturbed. LaCroix returned his thoughts
to the female in his arms.


So easy. He could drain her in less than a minute. When the
children woke, he could explain her death as succumbing from
injuries during the night. <But, then again, why explain
anything?> LaCroix admonished himself. <Kill the little brats,
too. Be done with it.>


Julia murmured unintelligibly against LaCroix's neck, and
shifted closer to him. Her hands were busy, stroking the flesh
of his thigh as they journeyed steadily inward. LaCroix smiled,
enjoying the tingling sensation that her touch sent through
his body.


If he found such pleasure in her physical contact, he could only
imagine the exhilaration once he finally took her fully.    The
conquering, the consumption, the total subjugation of herself to
him . . . he had waited too long.


LaCroix felt the fangs distending from his upper maxillary
bones. They felt sharp on his tongue as he continued to caress
the woman's neck with his kisses.   Julia's hand shifted further.


The vampire pressed his open mouth to the flesh hiding her
jugular, just as her fingers found his groin.


She squeezed.


As LaCroix clamped his jaws to the woman's neck, a fearsome
shattering of thunder shook the small house.   Julia cried out,
jumping in her start, pushing herself into his bite. The
woman's eyes flew open at the sensation of pain at her throat.
"Hey, that kind of hurts," she complained playfully. "Take is
easy, okay?"


LaCroix did not pull at the wound, but licked at the droplets
rendered by the woman's sudden jolt, savoring the morsel that
she had offered freely. Julia immediately responded to the
sensation, writhing slightly under his hold.   He pressed
harder. The woman gasped, fighting to catch her breath as
passion coursed through her.


LaCroix was the first to note the changed postures of the
children across the room. Their bodies were straighter, their
faces toward the couple. He looked closer, his keen night
vision now seeing that their eyes were wide open, alert and
watchful.


"Damn," the ancient rasped.


"What?" Julia whispered.


"The children . . .," LaCroix said quietly, " . . . are awake."


"Oh." With a loud sigh, Julia pushed herself from LaCroix. In
doing so, she brushed against his pocket, feeling the hardness
there. Curious, she traced the object with her finger tips. It
was cylindrical, about the circumference of a large candle base.
The auburn-haired woman looked up at LaCroix, her eyes full
of inquiry.


LaCroix's full attention was focused on the children. When
he'd first reached out, their small hearts had been racing, like
frightened ground squirrels fleeing madly from a circling hawk.
Now, the heartbeats were returning to normal, but their
breathing was still guarded.


While LaCroix was preoccupied with the children, Julia
carefully pulled aside the material and peeked into the
vampire's pocket. She inhaled deeply and uttered an audible,
"OH!" LaCroix turned sharply to the woman, and following
her gaze, looked downward. Julia had found the bracelet.


"It's nothing," LaCroix said, moving his body so that the gap
closed, hiding the metal ornament once more.   "Just a bauble."


"It looks beautiful," Julia insisted.   "May I see it more closely."


"Like my wound . . ." LaCroix was just as insistent, ". . . it
would be better viewed in the more luminous hours."


"If you were to have your way, I'd be dead before you'd let me
look at anything of yours," Julia pouted.   "Please . . . just a
quick look?" She gave him her most winsome smile.


The vampire sighed and shrugged. "If you insist." He watched
as the woman gleefully extracted the bracelet and began to
examine it.


With each pass of her eyes over the silver, Julia was struck over
and over again at its beauty. The piece was magnificent. It was
solid, not filled, and obviously an antique. Though tarnished,
she could easily make out the intricacies of the delicate
scrollwork along the edges. Julia touched the raised
embellishment with her fingers, tracing the design of the eagle,
its talons clutching an unbloomed rose. As she turned the
bracelet in her hand, she noted the carved dragon on the
opposite side, its long, curved body curled within a bed of lotus
blossoms.


LaCroix watched in interest as Julia examined the bracelet.
When she finally looked up, her eyes were glittering. The
vampire was struck by the similarity of the depths of pleasure
within the dark eyes of long ago, and the hazel of today.


Her eyes now moved to the ring on his finger, then again to his
face.   "Lucien . . ." her voice was choked with emotion. Too
late, he realized her obvious surmise. She waited, her face
glowing with expectancy.
LaCroix remained mute, indeterminable. A long moment of
deadness passed between them and then, in a shimmer, Julia's
eyes returned to normal except for a small twinge of
disappointment.


"It's quite beautiful," Julia said, returning the bracelet to
LaCroix. She addressed him pointedly.    "The person who once
owned it must have treasured it very much. Your mother?"


"No," LaCroix replied carefully.   Then he smiled.   "A distant
family member."


"Ahhhhhhhh." Julia pursed her lips at his noncommittal
answer. "It looks quite old."


"Nineteenth century," LaCroix said, slipping the bracelet back
into his pocket. "A fair reproduction of another family
heirloom which you have no doubt noticed."


"Your ring," Julia nodded, casting her eyes toward the
vampire's hand.


LaCroix nodded, raising the ring for clearer viewing.    "This, of
course, is much older," he said.


"And, in better condition," Julia noted. "Too bad someone
hasn't been as diligent in taking care of the bracelet as you have
with your ring. It's a shame to have let something that
exquisite become so discolored." Then, the woman's eyes
began to gleam again and, to LaCroix's surprise, she rose from
the floor. Julia stepped across LaCroix's outstretched legs,
prepared to exit the room.


"Where are you going?" LaCroix inquired, his gaze steady on
the woman.


"That's a rather indelicate question," Julia countered in a teasing
tone. When LaCroix looked at her, quite abashed, Julia
laughed. "I'm going to check something in the kitchen. I think
I saw an old bottle of tarnish remover in one of the drawers.
Figured I'd check and see if it's still viable, and maybe give that
old bracelet a proper cleaning, okay?" And, not waiting for an
answer, the woman slipped quietly out of the room.
***********************


LaCroix sat for a moment, pondering his next course of action.
He was preparing to rise and follow Julia, when a small voice
coughed. The ancient looked quickly across the room, noting
the two children watching him carefully.


For a long moment, the three occupants of the room simply
stared at each other. Even under LaCroix's hard glare, the
children did not flinch, and he surmised that only his outline
was visible to them.


"I grow tired of your interferences," the vampire said suddenly,
springing to his feet like a panther. Before the children could
cry out, he was across the room, towering over them, his eyes
piercing theirs.


Pete looked up, meeting LaCroix's look and swallowing hard.
Beda simply gasped, her fright replaced by awe. "You can
move really fast!" the red-haired child blurted out.


LaCroix ignored the girl's words, addressing the children in his
most commanding tone. "I have endured your outbursts and
intrusions until now, because it seemed best to ignore them for
the benefit of our mutual survival," the ancient said coldly.
"But you have become increasingly bold in your challenges
against me, and I will cease to tolerate them from this moment
forward.   If you choose to attempt to thwart my pleasures in
the future, I will kill the both of you. I will take your skinny
necks into my grasp and drain you both dry without the
slightest hesitation. Do you understand?"


Pete choked softly and began to nod.   Beda just stared up at the
ancient, her eyes wide.


LaCroix regarded the female child for a long moment, then
allowed his eyes to assume a titian hue.


Belinda Rambo sucked in a violent swallow of air and began
nodding furiously. Satisfied, LaCroix allowed his eyes to
return to normal, and he offered the children a thin smile.
"Good," he said, turning and preparing to continue his plan to
go to the woman.
It was young Beda's sob which halted him at the door.   He
turned.


"You're gonna kill her now, aren't you?" Beda asked, her eyes
glistening with tears. Pete instinctively shifted his body away
from the younger child, his eyes darting from LaCroix to
Belinda.


"That is not your affair," the vampire said sternly. "Your
only concern is the well-being of your own mortal self. Tend to
that, young woman." He turned again.


"YOU'RE A BIG MEANIE!!" Beda's shrill voice rang across the
room. As if in agreement to the child's outburst, an explosion
of thunder shook the tiny house. An eruption of pelting
sounds began clamoring against the building's tin roof, like a
thousand finger tips clawing to gain access.    Pete cried out as
Belinda shrieked in fright at the unexpected intrusion of sound.


"Hail," LaCroix announced dryly, his face cast upward. He
looked back in the children's direction.    "Now, do quiet down,
or I will be forced to take appropriate measures."


The vampire paused, making no further move to follow Julia
into the kitchen. Instead, he listened intently to the sounds of
the storm. A particularly potent burst of wind heaved itself
against the crumbling building, causing the structure to shake
violently. Even in the internal room, a cold damp spray could
be felt filtering through the boards.   The wind continued to
howl loudly, threatening to blow the house from its foundation.


"Kind of like the big, bad wolf huffing and puffing outside the
pigs' door," Pete remarked cheerlessly.


"Only our big, bad wolf is inside with us," Beda replied
mournfully.


"Yea," Pete agreed, looking toward where LaCroix stood at the
center of the room. "At least he's not moving at the moment."


"A wise general does not move until he ascertains the position
of the enemy, if possible," LaCroix responded to Pete's
undirected statement.
The clamoring outside stopped abruptly.   The three beings in
the tiny inner chamber looked at each other. The hopeful
expressions on the children's faces faded quickly as they
observed LaCroix's pale face increase in pallor.


"No," he whispered, just as a most awful cacophony of
clattering, clanging and crashing rose from the rear of the
structure. A massive cloud of dampened dust blew into the
hallway and Julia's screams rent the air.


Then died.


*****************************


End of part 41/64


*****************************


"NO!" LaCroix shouted to the wind and hail as he pushed his
shoulder against the jammed door which denied him access to
the kitchen area.   "NO! NOT LIKE THIS. NOT AGAIN. I
WILL NOT HAVE IT!!"


The door stood fast, even against his vampire strength. The
ancient howled in angry frustration, his body leaned hard into
his task. Behind LaCroix, Peter Brackin and Belinda Rambo
stood shivering, their eyes sharp with fear.


With a roar to match Thor's mightiest forging, LaCroix shoved
with all his strength against the door. The wood splintered and
the vampire was suddenly assaulted by the harsh pelting of
wind, rain and ice which lashed at the collapsed kitchen.
Somewhere, beneath the rubble, was Julia Sanford.


"JULIA!!" LaCroix shouted. He was barely able to keep his
eyes open against the stinging of nature's slap. Frozen crystals
clung to the short barbs of his hair, catching the glint of the
lightening, and giving his countenance a fiendish aura with
each flash. LaCroix began lifting and tossing debris with rapid,
mindless motions.


Pete moved forward, an offering to help, but LaCroix shoved
the boy back with a flick of his arm. "Get back into the other
room," LaCroix snarled, his eyes hot as embers.
Pete hesitated for a moment, then grabbed a protesting Beda's
hand and fled to the interior chamber.


The ancient turned   his face back into the wind, squinting at the
destruction before   him. He began to return to himself, to study
the situation more   carefully. LaCroix tried listening for the
woman's heartbeat,   but could not detect it above the noise of
the storm. Either    nature's fury was too intense . . . or the
woman was dead.


LaCroix refused to accept the latter. With increased resolve, he
began clearing the broken boards and fallen timbers from his
path. He looked around at the remains of the room, trying to
guess the direction she might have gone.


"Over there," a voice shouted from behind the vampire.
LaCroix turned, finding Peter Brackin behind him once more.


"I told you to leave!"    LaCroix snapped through clenched teeth.


"I know what you said."   Despite his obvious fear, the boy
stood firm.   "But, I wasn't t sure you knew where to look for
her. She went after some cleaner, right?"


LaCroix looked at the boy, his anger abating slightly.


Pete lifted his drenched arm, pointing to what had been the
right forward section of the room.   "I remember seeing some
cleaning stuff over there. "


LaCroix jumped nimbly atop the remains of the roof and
scrambled toward the area which Pete had indicated. The boy
climbed on top of the broken lumber and followed. The wind
continued to thrash at them, causing Pete to stumble and fall.
Sprawled on the fallen roof, Pete looked around, amazed at the
massive trees which swayed brokenly in the gray and haze.


Pete scrambled up again and continued moving in the direction
that the vampire had taken. When the boy arrived, LaCroix
was already tearing shingles and rotted board from the site that
Pete had indicated.
"JULIA!" LaCroix called down into the rubble. He turned his
head so that his ear was nearer the ground. The rain coursed
down his sharp features, dripping off the tip of his nose. Just to
his right, LaCroix detected the faint echo of the woman's
heartsounds.


"Can you hear her?" Pete cried out as the wind threatened to
strangle him.


"She lives," LaCroix announced, giving Pete a fierce look.
"Now go back to the girl."


"No," Pete said firmly, tears of fear mixing with the rain on his
face. "I'm staying and helping."    Then, the boy bent down and
began tugging at the shattered planking at his feet.


"You're weak, boy, and your efforts are futile," LaCroix
growled, reaching for the boy, prepared to shove him aside
again.


Pete avoided the grab.    "Maybe I'm not as strong as you," Pete
countered, "but I want to help and you're not going to run me
off."   The boy stooped and resumed his labors. LaCroix gave
him one more glance, then let him be.


Side by side, the boy and vampire moved to clear the wreckage
which separated Julia from freedom. LaCroix flung boards
with abandon, while Pete tugged and strained with the effort of
the chore.   The pressing wind hampered both their efforts, but
neither gave thought to abandoning the task. Then, Pete
stopped, straightened and choked out a shocked breath.


At the boy s feet, just visible amidst the clutter, was a pale
female hand.


Pete stepped back as LaCroix dropped to his knees. Carefully,
the ancient reached out and touched the flesh. It was warm.


"Julia," he whispered softly.


With the fierceness of an animal digging prey gone to ground,
LaCroix clawed at the ruins, unmindful of the metal shards and
unidentified items which scraped at his skin. More of the
woman became visible, and LaCroix gentled his efforts, fearful
of causing her further harm.


<I will not be cheated again.> His thoughts raced as he cleared
further rubble away.   Julia's hand was now openly accessible.
LaCroix reached down, clasped it and squeezed.


He received no response.


Aided by the boy, the vampire continued uncovering Julia,
careful for items which might be embedded in her body.   As
more of her was revealed, LaCroix looked anxiously for signs of
bleeding, relieved when he noted none.


<I will not be robbed of my prize,> he silently reminded the
furies which pounded at his frame. <This one is mine.>


Finally, Julia's face emerged, and LaCroix searched it anxiously.
The skin was very pale, but displayed no outward blemish.


"Is she okay?"   Pete asked anxiously from just behind LaCroix s
shoulder.


"I'm not certain," the ancient replied honestly.    "I cannot detect
visible injury, but she may be damaged internally."


"Can you move her?   Is it safe?"


LaCroix did not reply, his attention focused solely on the
woman.   "Julia. Can you hear me?"    He squeezed the woman's
hand again.


This time, his pressure was rewarded by a faint flicker of the
woman's lashes. She stirred and whispered a moan.


LaCroix moved to cup her behind the head, prepared to risk
lifting her from this dreadful grave. His fingers encountered
tackiness and he pulled his hand back quickly.


His palm was covered with blood.


LaCroix stared at his hand, all thoughts of Julia, the boy, the
storm pushed from his mind. The only thing that mattered
now was the sweet essence which clung to his fingers. He
brought the palm closer to his nose, inhaling the pure, copper
scent.


The rain was quickly washing the blood from his hand.
LaCroix watched for a moment as the red life smeared with the
melting ice pellets, dripping from his wrist and fingertips.
Then, LaCroix crushed his hand to his face and began licking
the remainder of Julia's blood from his skin. He sucked at his
fingers, relishing each moist drop.


>From behind LaCroix, Peter Brackin gagged hoarsely. The
boy's heaves cut through the wind's cries, grating at LaCroix's
senses. The vampire turned on the boy, fangs gnashing in
irritation.


Pete choked on his own dry retch, then cried out forcefully. He
stumbled backwards, landing on his rear and scrabbling like a
crab in his effort to put distance between himself and the
vampire. LaCroix licked his lips dramatically, then turned back
to Julia.


"I will not be cheated again," he said softly. He leaned over her,
his fangs extended toward her neck. He grazed the soft flesh
and positioned himself for the kill.


At the sharpness at her throat, Julia moaned again softly.   Then,
her head fell back, dangling limply, lifeless in LaCroix's
embrace.


Stunned, the vampire looked down at the chilled form in his
arms. Then, he lifted his head and roared with rage into the
dark storm.


********************************


Cambodia, 1883


They spoke no more of love that night. Chantha sensed rightly
that such conversation would yield futile results, and would
only serve to anger her master. Instead, she chose to enjoy his
embrace and what of himself he was willing to share.
As she lay against him, looking at the bracelet which garnished
her wrist, she preened with delight.


Amused, LaCroix reached out and brushed a stray strand of
hair from her face. "The bauble pleases you so much, ma
petite?" he smiled.


She turned in his arms, eyes submissive and glowing beneath
her arched brows. "Immensely, my master. It is a fine
treasure."


LaCroix smiled. "I am pleased that you have chosen to accept it
in the manner it was intended, my dear. It is a token that my
thoughts will be with you during the time we are parted."


The woman's brow wrinkled slightly. "I wish you would not
speak of such things, my master," she replied. "My heart is
heavy with the thought of your departure."


"Chantha," LaCroix said softly, pulling her closer. "You know
that I must go. I have overstayed my allotted time in this
region. You are of these people, and may be able to blend and
alter yourself to remain in their midst unnoted, but," he smiled
wanly, "my features are not native. I stand out too starkly to
re-invent myself sufficiently to go undetected for any length of
time."


"I understand this to be true in my mind," Chantha replied, not
wishing to rekindle their earlier feud, "but in my heart, I
mourn."


The ancient chuckled. He began stroking the fine black silk of
her hair, enjoying its rich texture as it dropped between his
fingers.


"You mourn over nothing, ma lis," he murmured.   "Time is
nothing to us. Years pass and, the fates be willing, we will
meet again." Then, LaCroix grinned slyly. "Of course, any
reunion betwixt us will depend on your keeping your wits
about you, and practicing discretion."


Chantha frowned. "Why must you insist on continuing your
lecture, my master? Have we not both tired of it?"
LaCroix sighed, then nodded. "Yes. We've both argued our
positions on the matter in depth. We shall consider the matter
closed."


The woman smiled, enjoying her small victory. She snuggled
closer to her sire, relishing the coolness of his skin, the smell of
him. "I look forward to the time we will be together again."


The ancient did not reply, but chose only to kiss her forehead.


A shift in the sounds outside caused Chantha to glance toward
the exit. The corridor had dimmed some, an announcement of
the coming night. The female disengaged herself from her
lover's arms and rose easily.


"Come," Chantha said, extending her delicate hands down to
LaCroix. "It is almost dusk, and I feel like dancing beneath the
moon."


****************************


End part 42/64


****************************


They stepped from the Bayon into the humid inkiness of early
evening. A jungle bird cried out, a signal to his brethren that
intruders had been detected. Chantha paused momentarily,
brushing her bare foot along the sandstone bricks of the temple
entrance walkway.   Then, without word, she bolted into the
air.


LaCroix found her, some moments later, within the cathedral of
the nearby forest, the remnants of the earlier day storm still
clinging to the branches.   With the displacement of air caused
by his arrival, a drizzling fell down upon them, wrapping them
in a warm vapor of droplets.


<The waters are like pearls upon her face,> LaCroix thought.
She had never been more beautiful.


LaCroix attempted to embrace her, but she moved away shyly.
"I thought you wished to dance," he grunted in annoyance.
>From her short distance away, Chantha smiled slightly. She
grabbed hold of a trailing vine and began twirling it, her face
full of mischief. "I want to dance in the trees," she replied.
Then, in the space of a human heartbeat, she shimmied up the
trellis of branches and perched on an upper limb.


LaCroix's annoyance increased. "Come down," he commanded.
In the distance, a grumble of thunder punctuated his demand.


Chantha laughed. She clasped a leafy bough next to her and
shook it vigorously. The water rained down on LaCroix,
drenching him.


"I am not amused," he growled, wiping the liquid from his eyes.


"I am," Chantha smirked down at him.   The thunder rumbled
closer.


The female moved slightly, vanishing into the protective
emerald covering provided by the foliage.   LaCroix squinted,
but could not detect her.   He trained his other senses in her
direction, and was rewarded by the soft sound of her breathing.


He sprang upward.


But she was gone.


Irritated, LaCroix scanned the immediate area, unrewarded by
any find.   "Again you play these foolish games of chase,"
LaCroix shouted, disturbing a nest of day creatures, which
chattered nervously at the vampire's outburst. "This is
tiresome, Chantha. If you do not come back immediately, I am
taking my leave of you."


His terse demand received only her giggle in response.


LaCroix stewed for just a moment longer, then jumped nimbly
from the tree. He impacted the ground with a louder thud than
necessary, making sure that the woman was fully aware of his
impending departure.
"You spoil the sport," her gentle voice chided him from aloft.
"Are you still the hotspur who gave me immortality a decade
ago, or are you some old man, so set in his ways that he can no
longer enjoy adventure?"


A streak of lightening flashed in the distance, back-illuminating
the trees where Chantha was hiding. For just a moment, her
outline was visible. She stood, arms extended, in all
appearance a goddess offering herself to the supplication of her
believers.


The ancient sneered up at the woman. Then, quite suddenly,
his mood shifted. LaCroix smiled, his expression devilish.


"Beware what you wish for, my dear," he called up into the
trees. Then he launched himself, hurtling upward with the
speed of a rocket.


As his fingers touched her ankle, Chantha cried out in surprise.
LaCroix had propelled himself more swiftly than she'd ever
seen him move. Almost too late, she shied away, thwarting his
attempt at capture. She jumped and descended, seeming to
slide down the tree as if it was a smooth pole. Once she
reached ground, the female bolted and, on foot, ran into the
darkness.


LaCroix pursued, now enjoying the race. He glanced skyward,
vigilant of the hour as the night progressed. Chantha led him
back to Angkor Wat. She positioned herself atop the highest
stone tower, then jumped from one spire to another, always
keeping just out of his reach. Her hopping moves reminded
LaCroix of the final throes of a chess game.


<But this time,> LaCroix promised silently, <the king holds the
key to the mate.>


>From this height, LaCroix could more easily view the design of
the ancient temple city. The compound was a series of
concentric rectangles, stacked and rising to a peak in the center.


"It was designed to reflect the Hindu cosmos," Chantha's lyrical
voice whispered near his ear.


LaCroix spun to catch her, but she was no longer there.
He heard her laughter above him and looked up. For a brief
moment, her lithe figure was silhouetted against the crescent
moon. Like a moth, she flitted away. LaCroix swore beneath
his breath, then resumed his pursuit.


The ancient found his consort some miles away. She was
standing on a hillock, hidden by vegetation, watching
something below her with rapt intensity. LaCroix followed her
gaze, spying the small village below. In the open courtyard,
surrounded by stilted, thatched-roofed huts, was a small group
of people.


The villagers were watching a number of their brothers taking
part in a strange, vicious-appearing sport. Five men, browned
by the hot sun of their country, circled around each other. They
were dressed in short wraps of course cloth, from the waist
down only.   Each carried a rattan pole, which they used
prolifically to strike at each other.    Likewise, they held round
buffalo hide shields to parry the blows.


"It is a purification ritual," Chantha said quietly. "They fight to
summon the Spirit Mother to protect them from sickness. They
summon her from her home in the volcano."


LaCroix gave his mate a sharp look, but seeing that her face
held no guile, said nothing.


Then, she glanced his way and smiled craftily.   "Shall she pay
them a visit?"


Before he could speak, Chantha dove into the crowd of men.
She plucked one screaming youth from the assembly and lifted
his thrashing body into the air. The cries of the natives
remained audible even as LaCroix followed the female's flight
several miles away.


When he caught up with her, Chantha was holding the man in
her talons like an eagle.   She looked up from her feeding, eyes
glinting with satisfaction. Chantha dropped the dead human
and shrugged her shoulders. "I took all of him and left none
for you," she said in mock apology. "Let us continue the hunt
and secure you sustenance."


LaCroix shook his head. "I admire your bravado and hunting
skills, but that was a foolish, impetuous act, Chantha," he said
softly. "You should have waited to take your prey when he
was alone. Descending on the group as you did, exposing
yourself to the entire village, will only alert them to the
presence of an unseen evil. Their safety is in their number . . ."


"Their number offered *him* no protection," Chantha scoffed,
nudging the man's corpse with her foot.


"But, next time they will be alerted for your attack, ma lis,"
LaCroix replied.


Chantha's eyes flashed. "I am not a precious flower, my sire,"
she said disdainfully. "I will not grow hushed in the forest,
content to snag only those that come to my blossom.  I am a
tigresse."


"You are more like the chacal," LaCroix countered. "You lack
the finesse of the tigress and you leave a foul smell in your
wake."


Chantha shrieked in anger and attacked him. Laughing,
LaCroix caught her easily and wrapped her in the strength of
his arms. She struggled briefly, then stilled.


Overhead the clouds thickened. The streaks of electrical threat
increased and grew more vertical. A soft rain began to fall.


***********************


End of part 43/64


***********************


Cambodia, 1883


LaCroix pressed Chantha's back to a tree, never loosening his
hold on her arms. She refused to be pliant, and grew more
rigid as her confinement increased. The ancient bent over and
brushed his lips to her ear.


If he spoke, his words were lost in the gathering wind. Against
the will of her mind, Chantha's body began responding to her
sire's caresses.   Her moans were throaty as her resolve
vanished.


When he was sure that she desired him fully, LaCroix lowered
his attentions to her chest.   He pushed her blouse aside,
exposing the soft, pale flesh beneath. LaCroix's tongue
prodded at the cool surface, pleased when her guttural sounds
of need increased.


The vampire sank his fangs into his consort's upper breast,
snagging the blue vein there.   He drank deeply, drawing out
her essence, along with that of the half-digested boy.   Satisfied
that he'd stolen her kill from her, he let her go.


Chantha sagged back against the trunk, blinking in confusion.
His drinking from her had been different this time. Erotic,
yes . . . but it also hinted of rape.


"B'a'tard," she said, her eyes filling with tears.


"Actually, not," he replied, meeting her gaze with ice.    "But, I
have contributed to said gene pool . . ."


Chantha rubbed her breast, as if she would erase all evidence of
his pillage. "Why did you do that to me?"


"To prove a point, my sweet jackal," he replied, his stature
regal, his manner firmly proclaiming his superiority.   LaCroix
leaned forward, his words vicious in their gentility. "I am your
sire. I am still the tiger in this small pride we've created."


Chantha mused for a moment, then nodded.   "I understand."


"I'm glad that you do," LaCroix replied smugly.   "See that you
remember it."


The woman's face remained lowered, but LaCroix detected a
slight flicker in her eyelids. He looked toward the sky again.
The night was unnaturally dark and still, the moon now
shrouded by dark clouds.   The rain was still drizzling softly,
and the vampire shielded his eyes with his hand as he looked
aloft. Early morning was at hand, and his time to depart must
be soon.
Once his eyes were averted from her, Chantha raised her face
and studied him. A flash of close lightning illuminated her
features, giving the anger in her eyes a luciferous quality.
"Bastard," she whispered again, then melted into the darkness
of the jungle.


"I should be on my way, before this storm becomes more
pronounced," LaCroix addressed the woman, unaware that she
had left his side. When he lowered his face and noticed her
absence, he frowned. "Chantha?"


LaCroix was not alarmed at once, but grew more irritated as he
searched unsuccessfully for her. To allow her to simply go now
would be tantamount to allowing her to win their battle.
LaCroix could not allow that.


"Chantha?" his voice grew in volume as his widening
exploration bore no fruit. The increased pitch in the thunder
added to his aggravation, as he had to raise his voice to be
heard above the weather.   Soon, his deep timbres echoed with
frightening loudness through the dense forest.


"CHANTHA!"


The mist found its strength, changing   to a stinging rain.
LaCroix's anger grew in proportion to   the dampness which
permeated his body, vowing to himself   that the impertinent
woman would pay for her indiscretions   with her existence, if
necessary.


"CHANTHA!!"


A bolt discharged ahead of him, arching downward and
bearing close to the ground. The trees and leaves overhead
shivered in the lightning's wake, some breaking and falling.


LaCroix stopped, aware that a foreign sound was reaching him.
He listened closely. Then, slowly, he looked upward.


Chantha was above him, watching. She'd obviously been
following, rather than leading him. Stalking him.


LaCroix tried not to betray any emotion, though his heart
paused for a moment.   Why had he not sensed her earlier?


"Come down from there, Chantha," he called to her, shielding
his eyes from the blinding rain. "We need to talk."


"You mean, my master, that you wish to talk, and that I must
listen." Chantha said the words with utmost respect in her
voice, but her eyes were predatory.


He could not deny the truth of her words, so he ignored them.
"Come down, woman. It is not safe for you to remain in the
trees." Thunder rumbled as if in agreement.


Chantha ignored the warning. "I have nought to fear from the
elements, my sire. But it seems that I have much to fear from
you. I shall maintain my distance, if it pleases you."


"It does not please me," LaCroix replied, his exasperation
giving his words venom. He cooled quickly, though, when he
saw the woman's haughty half-smile.   The ancient took a deep
breath and changed his tone. "What would please me is our
both finding refuge. I fear this storm is increasing."


Chantha laughed. "Of course it is *increasing,* you fool," she
spat. "This is the season of the Typhoon, and you are feeling
the hands of the ocean mother slapping your face."


LaCroix rankled at her words, but remained calm.   "Come
down, Chantha. I fear for your safety."


"The only fear you have is for the *safety* of your grip on me."
The female clung more tightly to the tree she stood in, showing
no indication of intent to descend. "I will not be a victim to
your pretty words and soft touches any longer. And, I will
smite you, if I must, to obtain my freedom."


LaCroix's face hardened, no pretense of affection or
understanding remaining. "Come down at once, harlot, or your
fate is sealed."


How had events turned so, LaCroix wondered as they
remained frozen there, each one waiting for the other to make
the next move?   He had held affection for the female, of course.
If he had not, he would not have given her the gift of
immortality. Now, she addressed him in such a manner--
ungrateful and murderous.


LaCroix conceded. "Come down, my child," he said, extending
his hand upward. She shook her head, her soaked frame
looking quite small. LaCroix found himself surprised at how
young she appeared at that moment. She had been barely out
of her teens when brought across, and her current actions
indicated that the human vestiges of immaturity were
obviously still holding to her.


"Chantha, I understand if you are frightened of me, but I
implore you to come out of those trees. It is dangerous, and
you need to seek shelter. I promise, on the honor of my
ancestors, that I will not harm you."


Chantha sneered at his concession and stood rigidly in the crux
of the Banyon tree. "I curse your honorable ancestors," she
shouted down at her sire. "I curse those from whose loins and
womb you crawled."


"Heathen child," LaCroix shook his clenched fist toward the
sky. "May the gods hasten you to hell."


Chantha threw her face upward, embracing the wind, and
laughing at his threat. As she did, the gale increased, jolting
the area around them. A long subsidiary branch of the ancient
Banyon broke from its rooting, and swung loose for a moment.
Then it drove upward, powered by the gusts, and ensnared the
woman in its embrace.


Chantha was still laughing as the thick wooded vine encircled
her, going round the mother trunk, lashing her to the tree. She
was still laughing when a mighty burst of the tornadic wind
shoved the jagged edges of the branch into her chest.


Gasping, eyes wide with new fear, Chantha cried out.


"CHANTHA!!"   LaCroix left the ground, going to her aid.   The
gale knocked him back to earth.


The flash was too brilliant to be watched. LaCroix shrank from
the light, eyes blazing in shock and disbelief as the lightning
bolt struck the tree's crown, splitting the trunk with the force of
a cleaver. The Banyon burst into flames.
Chantha's shrieks died with the fire.


The flames faded quickly, quenched by the rain.    All that was
left was smoking, charred death.


LaCroix ran toward the tree, but was driven back again.
Moaning, the old tree fell, impacting the earth with a hollow
thud. Its root branches dangled like obscene fingers, pointing
at him in accusation.


LaCroix looked, but found no trace of her.   He finally
concluded that she had gone to her gods.


That evening, he left Cambodia, a vow on his lips.   <Never
again.>


*******************************


End of part 44


*******************************


Pete burst into the inner room, his face frantic. He searched
and quickly found Belinda, huddled in the corner closest to the
laboratory sink. Pete ran to the quaking child.


"What was that?" Beda managed to ask through chattering
teeth. "It sounded like a bear!"


"It was the vampire," Pete said, confirming the little girl's
greatest fears. "And, he's pissed off. We got to get out of
here--NOW."


"But what about Ms. Julia?" Belinda protested as Pete pulled the
child to her feet.


"I think she's dead," Pete said abruptly.


Beda stalled and pulled back, her face growing pale.      "What do
you mean?"


"I think she was killed when the roof caved in," Pete said,
tugging at the girl. "Come on. We got to go."


"But are you sure she's dead?" Beda argued, tears rising.
"Maybe she's just hurt. We can't just leave her."


Pete stopped and stared at the frightened red-haired child. "All
I know is that the vampire was all set to bite her, but then she
went limp, and he stopped and started roaring. I figured she
died, since everyone knows that vampires can't drink from the
dead. Now, come on!"


Beda still wouldn't budge. She looked toward the exit door and
beyond, with her mind, to the kitchen. "But you don't know if
she really died. She might just have fainted."


"I really, honestly doubt that she *just fainted,*" Pete said
sternly. Then, without further words, he grabbed Belinda up
by her waist and headed toward the door, bodily carrying the
thrashing, protesting child.


A shadow spread across the entrance of the interior room, its
hovering darkness obstructing their exit.


Beda quieted in Pete's arms and looked at the looming figure in
fright.   "Too late," she whispered.


LaCroix carried Julia's slack body into the room. Both figures
were drenched, their clothing clinging to them like damp
swaddling. Julia's hands hung down from her, water dripping
onto the floor from her fingertips.


"Clear the table," LaCroix shouted.


Pete dropped Beda and immediately began pushing items off
the table.   Pans and ironwork clattered to the floor, ignored by
the room's occupants.   Gently, LaCroix laid the woman on the
surface.


Beda hovered nearby as LaCroix examined Julia closely.   "Is she
dead?"
"No," the ancient said quickly, "but she hovers close."


LaCroix gave no further thought to the children, his full
attention on the woman. As easily as he could, he rolled Julia
on her side and examined the wound at the base of her skull.
Although it had bled profusely, the cut did not appear deep.
LaCroix touched his finger to Julia's skin, feeling heat. He
surmised that her brain was swelling within.


He returned her to as comfortable a position as possible and
searched her face. It was sallow. Julia's breathing was so light
that her nostrils barely flared. LaCroix lifted one of her eyelids
with his thumb and saw only his reflection mirrored by her
pupil's glazed surface.


"She's dying," the vampire said softly.


LaCroix clasped the woman's chin and turned her head to the
left, allowing adequate exposure of her jugular.    Without
hesitation, he bent down to her.


"Wha . . . Wha . . . What are you DOING?"   Beda grabbed at
LaCroix's sleeve.


Without turning, the ancient answered the girl, his voice
remote. "I am ending her pain." He moved to continue his
task.


Belinda's tug on his clothing became more urgent.  "By
BITING her?? What if it isn't as bad as you think? You're not a
doctor, are you?"


"No," LaCroix conceded. Then he half-turned toward the child.
"But, I have seen death in all its forms."


At the sight of LaCroix's fangs, extending sharply from his
upper jaw, Belinda Rambo had shrunk back slightly. Now, her
lips quivering, she bolstered herself and addressed the
nightmare in front of her.   "Maybe . . . maybe she just has a
cush . . . con . . . con . . ."


"Concussion," Pete finished for the girl.
Belinda nodded vigorously.   "Yea, that's it, a concushion."


"Concussions are often fatal," LaCroix reminded the children.


"Yeah, but not always, right?" Beda argued. "I remember one
time there was a bird that flew into our patio door. It got
knocked out and looked dead. My Dad even said it was dead
and was gonna feed it to our cat."


"Yuck!" Peter made a face.


Belinda nodded. "That's what I said. Yuck. Then our neighbor
. . . a really weird, but nice, lady named Rhonda . . . yelled at
my Dad over the fence to not give the bird to the cat."


"Poor deprived kitten," LaCroix said dryly.


Beda ignored him, caught up in her story. "Ms. Rhonda told
me to find a box with a lid. So I did. Then, she told me to
put the bird in the box and put the lid on and find a quiet, dark
place and put the box and bird into it and leave the bird alone
for a couple of hours. She said that, sometimes, the bird was
just stunned, not dead, and just needed to rest to get over the
tra . . . tra . . ."


"Trauma?" Pete offered.


"Yeah, trauma," Belinda said seriously. "So, I left the bird alone
until almost dark, then I went and got the box and opened the
lid and the bird was awake. It flew away as quick as it could,"
Beda finished triumphantly.


"Your point?" LaCroix asked, when he was certain that the
child's argument was finished.


Beda looked crestfallen, then angry. "Maybe if you don't bite
her, and just leave her alone, Ms. Julia will be okay."


"That's doubtful," LaCroix replied. "I suspect that her brain is
swelling." Then he lied blatantly. "Would you prefer watching
Ms. Julia's head explode to my giving her a gentle, painless
demise?"


Peter grimaced at the thought, and Beda's face reflected shock
as she pondered the vampire's question. Near to tears, the
child slowly shook her head.


"Then, we are in agreement."   LaCroix returned to the woman.


"A . . . a . . . are you going to make her . . . like you?" Belinda
asked tentatively.


LaCroix halted.   For a long moment, the vampire stood there,
studying the woman, as if memorizing each of her features. "I
had not considered the possibility," he said finally.


"But, you love her, don't you?" Beda pushed for his answer.     "If
you love her . . ." The child's voice trailed off.


"I love *no* one," LaCroix said flatly.


Pete had remained silent all this time, but now spoke.   "Has she
given her permission for you to make her a vampire?"


LaCroix turned on the boy, all pretext of human civility fading.
"What did you say?"

"I asked if you had her permission to make her a vampire," Pete
replied, his voice holding a note of challenge. "Doesn't a
person have to *choose* to become a vampire? You can't just
make them against their will, can you?"


"It's usually wise that the fledgling be aware of things
beforehand, yes," LaCroix sneered, eyes blazing. Then, he
smiled wickedly. "But consent is not necessary."


"Oh," Pete said softly.


LaCroix ignored the boy, and Pete shrank back into the
darkness. Beda, however, was more persistent. "What if she
doesn't like being a vampire?"


"Then eternity could be somewhat . . .," an image of Nicholas
flickered briefly in his mind, " . . . messy for her," LaCroix
responded.   Then his voice grew cold. "But, why do I stand
here arguing with you striplings? I shall choose to dispose of
Julia as I see fit." He allowed his eyes to flare, then growled at
the child.


Beda scampered back, tripping over a chair. She cried out as
she fell. LaCroix looked up from Julia and stared at the girl.


Behind him, LaCroix was vaguely aware of the creaking of
hinges. <The boy has chosen to flee,> he decided. <One less to
deal with at the moment.>


Belinda was sprawled on the floor, shaking. When she saw that
LaCroix's attention was fixed on her, she froze.


Satisfied that the child would interfere no longer, LaCroix
turned to Julia again.


But Beda Rambo was not defeated yet.    "What if she hates you
for doing it?"


For a long moment, LaCroix did not move. Then, slowly, he
turned toward Belinda. When she was able to see his face,
distorted by anger, she cried out.


"Cease your interference, or I will consume you first."
LaCroix's voice was dangerously low as he glowered at Beda.

The girl shrieked. Behind LaCroix, Julia groaned loudly.      The
vampire and mortal girl exchanged quick looks.


"She's alive!! See!!"   Beda shouted.    Even as she spoke, LaCroix
was turning around.


As he did, Peter Brackin drove the stake home.


******************************


End of part 45


******************************
LaCroix looked down at the smooth shank of wood protruding
from his chest. He watched as a hand released its grip on the
hilt and pulled back. LaCroix's eyes followed the hand and
traveled up his assailant's arm until he was staring into the face
of Peter Brackin, age twelve.


The skinny boy grew smaller under the intense gaze of the
vampire.


"You missed," LaCroix said simply. LaCroix grasped the stake
and, grunting slightly, extracted it. With a simple flick of his
wrist, he tossed the bloody shard away and looked at Peter
again.


"Don't come near me!" Pete shouted. He waved a second stake
menacingly at LaCroix. "I have another one."


"A worthy adversary, I'm sure," LaCroix replied calmly. He
pressed his hand to the wound on his chest, stanching the flow
of his blood.


>From the table, Julia moaned again, as if the cries of the
children had disturbed her rest. LaCroix went to her and
examined her eyes again.


"Is she better?" Beda's voice was hopeful. The child rose from
the floor, eager to know the health of her mentor.


"No," LaCroix replied, letting the woman's eye snap shut. His
touch had left a blooded thumbprint on her lid. "She remains
the same."


LaCroix turned to Pete, who lifted the stake high when he saw
that the vampire's attention was on him once more.


"Stalemate, young Brackin?"


"Huhhh?" Pete looked at LaCroix, wary. He doubted that his
next hit would be any more effective than his first, but he
wasn't about to let the vampire know it.    <This sure looks
easier in the movies,> the boy complained inwardly.
"Your blow, though ineffective in securing my untimely death,
had its effects," LaCroix explained, suddenly weary. What little
of the coyote blood he'd still retained in his system was now a
drying puddle on the floor. The ancient felt very tired.


Peter flexed his hold on the stake.    "You'll leave Ms. Julia alone
if I leave you alone, right?"


LaCroix nodded.


Pete returned the nod and extended his hand toward Belinda.
"Come on, Beda. You get over here with me." The girl ran to
the boy, quickly hiding behind his not-much-larger-than-she
frame.


Exhausted, LaCroix reached and righted the chair which
Belinda had fallen over. He sat down heavily. LaCroix cupped
Julia's hand in his own, prepared to watch her fade.


<Plenty of time to kill the boy later,> LaCroix reminded
himself.   And Peter Brackin would die . . . a most horrible
death.


************************************


A clap of thunder, very close, awakened LaCroix. Though the
sound had startled him, years of experience and practice kept
him from rising too quickly. He waited, looking around for
signs of danger. Satisfied that none were at hand, he lifted his
head and surveyed the room.


It was mid-day, from what his senses could ascertain. The
room was shadowed, an indication that the sky was still
overcast. This was confirmed by the sound of rain, pelting the
roof which still hung precariously over their heads.


LaCroix examined Julia quickly. Satisfied that her condition
had not changed, he rose and stretched. Across the room, he
noted Peter Brackin watching him with sleep-deprived eyes.
Belinda lay against him, her small head in the boy's lap.
LaCroix nodded once toward the boy, who returned the nod.


"I had thought you would take the chance to escape during my
slumber," LaCroix remarked.


"I wouldn't leave Ms. Julia here for you to kill," Pete replied.


LaCroix pursed his lips thoughtfully. "What is she to you, Mr.
Brackin, that you would be concerned with what I chose to do
with her? Do you really care about this woman you barely
know, or are you suffering the delusions of some type of
hero-idea that you must kill the 'big bad vampire' and save the
fair ladies?"


Pete didn't reply.


LaCroix nodded thoughtfully. "I understand," the vampire
said. "You've just watched too much media, and think that
what you're doing is the 'right thing' to do."


The ancient placed his palm to the back of his neck and began
massaging the area.


"Hey, guard," a weak voice addressed him from close by.
LaCroix pivoted slightly. Julia's hazel eyes were open and
watching him through half-closed lids. "Are we getting
courtyard time today, or what?"


LaCroix paused, thinking back over the woman's history.
Unsure if she was joking or delusional, he played along.   "Not
today, I'm afraid."


"Shit," the woman replied, rolling back so that her face was
toward the ceiling. As she settled, she winced. "Damn it to
hell. What bitch hit me?"


"No one struck you," LaCroix replied, placing a palm on the
woman's forehead. "You fell."


At his touch, Julia opened her eyes, snarled and slapped at his
hand. "Get your mitts off me, you filthy badge. You ain't
f---ing with me."


"As you wish," LaCroix turned from the woman and positioned
himself near the exit doorway.
"Ms. Julia?" Beda tentatively came forward, her voice hopeful.
"Are you feeling better?"


Julia regarded the child with wary, unfocused eyes. "Bitch," she
snapped. "Get away from my cot before I beat you senseless."


Beda went back to Pete's side, dropped to a sitting position and
began sobbing.


Julia sighed deeply and muttered, "My f----ing head hurts."
Then, she sighed again and was still.


"She's delirious," LaCroix explained, his eyes never leaving the
auburn-haired woman.


Pete nodded in agreement.   "But," he said pointedly, "she *is*
alive."


LaCroix looked toward the boy. "Yes, Mr. Brackin. She *is*
alive. But for how long? And how much pain is she in?"


"So do something to help her," Pete said accusingly. "And, I'm
not talking about biting her. You're some kind of super-dude,
right? Why don't you just take her and fly out of here and take
her to a hospital or something?"


LaCroix was before the boy immediately. Pete yelped and
raised the stake he held, but LaCroix knocked it away. The
whitewood shard skittered across the floor, coming to rest
beneath the table where Julia lay.


The vampire grabbed Pete and lifted the boy from the floor.
Ignoring the youth's profusion of complaints, LaCroix dragged
Peter from the room and into the parlor where they'd first
entered. The vampire thrust the boy before him, facing him
toward the gaping opening. LaCroix held the boy by the back
of the neck, keeping Pete's head rigid.


"Look out there, Mr. Brackin," LaCroix commanded as the wind
and rain whipped at them fiercely. "How do you suggest that I
travel in this storm? You hinted that I fly, perhaps? And how,
pray tell, should I manage the downdrafts? Don't be fooled,
boy--I am strong, but, I am as vulnerable to certain elements as
yourself."


Pete shook his head, trying to cast the water from his eyes.   He
gulped in large amounts of blowing water, choking as he did.
In the distance, they saw lightning, then heard the telltale
crackle of branches splitting from their trunks.


"A stray limb, positioned just right, could pierce my heart,"
LaCroix snarled low into Pete's ear. "A lightning bolt could
strike and incinerate me. Then Julia and I would both be dead."
He gave the boy a harsh shake. "If you are so concerned in
securing aid for Julia, you go." Then he shoved the boy outside
into the storm.


When LaCroix stalked into the inner room, alone, Beda cried
out. She jumped and ran to Julia, grabbing the woman's hand
and squeezing it. "Ms. Julia, please wake up." Belinda looked
at the vampire with fright, then back to the prone woman.
"PLEASE!"


Julia stirred and opened her eyes. She saw the red-haired child,
flinched and jerked her hand from Beda's grasp. "Get lost,
pervert," she mumbled, then closed her eyes again.


Belinda looked back at LaCroix and began screaming.


LaCroix winced.   "Quiet, girl, or I'll toss you out too."


Beda stifled immediately.   "You didn't kill him?" she questioned
uncertainly.


As if in answer, a thoroughly soaked Peter Brackin skulked into
the room. Giving the vampire as much berth as possible, the
boy went to the opposite side of the room and sat down
submissively.


Three heads turned simultaneously as soft, rancid laughter
drifted from the center of the room. "There's another ten years
on your sentence, you little pr--k," Julia chortled softly, "for
trying to escape."


****************************
End of part 46/64


****************************


The sun felt so good. It baked his skin, broiling the fairness to a
light oak brown color. In a minute, his mom would be yelling
at him to come over and put on more sunscreen, but at this
moment he was alone on the California beach. Alone, gouging
his toes into the thick, wet sand, only his thoughts and dreams
for company. Alone, with his monsters.


In his dreams, Pete was the hero--the crafty pre-pubescent boy
who knew all the right answers, foiled the villains and saved
the world. No ogre was too large, no specter too transparent,
no fiend too fiendish to best Peter Brackin, Esq. Nope. No
way, no how.


An unseen fear nagged at Pete, and he frowned in his sleep. He
was suddenly restless, and something pulled at him to awaken.


Pete smiled again as a memory invaded his waking thoughts.
It had been a most wonderful summer. His dad had been busy,
working, and he had spent a lot of alone, quality time with his
mom. Part of the summer had been spent with Bunnie
Brackin's cousin in Minnesota, and Pete had the pleasure of
tormenting his younger second cousin, Clovis.


On a trip to town, Pete had made a simple purchase at the local
discount store. It was a small model of Dracula. Back at home,
he had put it together with intensity, his tongue firmly glued to
the side of his mouth.


It had been Clovis' fault. She had enter his room, uninvited.
When she'd caught sight of the fanged monster, the squeamish
girl had cried out.


Gratified by her fear, Pete had spent much of that day chasing
the girl with the half-painted vampire replica.


The Dracula was to reappear many times during the
remainder of Bunnie and Pete's stay with Clovis' parents.
Pete would wait, hidden behind a barrel or staircase, until the
girl was within range, then jump out, monster extended
toward her, and shout "BOO!" Clovis would shriek and run to
her mother to complain, once more, about how Pete was "being
mean" to her.


The summer ended and Pete had gone home. His cherished
Dracula had taken its place among his monster collection,
rarely picked up after that.


And now, quite recently, Pete had learned that his own father
had pulled a similar stunt. As a youth, Aaron Brackin had
chased his sister, Linda, attempting to frighten her with a gray
plastic version of the Mummy. Like father, like son.


A slow pang spread through Pete as he thought of his father.
Even though a part of the boy detested the adult, Pete sure
wished his dad was here now.   Pete was tired of being the
brave one.


Then he remembered Clovis and the Dracula model and smiled
again.


Pete was still grinning when he finally opened his eyes.
LaCroix's face came into view and returned the boy's smile.


In panic, Pete sat up just a bit too quickly.   The blood rushed
to his head, making it ache.


LaCroix sat back, idly twirling the stake that Pete had been
clutching in his hand prior to drifting off to sleep.


"I'm impressed by the workmanship," LaCroix said, holding up
the stake for closer examination. Then he looked at Pete. "You
didn't make this yourself, did you, Mr. Brackin?"


Pete, hands extended behind him so that he could push up
quickly to a running position, shook his head.


"So, I might ask, where did you obtain it?"


"I found it," Pete said.


LaCroix's expression indicated that he would allow no avenue
for hedging.   "Where?" the vampire insisted. "In this house, I
assume?"
Pete hesitated, then nodded. Unbidden, the boy's eyes flexed to
the cabinet door. It was slightly ajar. Pete began to sweat.


LaCroix noticed the door and rose. Pete started to get up, too,
but LaCroix stopped him with a look. The vampire opened the
cabinet door a bit wider and looked inside. He flinched as he
saw the box, but forced himself to inventory its contents.
LaCroix tossed the shard he was holding into the carton with
the others of its kind, then shut the door with a resounding,
scraping *click.*

At the metallic sound, Belinda stirred and sat up. The little girl
rubbed her eyes and yawned.   Then, she saw LaCroix with his
hand on the cabinet door handle and opened her mouth to
scream.


Pete grabbed the child and clasped his hand over her mouth.


"A wise move, Mr. Brackin," LaCroix noted. The vampire
moved away from the children, taking his chair and
repositioning it near Julia. He resumed his seat and sat
watching the woman.


Beda turned on Pete.   "Did he find the stuff?" the red-haired girl
asked urgently.


"Yea," Pete confirmed. "He didn't take it, though, and toss it
out like I figured he would. He just closed the door and walked
away."


"Maybe he couldn't because of the big cross inside," Beda
offered. "Maybe it would have burned him up if he had."


"Somehow, I kind of doubt it," Pete said. "I think he's just
confident that he's better than us and doesn't have to worry
about it." Pete glanced toward LaCroix. "And, I think he's
right," the boy concluded.


"He looks tired," Beda said, her eyes also on the vampire.    "He
hasn't eaten, and he hasn't slept."


"How do you know he hasn't slept?" Pete looked at the girl
disdainfully. "You've been asleep yourself, so how do you
know that he hasn't?"


"'Cause his coffin isn't here," Belinda huffed dramatically.
"Everyone knows that a vampire needs a coffin to sleep in."


The children's argument was interrupted by a soft, low
chuckling. They both looked across the room, noting that
LaCroix was watching them.


"Your folklore is fallacious, Ms. Rambo," the ancient drawled.
"I detest sleeping in coffins. They induce claustrophobic
tendencies in me."


"He probably just has some of his native earth hanging around
his neck," Pete said with an air of superiority. LaCroix
responded by shaking his head.


"The ash from your mother's cigarette would be as useful to me
as the earth of my ancestors," LaCroix said. "Both are
ineffective and superfluous."


"But . . ." Belinda started to argue, but LaCroix raised a hand.


"Folklore and legends are the tools of the ignorant and the
fanatical to control the masses and give them some comfort that
they have the means to chase away the demons that haunt
them," LaCroix said coldly. "Most of it is as useful and accurate
as chemical spray is on roaches."


"But, some of that stuff kills the bugs," Pete argued.


"Perhaps," LaCroix countered, "but in the end the insect adapts
and continues to survive, doesn't it? It is never eradicated."


Belinda made a face, remembering the large Palmetto bug that
had invaded the stable quarters one night near the beginning of
their stay. The little girls had been in quite a frenzy as they'd
watched Ms. Julia chasing the large roach-like creature around
the floor, trying to squash it with a broom. Beda looked at
Julia, wishing the woman were as active now and capable of
protecting them from their current menace.


The child grew thoughtful.   "What do you use then?" she asked
LaCroix.


The vampire looked at her carefully.   "What do you mean,
child?"

"To sleep on?" Beda asked, wrinkling her forehead.   "If you
don't sleep in a coffin, what do you use?"


LaCroix chuckled again. "I prefer a good, firm mattress
covered with silk sheets--expensive ones." He winked at the
girl.   "And," the vampire continued, un-coaxed, "even if that
particular part of the lore had been true, I would most likely
not rest in a coffin."


Beda and Pete exchanged glances, then gave LaCroix their full
attention again. "What do you mean?" Pete questioned.


"Coffins were available, but not commonplace among my
fellows, when I walked the earth as a mortal," LaCroix said
softly. "Upon my *death*, I would have probably been reduced
to ash and placed in an urn."


"Cremated?" Pete said, his face registering revulsion.


LaCroix nodded, then smiled. "Ignibus impostum calidis
torrescere flammis. Cremation was the most popular form of
disposing of the dead among my class.   Under normal
circumstances, I would most likely have been carried out of the
city on a funerary couch, surrounded by mourners, through the
Herculaneum Gate to the Street of Tombs."


Both children stared at LaCroix, their mouths wide open.
Belinda inched closer, still afraid, but fascinated by the
vampire's words. The ancient looked down at the expectant
children, deciding how much he should say.


Then, knowing that their deaths were imminent anyway,
LaCroix continued to speak.


*****************************


End of part 47/64
*****************************


Historical material for this segment was garnered directly from
"Death and Burial in The Roman World" by J.M.C. Toynbee.
Ms. Toynbee was a Lawrence Professor of Classical Archeology
at Cambridge University. She died in 1985. My thanks for her
research and publication.


And, also to Libby Singleton for allowing me to borrow this
book--which I have held now for over a year. Thank you, Libs.


**********************************
**********************************


The room was hushed, with only LaCroix's voice breaking the
silence. Even the rain outside had grown less fierce, as if it
would also listen to the tale being told.


"Upon my death," the ancient said, eyes reflective with
memory, "my friends and family-- or at least those who thought
paying homage to me in death would be fruitful-- would gather
around me. If they thought I had soul left to catch, my closest
relative would give me a 'last kiss,' to capture that essence as it
left my body with my final breath. Then, the preparation of my
body for lying-in-state would be turned over to the libitinarii
and their underlings, the pollinctores."


LaCroix paused, making certain that the children were giving
his words proper attention. Pete and Beda sat breathlessly
observant. Satisfied, the vampire continued.


"After a time of up to seven days, my body would be carried to
the pyre, outside the city near the site of my proposed
internment on the Via Dei Sepolcri.   A praeco, a herald, would
summon the citizens to pay their respects. In darkness, they
would follow my bench to where the pyre was laid." LaCroix
stopped, as if collecting his thoughts.


"Then what?" Pete urged.


"Then, upon arrival at the site, my mourners would throw dirt
upon my face and perform the ritual of os resectum."


"What's that?" Beda asked.
LaCroix gave the child a grave look.   "They would cut off a
piece of my flesh."


"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeoooooooooooowwwwwwwww," the children
chorused, their expressions pained.


"The rogus was a pile of wood, rectangular in shape, mixed
with papyrus to speed the burning. Along with my couch,
some of my personal possessions and my armor, if I so desired,
would be placed on the pyre."


"What kind of 'personal possessions?'" Belinda interrupted to
query.


LaCroix appeared thoughtful. "Oh, things perhaps needed in
the next life, if one believed in such.  Eating utensils or items
from my toilet."


Beda looked at Pete, who shrugged.


"Things with special meaning to me," LaCroix continued, a
slow smile spreading across his face. "A token from an
admirer, a toy from my youth, a letter, a windchime,
jewelry . . ."


"I have a unicorn windchime!" Beda piped up, smiling smugly.


LaCroix regarded the child for a moment.   "I'm quite happy for
you, child."


"It's pretty and it tinkles real good," Beda added proudly.    Pete
put his hand over his mouth and snorted loudly.


"I see," LaCroix said, giving the boy a stern look.   "But, we
digress. Allow me to continue."


The children hushed and resumed listening.


"The attendants would make sure that my eyes were open and
then the fire would be lit by the torch. After my body was
consumed by the flame, my ashes would be wetted by wine,
then gathered to be placed in the tomb."


"Gee," Belinda whispered, while Pete sat silent, his imagination
soaring.


"As per my wishes, my remains would be placed in a chest or
an urn of marble, lead or alabaster." LaCroix smiled with a
warm memory. "I remember the most exquisite urn of a lady I
had acquaintance with. It was a chalice of honey-colored
alabaster with a wide mouth and slender foot--much like the
lady herself." LaCroix winked at the children.


Beda looked confused.   "I don't get it," the little girl complained.


Pete laughed and rumpled the girl's hair.   "It's a guy thing."


LaCroix coughed slightly to return their attention to him and
they quickly obliged.


"I would chose a simple cineraria, close in shape to my family
temple," the vampire continued. "It would be intricately
carved, as befited my class, and enclosed within a leaded vault.
It would be placed in a niche, or exedra. The enclosure would
hold benches to accommodate those who chose to visit my
tomb, an alter and a marble tombstone, designed to hold my
portrait. My ashes would be interred beneath the tombstone."

LaCroix noted Peter's pensive look, and smiled. "It doesn't
bode well for a return from the dead, does it, Mr. Brackin? I
suppose one disposed of in such a manner could arise, smother
you with dark soot and choke you to death."


Pete considered this idea for a minute, then grinned.   "Full
body usage is definitely better."


LaCroix nodded in agreement.


"So you never had a coffin?" Beda reiterated.   LaCroix affirmed
the child's question with another nod.


Pete looked puzzled. "If you were gonna be cremated after you
died, then what happened to stop them from cremating you?"
"My attendants were . . . preoccupied at the time," LaCroix
smiled.


"So that means that you were never buried," Beda piped in.


"I was so fortuitous, yes," LaCroix confirmed the girl's
speculation.


"But you did die?"


"I became immortal," LaCroix replied.


Pete had become very quiet, a question heavy on his lips.
LaCroix waited, interested in what the boy might ask. Finally,
Pete looked directly at LaCroix.


"Did you ever hate that it happened?    That you became a
vampire?"


There was absolutely no hesitation in LaCroix's voice.
"Never."


Pete licked the corners of his dry mouth.     "Even . . . the blood
drinking stuff?"


"No."


"That's sick," Beda scowled.


LaCroix turned to the child, amused.    "The alternative was
more distasteful."


"You could have died and gone to heaven," Beda said quietly.
"That would be better than hurting people."


LaCroix was no longer amused.   "Death offered me nothing.
'Hurting people' is simply part of being superior to them."


"I still think it's ugly," Beda frowned.    "And I'd never do it."
"Be thankful then, child, that I am not prepared to offer you the
choice," the ancient said smoothly. Then he turned to Peter.
"What say you, Mr. Brackin? Given the choice of life or death,
which would you chose?"


Peter did not answer. He was looking past LaCroix, his
expression unsure. The vampire turned to find Julia, propped
up on her elbows, watching him closely. When the woman
noted his attention, she smiled crookedly.


"That's one hell of a bedtime story you've been telling the
warden's kids, hack." She tossed her head seductively, then
grimaced as a sharp pain ran through her skull. She fell back
slightly, but remained upright. "I hope for your sake that you
got more to fall back on than your civil service retirement.
You're gonna need it when they can your ass."


LaCroix returned her smile, wondering how much she had
heard and how much had registered. "I'm well fixed," he
replied.


Julia let her eyes wander to LaCroix's lower torso, her smile
spreading.   "I'll just bet you are."


Then she closed her eyes and collapsed back onto the table.


****************************


End of part 48/64


****************************


At the feel of the damp washrag touching her face, Julia yelped
and came awake.   She grabbed the hand which hovered over
her face, gouging her fingernails deeply into the flesh.


Her caregiver did not cry out, or even flinch, but quietly took
her hand in his free one and uncoupled it from the one that she
grasped. Julia looked up into the blue eyes of her keeper and
regarded him with suspicion.
"How are you feeling?" LaCroix asked.


"My f--king head hurts, is how I feel," Julia responded irritably.
Then she spat angrily into LaCroix's face. "And I told you to
keep your stinking hands off of me."


"Very well," LaCroix responded by dropping the rag in her
face. "Cleanse your own brow."


Julia flung the cloth across the room, narrowly missing the
ancient's back as he walked away. LaCroix watched as the rag
*splatted* against the wall and slid to the floor. He
turned back toward the woman.


"That could be construed as an assault, young woman," he said.


"Bitchin'," Julia replied, lowering herself to a semi-prone
position again. She eyes darted around the room. "Where are
the brats?"


LaCroix smiled. "Ms. Rambo had necessity to relieve herself,
and Mr. Brackin offered to stand guard.


"Probably wanted to sneak a peak," Julia snorted.   Then her
face contorted somewhat. "But, I can feel for her. I need to use
the can myself." Shakily, she hoisted herself to a sitting
position, allowing her legs to swing off the table.


"I'd offer assistance, but I prefer retaining the use of all my
limbs," LaCroix remarked amiably.


Julia gave him an offensive glare. "Wise move, baldy. Now,
just point me in the direction of the nearest john, okay?"


LaCroix nodded toward the room's only exit. Julia eased
herself off of the table, very slowly, and stood for a moment on
unsteady legs.   She attempted a step, then stumbled, catching
hold of a nearby chair for support. She turned, too quickly, to
make sure that LaCroix was not moving. The blood flow
demanded for the motion failed her and fire arched through her
skull.   She collapsed to the floor, bitter tears coursing down her
flushed face.
Julia didn't hear his approach, only becoming aware of his
closeness as her vision cleared. With a great deal of pain, she
managed to open her eyes and focus on the dark material in
front of her.   Her eyes traveled slowly up the long legs to the
torso, then to the chest, finally stopping on the obdurate face
regarding her.


Julia squinted at LaCroix.   "You gonna help me up?"


LaCroix creased his lips thoughtfully. "No." Then he walked
past her, stopping at the doorway, looking outward. "And
mind that you do not soil your clothing," he admonished
without turning. "There are no changes available."


With his back turned to the woman, LaCroix listened to her
rather vocal efforts as she struggled to stand again. She
muttered a variety of choice expletives, several of which
brought a smile to the vampire's face. Finally, audible
indications of her floundering ceased, except for a slight
scraping as she hobbled across the room toward him.


"Excuse me," Julia said contemptuously she brushed past
LaCroix, headed out the door. She entered the hall, looked in
both directions, then back to him, her expression puzzled.


"To the right," he instructed. "Through the hole in the wall.
You'll find the whole of nature waiting for your disposal."


"Hardee har har har," she replied, noting his play on words.
"My luck to get a f--king comedian for a guard."


As she neared the parlor door, the children walked through it.
Pete and Belinda gaped at the woman in surprise. Julia looked
at the bedraggled youngsters with disdain and limped past
them.


Pete walked over to where LaCroix was watching the woman's
departure, careful to keep his distance. He motioned to Beda
that she keep walking and, reluctantly, the child continued
across the room, stopping at the far corner. "Is she doing
better?' the boy asked LaCroix.


"She still appears to be suffering the misconception that she is
in prison and we are her keepers," the ancient replied. "As to
her physical health, she appears to have rallied, but her
condition could change rapidly. I've seen it happen all too
often. One moment, the wounded is standing; the next, they
drop from a seizure."


Julia returned a short time later, her walking less jolted. She
noted the children sitting together across the room, then gave
LaCroix a cursive look. "One big happy family." The woman
approached the table, then turned, leaning with her back
toward it. "What's the story here, anyway?"


"Story?"


"Yea," Julia looked around and gestured expressively.    "Why
are we stuck in this dump?"


"We were driven in by the storm," LaCroix said simply.


"Well, gee, Sherlock, even I could figure that one out." Julia's
expression was exasperated. "I mean . . . what are we doing in
the f---ing woods in the first place?"


"What do you think we're doing here?" LaCroix asked
guardedly.


Julia closed her tired eyes, her forehead puckered with the
strain of thought. "I can't remember everything, but I think you
were transporting my ass to the state pen, and we had a
flat." When LaCroix chose not to answer, the auburn-haired
woman nodded. "Yea . . . that's it."


"And the children?" LaCroix encouraged her to think further,
interested in where her damaged mind had led her.


Julia turned toward the children, who were sitting silently,
watching the adults. The woman turned back to LaCroix and
shrugged. "Don't know. I thought they were the Warden's
kids, but now they look more like some runaways to me."


LaCroix nodded in approval.   "Very close."


Julia sneered at his sanction. "I'm so f--king pleased that I have
the St. Gabriel Penal Seal of Approval, your bullship."   The
woman winced as another streak of pain seared through her
head. "I better sit down again," she said in a low voice. Julia
braced her hands on the table and tried to hoist herself upward.
Her attempts failed miserably and she stopped hopping,
exhausted, and stared at LaCroix.


"You gonna help me or not?" Julia glared at the vampire.


"If you ask nicely," LaCroix responded without smiling.


Julia opened her mouth to entertain the room with yet another
discourse of foul words, but decided against it.


"Please."


LaCroix went to her, stopping just a bit too close for one not of
intimate acquaintance. Julia could feel the power in his body
and her manner melted slightly as an unexpected thrill coursed
through her. She looked up, staring straight into the cobalt
eyes which regarded her so closely.


For just a moment, the woman felt a strange flicker of memory
creep into the injured part of her brain. Then it was gone.


**************************************


End of Part 49


**************************************


The ancient gently encircled his hands around the woman's
waist and lifted her slowly. He seated her petite form on the
edge of the table, lingering just a moment longer than
necessary. Again, Julia responded to the sensualness of his
proximity by gasping just slightly.


Then, without word, he moved away from her. The woman
watched as he walked toward the children. The youngsters
seemed to grow alarmed at his approach, squeezing together
more closely.


LaCroix stopped, positioning himself over them. The vampire's
stance was not menacing, but it radiated authority. He looked
down into the wary faces of Pete and Belinda.


<Good,> he thought smugly. <It wouldn't bode well for them
to think our previous discourse encouraged undue familiarity.
Better to have them fear me--especially, in the daylight hours.>


For, even in the gray dampness of the storm's lull, LaCroix
could feel the effects of day fatigue pulling at him.    The
vampire offered the children a vague smile then reached past
them, placing his hand on the closet door knob.   Abruptly, he
thrust back on the door, jamming it crookedly into the frame.
LaCroix snapped the knob off at the neck and tossed the broken
piece to a startled Pete.


"Let's get some rest, shall we?" LaCroix left the youngsters
staring at him with dumbfounded expressions.


LaCroix took up a position by the door again, laying as once
before with his legs spread across the exit passage. He gave the
children one more warning look, then closed his eyes.


The woman was squatting next to him when his eyes flickered
open. Her hand, which had been spread beneath his nose,
pulled back quickly.


Her face was an interesting mixture of defiance and
sheepishness. "Just checking to see if you were still alive," she
finally offered when he did not ask. "I couldn't see you
breathing."


"I'm as alive as I've been in many years," LaCroix said. He
looked toward the children. They had lain out on the floor,
weariness finally claiming them.


"Yeah, they're out like little lights," Julia remarked, her eyes
also on the youngsters. "Ain't it sweet--the silence of the
lambs?" Then she returned her attention to LaCroix. "So,
Hannibal, what's the story? That fairy tale of crypts and blood
you were spouting to the brats a while ago. Just what was that
crap about?"


LaCroix's eyes narrowed.   "What do you think it was about?"


The woman smiled in a most disconcerting fashion.   LaCroix
was again struck by the whiteness of her teeth. Julia licked her
tongue across the bottom of her upper plate, pausing almost
imperceptibly on her canines. Her eyes gleamed.    "You some
kind of vampire or something?"


There, the question was asked.   LaCroix waited.


"I've read cheap novels about vampire detectives, but never one
about a vampire prison guard," the woman chortled, obviously
amused by her own observations. "Curious . . . how did you
take your civil service exam? I didn't know they gave those at
night." Her burst of raucous laughter pained LaCroix's ears.


Julia grew unnerved by his silence and smirked uneasily.
"Gosh, damn, it was just a joke, screw. Don't get bent out of
shape. You're a real spook, aren't you?"


A slight flicker at the corner of his mouth.   "Some would agree
with you, I suppose."


The woman licked her lips. Again, she felt a stirring within her
as she became aware of how close she was to him. Her eyes
clouded with sexual thought. "Can I ask you another
question?"


LaCroix neither affirmed nor denied her request.   He simply
waited.


Julia licked her lips again.   "We've done the nasty, haven't we?"


The ancient frowned.   "I resent your terminology . . ."


"But, we've still done a little horizontal hubba hubbaing, right?"


"Hubba hubba?" LaCroix repeated the distasteful utterance, his
mouth twisted as if the words wreaked of sulphur.


"Oh, get off it, hack," Julia's seductive manner disappeared as
her annoyance increased.   "Are you really that thick? Let me
put it plainly for you, okay? We've . . ."


"No," LaCroix cut her off, unable to contend with anymore of
this stranger's coarseness.   "We haven't."


Julia was quite surprised. "We haven't?" She rocked back on
her feet, pondering for a moment. Then, she smiled slyly. "But,
we've come close, right?"


The woman shifted closer to the vampire, reaching out and
caressing his upper leg. Her eyes began to glitter. "Yeah . . .
we've come real close . . . several times."


Julia threw a quick glance over her shoulder, making sure the
children still slept. They did.    Her hand continued to make
circles along his flesh. "You want me, bull?" Her words were
throaty, her smell musky. "Take me."


When he did not make the proper response, Julia encouraged
him. "Heck, I'll even play kinky with you. You want to do a
Dracula imitation? It's kewl with me."


LaCroix found her lack of sophistication offensive, but her
brazen manner did have an effect. The hungry beast within
him shook its chains and growled to be free.


Julia pushed herself against LaCroix, hands roaming freely.
She smirked when she discovered that her touch had garnered
the desired physical response from him. The woman breathed
gently against his neck, her warm breath further rousing the
beast.


"Let's rock, vamp-baby." Julia pulled her collar away from her
skin, exposing her neck in a dramatic gesture. "Bite me."


Something in LaCroix snapped. Without further thought of
consequences, right or wrong, he clasped the woman to him,
prepared to honor her wish.


A streak of pale tan whizzed by his ear.   LaCroix reeled in
shock at the impact and the frightful pain which rapidly
coursed through his system as the stake was buried into his
neck.


"Opps, that ain't right, is it?" Julia's voice held awful glee.   She
withdrew the shard quickly, leaning back and positioning it
over his chest. "The heart is the killer, right?"    She thrust
downward, impaling him.


Her blow was well struck and delivered with surprising force.
LaCroix gasped in surprise, shock and bewilderment as he
stared at the wood embedded in his flesh. For good measure,
the woman grasped the hilt of the stake and twisted it savagely.


"Stupid screw," Julia sprang to her feet, pausing slightly to give
LaCroix a kick for good measure. "First thing they teach you is
to search for weapons.   You should have picked that shiv up
when you took it from the kid and tossed it across the room.
Now, you're just gonna have to die for being ignorant. I'm
NOT going back to prison." She struck him another
glancing blow with her foot before darting out the door.


LaCroix lay stunned for a moment, watching his blood seep
from around the protruding invader. Then, the anger arrived.
With a scream of rage, the vampire grasped the stake and
pulled it from his body. LaCroix stared at the object for just a
moment and, with another fervent cry, crushed it in his hand.
It splintered into dust.


LaCroix sprang up, intent on following the woman.


"Don't hurt her!" The vampire turned in shock at the outburst.
He'd completely forgotten the others.


It was Belinda Rambo who'd uttered the original plea. She
repeated it now, her voice low and beseeching. "Please . . .
don't hurt her . . ."


"I won't *hurt* her," LaCroix finally answered the girl, his
blood-eyes cold with fury. "I shall kill her."


The vampire ran from the room in pursuit of the woman,
hitting the parlor area at full speed.   The unexpected sunlight,
streaking through the broken wall, caught him in its full
embrace. LaCroix lifted an arm quickly, to shield himself as
well as he could, then staggered back into the inner room, his
frame encircled by smoke.


Choking for breath, LaCroix caught hold of the table edge to
steady himself. The bloodflow from his chest had all but
stopped, but the stain on his shirt was visible evidence this
monstrous event had truly occurred.   LaCroix vented his rage
by kicking a chair across the room.


It impacted the wall above the heads of the children. They
stared at the vampire's bloody chest, then into the face which
had lost all vestiges of human appearance.


"Everyone," LaCroix promised, "is going to die."


***********************************


End of Part 50/64


***********************************


The children were on their feet, facing the angry menace which
was advancing quickly upon them. In one swift motion, Pete
shoved Belinda behind him and pulled the large crucifix from
its hiding place beneath his shirt. The boy thrust the cross in
front of him, thanking the powers that be that he'd had the
foresight to remove it from the supply closet before the
vampire had broken the door.


LaCroix snarled and snaked a hand in Pete's direction. The boy
anticipated the move and circled the cross down, then swung it
up. The vampire's fingers closed around Pete's throat just as
the icon caught LaCroix on the shoulder, searing through the
cloth into the flesh.


They stood there for a moment, locked in their macabre dance.
Then, LaCroix shrieked and let go of the boy.


"Stay behind me," Pete practically screamed at Belinda.
Holding the brass crucifix as far in front of him as he could,
Pete started edging toward the door, careful to keep himself
facing the vampire.


"You're a fool, boy," LaCroix sneered at the youngster.  The
vampire was motionless for the moment. He clasped a hand to
his smoking shoulder and drew ragged breaths, as if
composing himself. Only his eyes followed the children as they
inched along the perimeter of the room. "You're a fool if you
think I'll allow you to leave this room . . . alive."
"I know," Pete   acknowledged, "but I got to try." He glanced
quickly toward   the open doorway. As he did, LaCroix made
his move. The    vampire was almost too quick, but Pete sensed
him and lifted   the crucifix higher, waving it in LaCroix's face.


Vexed, LaCroix straightened and allowed Pete to move closer
to the door. The child was almost to the exit when LaCroix
smiled.


That scared Pete even more than the golden-eyed beast had.


"Get out of here!"    Pete commanded to the whimpering girl still
hiding behind him.


"Wha . . .?"     Belinda seemed confused.


"GET THE FU** OUT OF HERE!"


Startled, Beda fled.


LaCroix watched the red-haired child disappear, then turned
his full stare on Peter Brackin.


The boy flinched.


"Such a noble gesture . . ." LaCroix continued to smile at the
boy. "You really don't think she'll escape me, do you?"


"Maybe . . . maybe not," Pete said quietly.     "But, she deserved a
chance to try."


LaCroix sneered, but said nothing.


"And it doesn't look like you can go out in sunlight, so maybe
she *does* have a chance," Pete said hopefully, to himself more
than to LaCroix.


"She'd best run very fast," LaCroix taunted the boy. "The sun
won't last. This is simply the lull before the storm hits again."
Pete was quiet for a moment, then he spat angrily, "You're
lying."


The vampire laughed. "Really? Are you so sure, boy?
Granted, we've had a bit of a storm, but we're sitting in the eye
of it now. The full force of it is yet to come."


Pete stared at LaCroix, uncertain.


"You may make your escape, young Brackin. I may even let
you flee into the woods--it would add to the sport of the chase
later as I hunt you down and kill you. But, rest assured. The
tempest that approaches you now will have you on your knees,
begging your gods to spare you."


The boy gulped hard.   "What if I don't run?"   Pete's voice was
terribly low.


LaCroix raised an eyebrow at this unexpected question.


"What if I don't want to run away?" Pete said, mustering his
courage. "What if I wanted to stay? . . ." the air seemed to
thicken . . . "What if I wanted to be . . . like you?"


The vampire was silent, his expression vacant as he considered
the boy's proposal. Slowly, LaCroix began to shake his head.


"On a lark, I brought a lad across some sixty-odd years ago.       It
turned out badly. No, Mr. Brackin, I will not oblige your
request."


"It was a 'what if,'" Pete retorted, shaking the cross in the
vampire's face again. "I wouldn't want to be like you for
nothing!"


"Then we're in agreement as to your fate," LaCroix snarled,
eyes assuming an amber hue. "Now, this drama has reached its
inevitable conclusion. Accept your death with dignity, boy,
and I promise to make it swift."


"Screw you," Pete announced defiantly. Then, he tossed the
crucifix at the vampire and ran from the room.
LaCroix deftly avoided the flying object and lunged for the boy.
He caught Peter Brackin by the nape of his shirt. The boy
ducked, sliding his head out of the tee-shirt and shrugging it off
his shoulders. Pete continued to run.


The vampire stared at the garment in his hand, then tossed it
away with a growl.


Pete was down the corridor now, almost within reach of the
door leading into the parlor room. LaCroix pounced again,
catching the boy by his naked arm. He spun Pete around and
pinned the youngster against the peeling wall.


"Famous End Runs for $200.00, Alex," LaCroix smiled
malevolently down at the boy. "And, the answer is: Peter
Brackin. Who is the young upstart who failed miserably in his
escape attempt?"


Pete's eyes swelled with tears.


**************************************


End of Part 51



*************************************


The calves of her legs were burning, but Julia Sanford
continued running. She slogged through the puddles and wet
pine needles, sometimes sinking to her ankles, but she never
slowed her pace. She was a woman determined to escape.


Her head throbbed almost as badly as her legs. She winced as
another stab of pain ran up the back of her neck, flashing across
her forehead, causing temporary blindness. The glare of the
sun ahead did little to help.


Julia thought she heard something behind her. She quickened
her pace, but chanced a look over her shoulder. The woman
saw nothing and turned forward again. A low slung branch
caught her across the face, knocking her to the ground.
The woman quickly sat up, groaning.   She listened intently, and
this time she did detect a sound.


"Ms. Julia!!!"   A child's shrill voice was yelling her name.


"Shit," the woman uttered aloud, picking herself up from the
ground. She continued running, thrusting further into the
woods. The child's voice soon faded.


"Fare-thee-well, rugrat," Julia grunted as she raced ahead.      "Go
pick on someone your own size."


An exposed tree root, hidden by damp leaves, caught her foot.
Julia tumbled, face first, to the earth. She lay there for a
moment, stunned.


"MS. JULIA!!!"   The child's voice, almost a wail, was closer.


"Fu**," Julia attempted to stand. Pain shot through her entire
body and she staggered and fell to her knees.


Julia weaved a moment then collapsed, her face smacking into a
loose bowel of mud. Disjointed thoughts began swirling
through her fog encrusted brain--images of her father, so strict
and moral, turning his back on her. Of her mother--so quick to
pass judgement on her non-perfect daughter. Of Edgar--the
boy who had promised her the moon, then deserted her to face
tragedy alone. Of Blaine--the smooth one. The one for whom
she'd taken this rap.


"Fu** all of you," Julia groaned. She thrust her hands into the
damp dirt, trying to find purchase to lift herself, and stopped.


Something was wriggling under her hand. Then, it slithered
from beneath her fingers and up her forearm.


Julia's screams rent the quiet forest as the snake shot its forked
tongue toward the woman's face. Julia slung her arm, flinging
the snake from her. It fell some feet away, but, instead of
moving away, it eased back toward the woman.


Julia didn't care if the eyes were slanted or round. She just
wanted that snake to be elsewhere.    She tried to get up, but
her actions were too fast.   She floundered, falling again into the
muck.


The snake undulated toward her, its tongue flicking
menacingly.


Frantic, Julia looked around. She spied a fallen branch. The
woman lifted the wood and clenched it like a weapon.  "Shoo!"
she shouted.


The serpent seemed to pause for a minute, then continued
toward her.


Julia banged the wood down to the soggy earth, just in front of
the advancing reptile. The rotten limb made a mournful
"splatting" sound and crumbled with the impact.


The woman looked down at the useless nub in her hand, then
angrily flung it away. The snake moved closer.


"Get away from *ME!* Julia yelled frantically as the serpent
flecked its tongue again. Then, it raised up slightly, opened its
mouth and exposed its fangs.


Just before a large, flat rock struck it from above.


Astonished, Julia looked up into the frightened, but triumphant
face of Belinda Rambo. The red-haired child was shaking
frightfully, but she couldn't suppress an odd little grin. "That
felt good," the child said, "hitting something with fangs." Then,
the girl extended a hand toward the fallen woman. "Need
help?"


"You've already done plenty," Julia said. With a great deal of
effort, the woman got up from the ground and stood on
unsteady legs.


"Thanks," Beda replied, some of her normal youthful glow
returning.   Then, her face grew frightened again. "I guess Pete
didn't make it."


"Make what?" Julia reached out to steady herself, propping her
hand against a nearby tree.
"He didn't get away from the vampire," Belinda said
mournfully, her voice very small.


Julia almost snorted, but then looked at the child more
carefully. The woman was surprised to see that the child was
sincere in her expression of grief.


"Hey, kid," Julia touched the small girl's shoulder. "I'm sure
your buddy is okay. Ain't no such thing as vampires."


"Shows how much you know," Belinda shot back at the woman.
"He's been trying to bite you for the past week and you've been
too busy necking with him to notice. If it weren't for Pete and
me, you'd be dead by now."


Something stirred in the woman's memory, a forgotten piece of
her recent history. It was a painful moment, and she shut it out
quickly.


"Get real, kid," Julia said, dismissing the fragment as a quirk of
her injury.   "The guy back there may be a real weirdo, but he
ain't the Baron de Bite. I flattened him pretty good, and he ain't
getting up for awhile. Your friend probably just ran in the
other direction. Why don't you go see if you can find him?"


The child hesitated.   "You're coming with me, aren't you?"


"No way, Riding Hood," Julia announced, already moving
away from the girl. "I can't afford the extra baggage.     You'll
have to find yourself another *Mommy Dearest* to tag along
with. Thanks for the help with the snake, by the way."


Belinda watched wide-eyed as the woman disappeared into the
trees.   Beda looked around furtively, then ran after Julia.


Julia's temples were pounding, jarring her skull with each
limping step she took. She was so enveloped in her pain that
she failed to notice the child following her for almost a quarter
of a mile.


"Get lost, pea brain!" Julia shouted at the small figure hiding
behind a slender oak sapling. "I don't have time to babysit."
"My Daddy paid you good to babysit," the child yelled back.


Another flicker of memory crowded into Julia aching mind.
She shook her head, and was immediately sorry for the action.
The woman closed her eyes and cried out in a scolding voice.
"I don't know your dad, and I don't want to know you. Scram,
or I'll make you wish the vampire *had* got you."


Belinda sniffed sharply, then thrust her tongue out at Julia.


The woman smiled despite her annoyance. "Keep it up, kiddo,
and you'll be spending your adolescence in a cell." Julia
stopped, feeling a rush of coldness descend over her. <That
was my *mother* talking.>


A harsh, warm wind suddenly whipped around them. Both
females looked up in alarm, noting the brownish-green tint
creeping into the sky.


Then they heard it.


It was like the roar of a thousand locomotives coming toward them.


******************************


End of Part 52


*****************************


The low rumbling intensified quickly, alarming both LaCroix
and Peter Brackin. Simultaneously, they looked toward the
parlor door, noting how the hallway had darkened in only the
past few moments.


LaCroix's grip on the boy eased as his thoughts flew elsewhere.
He released the boy and strode quickly into the exterior room.
Pete, having no other recourse and desiring to be as close to the
exit as possible, followed the ampire cautiously.


The wind thrust itself through the damaged section, catching
the boy and tossing him back against the far wall. Pete shook
his head, trying to regain his senses. He looked forward and
saw LaCroix, staring through the opening. The vampire was
holding his own against the wind, but just barely.


"As I predicted," LaCroix's voice almost sounded sad that he'd
been right, "the worst is yet to come."


"The hurricane?" Pete shouted above the continuing roar.


LaCroix turned toward the boy. "I believe it would more
appropriately be termed tornadic activity stemming from the
off shore disturbance," the vampire replied. "In any case, boy, I
suspect we're in for quite a rough time. This shelter is meager,
but it is the best we have. I suggest we go back into the interior
room."


"No way," Pete yelled.


LaCroix understood the boy's reluctance. "I'm calmer now,
Peter. My previous actions were a reaction to Julia's
unexpected assault."


"Bull shit," Pete replied, starting to edge carefully along the wall
toward the exit. "That was you. The *real* you. I'm not going
to be fooled again. I'm getting out of here."


"And go where?" LaCroix sneered sarcastically. "Look outside,
boy. It's worse now than when you wanted to leave before."
The ancient stepped away from the torn wall, gesturing toward
the opening. "Go ahead, young Brackin. If you really want to
die, go ahead and go."


"Better to take my chances out there than die for sure in here
with you," Pete screamed. Then, fighting the fierce wind which
beat him back, the boy darted across the room and jumped
through the damaged opening. He staggered for a moment on
the rickety plank porch, then dropped into the shrubbery
below. LaCroix watched as the boy fell to his knees, picked
himself up, and staggered across the overgrown clearing.


"Fool," LaCroix muttered to himself, noting the boy vanish just
beyond the treeline. "To chose certain death over possible life."
<But then, moments ago, you were the harbinger of his
*certain* death,> LaCroix noted. He smiled in reluctant
amusement. <Perhaps the child was right in risking his life at a
chance of escape. Just as was Ms. Rambo and . . .>


LaCroix pursed his lips in irritation, no longer amused.
<Julia.>


"Damn you," the ancient breathed softly. He stood for a
moment, measuring the storm's intensity. The false-train sound
was wavering, moving away, then returning. Overhead, high
branches broke and, mixed with debris, rotated swiftly in
funnel-shaped dance. Wood and stone slammed against each
other with terrific force--enough force to impale the strongest
oak.


"At least the storm remains overhead," LaCroix noted aloud.
"Perhaps there is a chance to reclaim what is mine."


Then, shrugging off good sense, LaCroix leapt into the
darkened day and followed Peter Brackin into the forest.


***************************


"GET DOWN!!"   Julia grabbed hold of Beda and wrestled the
child to the ground.


The red-haired girl balked as the mud slid into her mouth and
Julia's full weight straddled her.   Belinda squirmed until she
found the white flesh of the arm holding her and pinched--
hard.


"SHIT, G-DAMN!'" Julia cried out. Instinctively, the woman
rolled off the girl and Beda quickly wriggled loose. Belinda
jumped to her feet and promptly fell again as the wind pushed
her down. The girl landed on her rump and emitted a brief
*umphff.*


The two females stared at each other defiantly for a moment.


Overhead, a crackling sound made them look upward. As
they watched, a large portion of pine separated from the main
trunk, torn loose in a protesting cry of ripping bark and
heartwood.   For a moment, the massive piece of wood hung,
suspended above their heads by the updraft of pressure and the
wind force which spun overhead. Then, it seemed to scream
before plunging downward.


An eerie feeling of deja-vu settled over Julia as she watched
the plummeting tree section. <Something recent . . . very
recent>, but she just couldn't bring it into focus.   The woman
blinked hard, her head aching. Then her eyes flew open in
shocked apprehension. "SHITTTTT!!"


The auburn-haired woman rolled across the sodden ground,
struggling to her feet as best she could. Julia grabbed hold of
Belinda, who was sitting dumbstruck, watching the branch fall
toward her. The woman grasped the child hard by the
underarms. Beda cried out in pain at Julia's hurtful hold, but
the woman ignored her, pulling the child out of harm just as
the wood impacted the earth.



Gasping, the woman stared at the jagged log in front of them.
She was still squeezing Belinda tightly, and the child yelped in
agony once more. Julia looked down at the little girl and
released her grip.


Belinda glanced toward the broken tree, then to Julia. In a
reflexive movement, the child fell against the woman. She
wrapped her arms around Julia's waist and sobbed into the
woman's abdomen.


Another remembrance stirred within Julia's throbbing head.
She hesitated, torn between accepting the embrace and pushing
this brat away. Survival instinct finally won.


"Get a grip, bratsie," Julia said sternly, but her voice was soft.
She took the child by the shoulders and gently detached Beda
from her torso. "You'll live."


"This time," Belinda sobbed, looking up into the hazel eyes of
her mentor.   "What about next?"


"Ya got a point, kiddo," Julia said, her own eyes traveling
skyward. The swirling seemed to have lessened, but it was far
from ceasing. "We better find some shelter. I hate to say it, but
we may need to go back to that cabin back there."
Belinda's eyes widened in shocked horror. "NO!!" The child's
face turned pale with fright. "NO. We can't go back there!
*HE's* back there."


"You're not going to start that vampire crap again, are you? I
don't want to go back there and share shelter with a dead man,
either, but we don't have much choice, do we?" Julia was
suddenly furious with the frightened child. She grabbed hold
of Beda's hand roughly.   "Stop being a whiny puss and come
on."


Literally dragging Belinda through the mud, Julia clinched her
teeth and pushed back against the wind toward the broken
house.


****************************


End part 53


***************************


Ahead, mere yards from him, LaCroix sensed the boy. Peter
Brackin was moving, but very slowly. The thin boy was
obviously being buffeted by the fierce gale.


Though weak by his personal standards, the vampire was still
much stronger than any mortal. Smiling smugly, LaCroix
circled to the left, flanking the boy's position and moving ahead
of him.


Pete reached the base of a tree wider than most of the others.
Though he knew from scouting that his choice was dangerous,
the boy clutched to the trunk, huddling under the branches for
some respite from the pounding wind and rain. He looked
upward, hoping that nothing was coming down on his head or
lightning wouldn't strike from above.


The thin boy sighed and lowered his gaze. He pressed his
cheek against the rough bark and closed his eyes. Peter Brackin
was so weary. He wanted to cry, but stifled the sob which
threatened to choke him. <Have to be brave,> he thought.
<Got to find Ms. Julia and Beda.>


The boy opened his lids slightly.   At the sight of the shadow
before him, his eyes snapped wide open.


LaCroix leaned against the same tree as Pete. The vampire's
arms were crossed against his chest, his air confident.


"Boo," LaCroix said softly.


Peter Brackin didn't care about pretenses anymore. He
shrieked like a girl and began scuttling away from the tree.
Pete looked around frantically, not even sure of what he
sought.


"Tsk, tsk," LaCroix chided the boy. "This really has gone on too
long, hasn't it? I really think I'd be doing you a favor if I ended
your torment here and now. Let's roll the credits, shall we?"


********************


"We're lost, aren't we?" the red-haired child whined for the
seventh time.   Julia responded by giving the young slacker's
arm a quick jerk, causing Beda to cry out.


Much as she hated to admit it, Julia was beginning to think that
the little girl was right. They'd been traveling against the wind,
then away from it, then into it again. At first, the woman
dismissed it as the weather's caprice, but now she wasn't so
sure. The ground here was more soggy than she remembered
crossing. Yes, it could be due to the resumed precipitation
which pelted them. Or, it could be because they were on lower
ground.


Julia was almost to her breaking point, and dragging this dead-
weight of a kid was almost more than she could bear. The brat
acted as if lifting her feet and walking was a capital offense.
Now, she had added whimpering to her act. It was enough to
make a woman want to commit murder.


That's when Julia heard the shriek. The keening cry was high
pitched and strong enough to be heard above the roar of the
storm. Julia looked up, startled, wondering from which
direction it had come.


Beda thrust herself against her mentor's buttocks, clinging to
her. "Wha . . what was that?"
"Don't know," Julia replied, still searching for bearing.     "It
sounded human though."


"Pete?" the child said, her eyes hopeful for just a moment.


"Maybe," Julia agreed, paying no heed to the child except in
voice. "If it is, he sounds like he's in trouble. That yell was
loud enough to wake the . . ."


Belinda struck Julia in the back with her fist, hard enough to
make the woman gasp. "Don't say it!" the child cried.


"Easy, bratsie,"   Julia's full attention was on the girl now. "All I
meant is that if   it is your little traveling buddy, then your
vampire must not   have gotten him. He may be in a
predicament, but   he's alive at least."


"Oh." Belinda pondered this thought, then faced Julia with
frightened eyes "What are we going to do now?"


"I suggest we go find him," the woman said, pushing the child
away. "Maybe we can help him and, if not, he's got to be closer
to the shelter than we are. But you need to carry your own
weight, kiddo, or I'm leaving you here. Okay?"


Belinda gulped and nodded.


"Okay . . . let's go," Julia said, turning and fighting her way in
the direction she hoped the scream had come from.


***************************


Pete took a step backward, away from the vampire. LaCroix
stood tall, seemingly unaffected by the brutal winds which
circled around them. He was soaked, yes, for the rain had once
again saturated his black clothing, but he didn't seem
hampered by it.


Pete, on the other hand, felt the full weight of his wet clothes
tugging at him like an anchor. He turned too fast, his right
sneakered foot sliding out from under him as he stepped into a
clump of wet foliage. The boy tried to catch himself and
wrenched his back for his effort. Pete cried out in pain again as
he fell to his knees.


The vampire began to advance, clapping his hands slowly as he
came.


"Bravo," LaCroix noted with a nod. "Bravo. A fitting finale to
our little performance. The young hero valiantly fighting to the
end." The vampire looked around and spied a slender, broken
branch. LaCroix caught the stick with his foot and flipped it to
within Pete's grasp. "Here's a weapon for you, boy. Who
knows . . . maybe thrice will be your charm."


Pete floundered for the makeshift stake, clutching it like a
lifeline. Only his gasps told LaCroix that the boy was sobbing,
for the rain effectively covered Pete's tears. The vampire
almost felt sorry for the boy.


Almost.


******************************


End of Part 54


*****************************


"Damnit!" Julia groused loudly as her feet sank into another
earthen basin hidden beneath a coating of pine needles.


"I don't know why you're griping so much," Belinda muttered
from behind the woman. "It's not like stepping in a puddle is
going to make your feet more wet."


Grudgingly, Julia had to admit that the child had a point. The
rain was well past the *sheeting* stage. It more resembled a
thick, wet, gray army blanket and stung like the coarse threads
as well. Still, the sensation of her ankles slipping into each
watery grave irritated the auburn-haired woman.


"If I want to be pissed off, kiddo, then I'll be pissed off, okay?"
Julia snapped over her shoulder.
Beda shrugged but said nothing further.


The woman suddenly stopped, and the child almost ran into
her. Julia stood erect, as if listening intently. "Did you hear
that?"


"What?" Belinda's voice held a small shiver.


"Sounds like someone gasping for air," Julia replied, looking off
into the distance. "I think it came from over there." Without
checking to see if the child followed, Julia headed off in that
direction.
The woman and girl moved cautiously over the sodden
landscape, mindful of the ground traps which they couldn't see.
Each clump or curve could hold a trap which could easily break
an ankle or shatter another limb.


Julia halted again, looking around, her expression confused.   "I
. . . know this place," she murmured.


<But I've never been here,> the woman thought, her mind
reacting painfully as she tried to pull up tangible memories of
where she now stood. Julia looked around again, her head
protesting the movement with a fierce stab. The woman lifted a
hand to her neck and clutched it tightly.


"I think I do, too," Belinda said, her voice holding a hint of
excitement. "It kind of looks like the place where we used to
picnic."


"Picnic?" Julia looked down at Beda, perplexed.    Another pain
arched through her forehead and Julia pressed her hand to her
eyes.


"Yea!" Belinda said, her tone now one of exhilaration. "We
came down here when we first got here, and then I couldn't
come the last time 'cause I was hurt, and you all came without
me. This is our picnic spot."


"What are you talking aboutt?" Julia felt dazed by the
pain which enveloped her head. She looked off in the direction
that the child was pointing. As she did, a crease of lightning
coursed high above, lighting the open area just before them.
In that moment of brightness, Julia saw all.


***************************


As easily as he had flicked the stick at the boy, LaCroix kicked
it away. Peter Brackin made a feeble attempt to ward off the
vampire, stabbing as the nightmarish creature advanced.
LaCroix's eyes were gold. He circled the boy for affect, even
allowing the lad one glancing blow against his shin.


"That tickled," the vampire giggled. The eyes turned into
flaming rubies, the words viscous behind the fangs.  "Time's
up, Pete."


LaCroix caught the boy at the clavicle. The vampire's fingers
gouged like talons into Peter's flesh. From each of the five
punctures, tiny rivulets of blood flowed down the boy's naked
skin.


Pete cried out at the pain. LaCroix watched in fascination as
the blood dripped down the boy's chest, all too quickly
disappearing in the rain.   Then the ancient grasped the teen by
each upper arm, lifted him and began licking Peter's shoulder.


At the sensation of LaCroix's tongue on his skin, Peter felt
dizzy. He wanted to cry out, to fight, to run, but something
pinned him to the spot where he stood. LaCroix wasn't even
holding him that firmly now, Pete sensed but didn't care. With
sudden elucidation, Pete understood why he couldn't move.


He liked the feeling of LaCroix's touch.


No--he *craved* it.


As if drugged, the boy stood there immobile. LaCroix
continued to lap the at the boy's bleeding wounds. Pete
instinctively tilted his head to the left, exposing his neck more
fully. LaCroix smiled and leaned forward to whisper last
words to his prey.   "S'endormie, mon petite frere d'armes."


Fangs glinting in a sudden flash of storm light, LaCroix
lowered his head to take the boy.
"Fu** . . ."


LaCroix looked up quickly, mouth open in a snarl.    Looked up
into the amazed eyes of Julia Sanford.


They were frozen there, the four lost companions, drenched by
the rain falling around them. Belinda hid behind Julia, her little
fists twisted into the woman's shirt, sobs wracking her slight
body.


Julia's eyes flickered over the two figures in front of her.  She
looked straight into the vampire's eyes, her own dancing with
awe and savage delight. "You're real?" she whispered. "You're
a fu**ing vampire?"


LaCroix's caresses aborted, Peter suddenly moaned and
collapsed against the ancient. Only LaCroix's hold kept the boy
from falling.


The vampire watched as the woman took a tentative step
forward. His eyes converted from red to amber as Julia
approached closer. Then she stopped, her face pinched with
internal struggle.


<I need to remember something.> her mind screamed and
thrashed against her skull. <Something important.>


The woman reached out a tentative hand toward the vampire,
as if she would touch the pale face of her . . .


<Lover?>   Julia winced again.


"Me," she said.   "It's always been me."


LaCroix pushed Peter Brackin from him.     The boy fell to the
ground in a crumpled mass, forgotten.


The vampire extended his arm, his fingertips touching those of
the woman.


"Yes," LaCroix said thickly.     "It's always been . . . you."
****************************************


End of Part 55


***************************************


Julia stood mesmorized by the dark, feral-eyed creature
standing before her. All instincts screamed at her to run, hide,
barricade herself as securely as possible against him. Even the
rain slashing against her face seemed to be pushing at her,
demanding that she retreat.


But his touch, the light coolness of his fingertips, begged her to
stay.


LaCroix moved his hand forward slightly, curling the fingers
and hooking hers in his.   They were poised for a moment, their
hands cupped together in a binding clasp, an unspoken pact
passing between them.   The vampire's gaze slowly faded to
cobalt as he stared into the hazel eyes of the woman.


Then he pulled her to him and crushed her against his chest.


"Julia," LaCroix whispered.   For indeed he held *his* Julia
Sanford.


The pounding of the storm was so intense in trying to part
them that Julia's fingernails dug into his back in her effort to
hold on. The vampire, if he felt the stab, gave no outward
notice. He wrapped himself around her, shielding her,
breathing her in.


The woman was soaked to the skin, shivering and slightly
fearful.   "Lucien? I don't understand." She lifted her head to
look at him with bewildered eyes. "How did we get here?
What happened?"


"You were injured," he replied, stroking the hair which clung
flatly to her face. "You're better now."


"My head hurts," she complained, leaning against his chest.
LaCroix continued to pet the woman, his voice husky.   "Trust
me, ma chere. Soon, there will be no pain."


Julia sighed and cuddled closer. This was the man she loved,
trusted with all her heart. She lifted her face to him, letting the
rain beat her as it wished, her eyes warm against the thrashing.


"Lucien . . ."


LaCroix's lips bore down on hers.   His touch was harsh,
seeking, demanding. He kissed the mulberry essence of her,
drinking her in without spilling a single drop of blood. For a
moment, a brief tick of time's clock, he cherished the woman.


Caught in the strength of his arms, Julia lifted her hands so that
they cupped his face. She tenderly stroked his cheeks, ears,
traced his eyes, held him to her lips and begged for more. The
flames which ignited in her bowels startled her, then amazed
her with the warmth.


Their kiss broke, but the touch remained. LaCroix moved his
mouth across her face, seeking her eyelids, which were now
half-closed in rapture. The woman's thick lashes tickled his lips
and he smiled for a moment, before moving to her ear. He
caught the lobe and tugged at it gently with his teeth.


Julia moaned as if in agony as LaCroix's nose pressed against
the tender flesh behind her ear.   She clung more tightly to him,
her arms over his shoulders, her hands clasped behind his
neck. His caress had moved down her neck, pausing at the
base.   LaCroix slid the fabric of her blouse from her shoulder.
The sheeting rain crashed against her bare skin. Every mote of
her screamed in desire for him.


But . . . a troubled frown crossed her face.   Something was
wrong.


LaCroix felt her tense slightly. He wanted to question her, but
felt it unwise. Instead, he held her more tightly.


<Not right,> Julia's mind felt gray again. Blurred images
darted in and out, bits and pieces of the puzzle which, put
together, would give her back the recently passed hours.
Another presence, another Julia, stood in the shadows,
laughing at her.


"You can't handle it!" her mirror image chuckled, her cruel
mouth riveted with mirth. "You don't even know what you're
holding in your arms right now. Do you really think you can
dance with the devil and not go crazy with the guilt? Look
down on the ground. Look at the kid with the slashes on his
neck. That's what you'll be causing for eternity if you do this."


Julia turned her head slightly, straining to see what the
taunting image had dared her to view. LaCroix, noting her
intentions, cupped her face and tried to bring it back to his
own. The woman resisted. Unsure of why he dreaded the
moment, LaCroix released her.


Julia saw Peter's limp form below her.   Perplexed, she looked
back at LaCroix. "Is he dead?"


LaCroix shook his head.   "No."


"Then we need to help him." Julia moved to go to the boy, but
LaCroix held her fast this time, determined to stop her.


"Stay with me," he insisted softly.


"But . . ."


"No." He drew her face to his, catching her eyes and her
heartbeat. "Stay with me."


*******************************


Finally convinced that the adults were too busy to take notice of
her, Belinda crawled from behind the tree where she'd hid and
crept over to where Peter Brackin lay.   She was scared about
what she might find, but she had to see if the boy was still
living.


"Pete?" the child whispered hoarsely as she plucked at his arm.
He still felt warm. "Pete, are you alive?"
The lad didn't move.


"Pete?"   Belinda took a good piece of the boy's flesh in her hand
and twisted it. "Wake up, Pete."


The boy groaned.   His eyes opened slightly, then closed again.


Beda looked at the wound on Pete's shoulder, noting that the
five puncture marks were already crusting over.   Belinda was
completely grossed out by the next thought she had, but she
figured it would get the boy's attention better than anything
else, so she did it anyway. She stuck one of her fingers into the
largest puncture wound and jabbed it sharply.


Belinda was correct in her assumption. Pete sat up quickly,
clawing at the fresh pain which had invaded his already aching
shoulder. He turned to face Belinda, his face red and hostile.


"You little shit . . ."


"Shuuuuuhhhhhh!" Belinda demanded, holding a finger to her
lips. "Save it till later." The girl pointed over Pete's shoulder,
insisting that he look. "Right now, we got to get away from
here."


Peter didn't want to look. He didn't really remember what had
befallen him, but he felt something awful had occurred . . . and
was still happening. Reluctantly, he looked over his shoulder.


Standing in rain as dense as a waterfall, the vampire LaCroix
held the mortal Julia Sanford in his undead embrace.


Pete gulped.   "We gotta go help her."


Belinda looked shocked.   "You're kidding!!   We got to get OUT
of here."


The boy shook his head. "I made a promise . . ." he said, his
voice drained, but resolute.


"Forget it!" Beda began tugging at the boy's arm. "I don't know
who you promised what, but I don't think Ms. Sanford *wants*
to be saved.   She's mean and nasty now.   They kind of deserve
each other."


"I"m not sure . . ." Pete looked back at the adults, his manner
reluctant.   He had seen the change in Julia, yes, but it was
because she'd been hurt.


"Trust me, okay?" Belinda was standing now, gesturing
insistently at the boy. "We got to get away while we can, or
they'll *both* try to eat us."


With the scenario of being dinner for *two* vampires running
through his head, Pete gave LaCroix and Julia one last look,
then got to his knees and struggled to his feet.   He accepted
Belinda's offered hand and, together, the children began
moving away as fast as they could manage.


***************************


For a moment, Julia resisted the suggestion, then her
consternation faded and her features went limp. Eyes glazed,
she waited for him to exercise his will.


LaCroix watched the familiar shell of unwitting compliance
settle on her visage. She looked . . . lifeless.


<This is not as I wished it.> The prize was there for his taking,
but the vampire was unhappy. In the end, he had resorted to
trickery, and thus the game was won by fraud. Yes, the hunger
of the body would be satisfied, but not the hunger of the . . .
soul.


LaCroix looked away in displeasure, averting his eyes for just a
moment. Then he returned to the woman and recoiled slightly
in vexation.


Eyes bright and lips twisted with impish glee, Julia stood
staring at him. "Hi again, Drac. Miss me?"


**********************



End of Part 56
**********************


Not since Nicholas had been held in the throes of his
'possession' had LaCroix felt such rage and impotence.


"Damn you," LaCroix hissed, pushing the undesirable creature
from him in disgust.


"Paallleeeessseeee." The woman stood there, mocking him as
he turned away from her.   "Are you really saying that frigging
damp dishrag you were just holding is better than me?"


"A rat," LaCroix sneered, "is preferable to you."


"I'm hurt, baldy. I truly am," the wraith screwed her face in
false anguish. Then Julia narrowed her eyes, her own lips
curled. "At least I'm here and willing. You had to whammy me
a minute ago, didn't you? Regular ole foreplay just wasn't
cutting it, was it?"


For a moment, the vampire's face flushed in anger and guilt.
Then he donned the frozen guise which had protected him so
many times.


"Ahhhh, the stoic persona," the woman noted with a dry smile.
At the slight flicker in LaCroix's eyes, Julia laughed. "Surprised
at my diction, hack? Don't be. I'm still me -- just set free."


The woman advanced slightly. Though LaCroix did not move,
she sensed him mentally stepping away from her as she
approached.   She stopped, appraising him as the lightning
flared above. "I'm here, and I'm willing, Lucien. And, I can be
*your* Julia, if that's what you *really* want."


The vampire lifted an eyebrow.   "Not in a thousand lifetimes
could you be her, pretender."


The woman smiled suggestively. "Want to bet?" Chortling, she
turned her face upward and spread her arms as if to gather the
raindrops as they fell. "I can just imagine it . . . what you have,
what you can give me. Life eternal." Her laughter stopped and
Julia looked pointedly at the vampire.   "That simp I   was. She'd
never have made it, you know.   She worked so hard to   become
prim and proper, to play the game, to fit in with the   corporate
structure and the kiddies." Julia's eyes flashed with   the
lightning.   "To make her *daddy* proud."


LaCroix remained motionless.


"She'd have guilted herself to death, after wallowing in her
self-loathing for what time she *might* have survived. Now
me, on the other hand . . ."


LaCroix lifted his hand, unable to bear further.


"So, Lucien, what's it going to be? You gonna stand there like
some post, bemoaning the loss of your beloved, or are we
gonna get it on?"


Before he could reply, the woman darted forward, taking hold
of his arm.   He stared down at her hand as if it were leech.


"You know I'm right." Her hands clutched like the claws of a
raptor. "That prissy panty-waist didn't stand a chance of
scoring the night. But . . . I'm different." She pressed to his
chest. "I *can* survive. I will survive. I am Julia. The real
woman inside that scared piece of shit which you thought
was so great."   The woman tilted her head slightly. "Smell me,
LaCroix. I am her essence. I *am* Julia."


And, this harridan, this interloper . . .was right. Even as he
resisted her, LaCroix could sense the stirring of the woman
under the flesh. He knew the mulberry was there, and the
chocolate--sweet and dark. Even the vervain lingered just
below her skin, pulsing to be free. One thrust . . . one
movement and he would know ecstasy.


LaCroix touched her throat.    She melted into his caress.


"Are you not fearful of damnation?"   he asked thickly.


"Damnation?" she scoffed, tilting her head slightly so that he
could see her face. "Like you, Lucien, I am stoic . . . in the true
sense of the word.   Damnation is a fairy tale of man used gain
control of the masses. There's no afterlife. It's nothing but a
swirling void-- if that even. There's no real choice, is there?
Death has nothing to offer me, anymore than I figure it
had to offer you. But life . . ." her words were low now,
enticing with darkness.   "If I am given the choice, I choose to
live."


"Live . . . forever."   LaCroix's whisper was faint and centuries in
the mist.


Julia's eyes smoldered "Give me a chance, Lucien," she lifted
her hand to his face and, this time, he did not shrink from her
touch. Just as he had not flinched when Divia made her offer
so long ago.


Though his outward appearance had not changed, LaCroix felt
odd.   Tired.


The woman arched her neck and waited.


********************************


"But we don't want to go across the creek," Belinda protested as
Pete surveyed the swollen waterway. "When we were
picnicking, we never crossed the creek. In fact, Ms. Julia would
threaten us if we even went *near* the water. You should have
seen how mad she was the night she brought Liddy back to the
stable after she fell in, and it was just a little stream then."


"Maybe so," Pete replied, still staring at the water. "But, if we
can get on the other side, maybe we have a chance." The
boy frowned in thought.   "I'm trying to remember where I read
it, but I think there's something that said that vampires can't go
over running water, unless they fly. And, I don't think that
LaCroix can fly, or he'd have done it already."


"Okay, but wouldn't it be better to go toward the house?" Beda
argued. "And, the house is . . ." the child looked around
tentatively, then pointed in a direction. " . . . that way."


Pete followed Beda's finger. "You sure? I thought it was over
there." The boy gestured toward a large grove of trees much
different in bearing than the pines, oaks and short saplings
they'd seen in the forest.
Beda squinted, then shook her head.   "I don't know," she
whined.


"Don't whine," Pete reprimanded. "Besides, it doesn't matter.
I'm still feeling real funny, and I don't think I can run all the
way to the house right now, especially with it raining like this.
I still think our best chance is to get across the stream before it
gets too high to cross."


"Pete?" Beda had hesitated about asking, not sure she wanted to
know the answer. But, with him mentioning that he felt odd,
the girl's desire to know was too much to contain. "Did he . . .
bite you?"


The boy shook his head.   "I don't know," he confessed slowly.


"Pete?" Belinda hesitated slightly, then blurted out.       "What did
it feel like?"


"It felt . . . weird," Pete said quickly.   "Like it wasn't happening
to me.   Like it was . . . weird, you know?" Pete was unable to
offer a further explanation.


"I think *you're* weird," Belinda said, wrinkling her nose.      "And
I think going over the creek is a really stupid idea."


"Okay . . . then stay here and be eaten," Pete retorted. "I'm
going." The boy left and, after a long sigh, the girl followed.


*************************************


End of Part 57


***********************************


Peter Brackin trotted along the bank, moving upstream.   From
time to time, he would shake his head, trying to clear his eyes
of the stinging rain.   The burning drops would be replaced
immediately, for the rain showed no sign of easing.


Directly behind him, Belinda Rambo valiantly slogged along,
occasionally voicing her discomfort with a brief grumble or
sputter.


Pete was beginning to get discouraged. Nothing along the
creek indicated a possibility of crossing--no fallen logs, no
rocks, no overhanging branches. The children passed one
uprooted tree, but it bobbed precariously in the swollen stream,
unsafe for use as a bridge.


And, the water continued to rise.


*****************************


"Dammit, LaCroix. What does it take to get some action out of
you?" Julia heaved a heavy sigh and tilted her head just
slightly. She looked up at the ancient and noted that his eyes
were still sky blue.


LaCroix smiled thinly.   "Attraction to the host?" he sniped.


"My, my, but don't we consider ourselves a selective
consumer," the woman looked amused.   "That why you dined
a-la-coyote last night?"


LaCroix flared slightly.


"Oh."   She laughed outright now. "You didn't think I'd figure
that one out, did you? Well, once I knew about you, it wasn't
hard to put two and two together. I'm a smart girl, ya know. A
survivor." She leaned closer. "Just the girl for you."


"I have no need of a *girl,*" LaCroix spat, but his body
continued to betray his mental resolve, and he found himself
unable to pull away. The beast within growled, hungry.


Julia entwined her arms round his neck, sensing his internal
battle.   "Give in, Lucien." The bloodlust roared loudly in his
ears, underscoring the woman's words. "Give me life. Give us
both life." One of her arms dropped, her hand tracing his
shoulder muscle. It continued to roam lower, settling on his
waist.    She moved again and cupped his groin.


Her heartbeat was steady, hard, as was her touch.   The pulse of
her was maddening.
"I don't know why you're so hesitant," she said petulantly,
rolling the ball of her palm steadily against him. "I figure that
there's a good chance my split personality, so to speak, is a
result of the concussion, right? So, once you bite me over to the
dark side . . ."


"Across." LaCroix corrected her thickly.      "It's called being
'brought across.'"


"That's catchy," Julia smiled. Then her compression increased
in pressure.   "When you . . . bring me across, I should be cured
of what ails me and be right as rain again. I'll be your sweet,
simpering, sweetie-pie once more."


LaCroix felt as if his skin had been tightened tenfold across his
skeleton.   Oddly, her conclusion might have merit. His entire
being screamed that his continued hesitation made no sense.


"Unless, you never meant to bring sweetie-pie across." Her
manipulations ceased abruptly as the woman stepped back,
appraising him.   Julia watched him for several moments before
speaking. "That's it," she said slowly. "You never planned to
give me the gift of life, did you? You never planned to make
me your eternal consort. All you ever had intentions of was a
wham, bam, thank-you, Ma'am--vampire style, wasn't it?   I
was never anything but a meal to you?" Her voice grew shriller
with each statement.


She stopped suddenly, staring at him, waiting for his answer.


His non-response was reply enough.


*******************************


"There!" Pete pointed triumphantly at a gnarled old tree. Its
trunk was positioned so closely to the creek that its roots were
half exposed when one looked at the embankment. Several of
its lower branches were so laden with water that they hung
down almost close enough to touch the water's surface. There
was one problem, though.


"There what?" Belinda replied.    "It's on the other side of the
water."
"Yea, but if we can reach one of those branches, we can swing
across," Pete replied, already looking around for something to
snag one of the boughs.


"I ain't Jane," Beda announced, even though the idea of vaulting
across the creekbed did intrigue her.


"You don't have enough to hold up the leopard skin, that's for
sure." Pete couldn't resist the cut.


"Well, Tarzan, how do you plan to swing with a hurt
shoulder?" the girl shot back.


"We have to try, Beda," Pete said calmly.   "Now, help me look."


Still grousing, Belinda joined the boy's hunt. Pete finally found
what he was seeking, but only after a particularly bright flash
of lightning caused him to look up.


Caught in a low overhand was a long, broken pine limb shaped
somewhat like a thin, hooked shaft. The boy reached upward,
but his fingers could not quite reach the dangling end of the
branch. Pete looked around again, his eyes stopping on
Belinda.


"Come here," he ordered curtly.


"Why?"   Suspicion.


"I need your help."


"How?"


"Just come here."


"Why?"


Exasperated, Pete tried to explain. "I'm gonna hold you up so
you can grab the end of this branch and pull it down."
Belinda looked up at the task.   "I don't think so . . ." she said
dubiously.


"Why not?"


"'Cause . . ."


"'Cause why?"


"'Cause . . . I don't trust you to hold me up," the girl said flatly.
"You'll probably drop me."


"Why don't I just toss you to the other side of the creek then?"
Pete growled, taking two threatening steps toward the
red-haired child.


Predictably, Belinda responded by shrieking loudly and
scampering away.   As she ran, though, she tripped and
skidded into the mud. Beda lay stunned for a moment, then
angrily began slapping at the wet goo which surrounded,
covered and sucked at her.


Pete didn't help matters by bursting into laughter.


Belinda glared at the boy and shook her fist. Then, in a quick
motion, she grabbed a handful of mud and flung it at the boy.
Pete sidestepped the missile and waved at the girl.


Beda floundered in the mud for a moment, trying to extricate
herself from her filthy cage. In doing so, she shifted position
and found herself stuck worse.


A very unhappy Belinda Rambo finally addressed the delighted
boy. "I need help, Pete. I'm stuck."


"Serves you right for being such a weinie," Pete said, heading in
the girl's direction. "Now, you gonna help me?"


Belinda nodded.
"Okay then, grab my hand and I'll pull ya out."   Belinda did as
instructed and, with a mighty tug, Pete freed the girl.


But in doing so, Peter Brackin realized one thing that Beda had
observed earlier.


He wasn't going to be doing any swinging with his injured
shoulder.


*******************************


End Part 58


******************************


It took some coaching, but Pete finally got Belinda up on his
shoulders. The boy was still weak, though, and teetered
somewhat.


"Cut it out!" Pete cried out as Beda stuck her thumb in his eye
for the third time. "You're supposed to grab the stick--not poke
my eye out."


"Sorry, but you keep wobbling," Belinda pointed out.   "If you'll
hold still, I'll try and get it."


Peter tried to hold steady, but his body wouldn't cooperate.    It
probably didn't help that his mind kept wandering.


It kept drifting back to those moments when he'd been held in
LaCroix's grip.


<But *grip* isn't the right word.> That odd feeling came over
Pete again as he struggled to understand the sensations which
ran through his body upon remembering the vampire's
embrace. Involuntarily, the boy shuddered.


"Quit wiggling!!" Beda shouted, losing her tentative hold on the
branch and grabbing hold of Pete's head. In her effort to retain
position, the girl's fingers tangled in the boy's hair and
yanked several strands free.   Pete yelled in painful protest.   He
straightened and, determined to keep his mind on business, the
boy pushed the child higher into the air.


Beda stretched as far as she could. Even with her tiny fingers
fully extended, she could barely touch the end of the dangling
limb.   "I can't reach it."


"Push up on it," Pete instructed.   "Maybe you can push it free."


Belinda bit her lip and tried again, straining to reach the broken
branch.   As she reached her full extension, Pete used the last of
his strength to thrust her upward.   The move was successful.
Belinda's hand struck the butt of the limb, pushing it from the
crook where it was caught. It tottered for a moment, then fell
to the ground.


Beda clambered down from Pete's shoulders and watched as he
picked up the long stick, examining it for soundness. After
stripping the branch of unnecessary foliage, Pete clasped the
curved pike and carefully extended it across the rushing bayou.


After several aborted tries, and almost losing his hold on the
limb, Pete finally caught hold of one of the far tree's lower
branches.   Very carefully, Pete drew the live bough across the
water. When it was within reach, he caught the taut branch
and held it tightly.


"Here, Beda. Catch hold and swing across," Pete instructed the
startled girl.


"I thought you were going to do it first!"   Belinda backed up a
step.


"I would, but then how would you get over?" Pete pointed out.
"I don't think you're big enough to catch hold of the branch
again by yourself."


"I can try."


Holding the tense branch was causing Pete's arms to ache.
"Listen, Beda," he said seriously. "There's a good chance that
both of us won't be able to get across. For one thing, you don't
weigh as much as me, so there's less of a chance of the tree
breaking."
"Breaking . . .?"


"And," Pete ignored the girl, "with my shoulder bummed up, I
don't think I could hold on to swing across anyway."


"So I'd be stuck on the other side by myself?" Belinda backed
up another step and began to shake her head. "No way, Pete. I
ain't gonna do it."


Pete was very quiet for a moment. Drenched, exhausted, afraid
at any moment that he might turn into something ugly himself,
Pete lowered his voice and pleaded. "Please do it, Beda. If
you don't do it, you might get killed, and I already almost
caused that once. Please, Beda I . . . I have to save you."


Belinda stared at the boy, then gulped soundlessly. She wanted
to argue, but Pete looked so . . . serious. Belinda felt a deep
dread that maybe this *was* her last chance to escape alive.


"Okay," the girl went to the boy and reluctantly grasped the
area of the branch between his gripping hold. "But I don't like
it."


"I know," Pete said, trying to keep his voice reassuring. "You're
a brave kid. Now, hold your legs up and hold on." He let go of
the branch.


Like a sling shot freed, the limb swung back across the creek,
trembling violently as it flew.   Belinda shrieked and held on
tightly. For a moment, she was suspended over the ground of
the opposite bank, vaguely aware that Pete was yelling for her
to "LET GO!"


Then, the branch wavered slightly and moved back, pulled by
gravity and the burden of the girl.   When Belinda looked down
again, all she could see was angry, brown water.


'DON'T LET GO!!"   Pete was shouting frantically to the
screaming girl. Beda kicked and swung on the branch, but it
refused to move. Pete grabbed hold of the broken limb and
tried using it as a pole to push the branch back across the
water. It kept slipping off the wood, shredding leaves and
sticks in the process. Belinda observed the broken twigs being
swallowed by the river and began jostling hysterically.


Pete wasn't giving up. He clutched the staff tightly and took
careful aim at the heart of the suspended branch. "Please," he
whispered, then thrust the pike forward.


It caught. Carefully, Pete pushed and the tree limb began
moving toward the opposite side of the creek.


Within inches of the bank, the bough cracked.   The sound was
hollow and heart-wrenching.   The children had time only to
share one quick, frightened glance before the broken branch
and Belinda fell into the churning river.


*****************************


Dusk. Finally, LaCroix felt stamina returning to his starved
muscles as the daylight surrendered to the darkness. Even
depleted of nourishment, the vampire drew strength from the
night.


He glared down at the shrew who dared question him.   Then,
LaCroix smiled coldly.


Julia shivered, her accusatory tone fading as she stared into
those frozen, blue eyes.


They flared a muted gold.


Julia blinked. Her head felt like someone was tap dancing on
the inside of her skull.


"Is it true?"   The woman's voice was soft.


"Your question has already been answered," LaCroix answered
abruptly, his tone harsh. "Now that your curiosity is satisfied,
virago, I shall take my leave of you. Yet, I fear my respite will
be tainted, as your blood will surely taste of bile."


Julia's eyes clouded with sudden tears. "Just another meal," she
said hollowly. Her brain was clawing at her, trying to escape
through her eyes sockets.
LaCroix checked the thrust of his attack and gazed at the
woman.


Head low, chin on her chest, Julia wept.


*************************************


End of Part 59


***********************************


LaCroix shook the woman furiously.    "Stop this trickery," he
snarled.


"What . . . trickery?" Julia managed to gasp between jolts. Her
head felt like lead. The rain had invaded her ear canals and she
seemed unable to keep her balance.  "The . . . only . . . tricks . . .
are . . . yours."


The vampire stopped jarring the woman, and she fell against
him, dead weight in his arms. She sobbed a single time and
was still.


Slowly, LaCroix tightened his embrace. He reached out to her,
probing softly with his mind. The vampire sensed no guile, no
deception--just sadness.


"Just a food source," Julia whispered softly. "Everything else
was a lie. You never considered taking me with you."


"No," LaCroix answered slowly.   "Bringing you across was
never an option."


"Why?" Julia looked up at him, eyes swollen and red. "Am I
*that* awful? Are you just another one in the string of false
lovers that I've always chosen in my life?   What is it about me
that attracts such duplicity?" She was crying openly now, her
tears larger than the raindrops which tore at them.


Did he owe her an answer?   <Take her now and end this
pain...this pain that is clawing at both of you.>


She waited, hazel eyes steady.   His own orbs faded to blue.


"I choose not to love," LaCroix answered.


Her heart quivered inside her chest.    "Even one who loves
you?"


"I did not ask for your love, Julia."    LaCroix smiled slightly.


"But you did not discourage me, did you?"


"I enjoyed our game," he replied, more coldly than necessary.


"Your game."   Julia's voice echoed the ache within her head.
"Aperitifs don't play games."


He took her chin in his hand and lifted it, scrutinizing her face.
"If you'd been given the choice, my dear, what would it
have been?"


Her eyes opened wide, uncertain of what he was now asking.


"I have whelped children during my lifetime," he said, his voice
steady. "I have always sought ones of noble spirit whom I
thought could withstand the rigors of our existence, to thrive
within the moonlit shadows, to be true to the hunter's nature.
My mistakes still stand to mock me, despite my best
intentions, my most strident efforts."


He released Julia suddenly, turning his back to her. "I took my
final lover almost one-hundred years ago. She loved the night
and was my perfect complement, or so I thought. She beguiled
me for over a decade, but in the end, she clung so to her mortal
ties that she chose not to listen to me.   Our . . . relationship.   It
ended badly. I vowed never to let that happen again."


"Lucien?" The tone she used when saying of his name stabbed
at his heart more fiercely than the sharpest stake. "Am I to be
the victim of your personal pledge then?"
He pivoted to face her. "So it would appear, my dear Julia.
For, if I cannot be loyal to my own promises, how can I expect
my children, my lovers, to be true to me, to believe in the
lessons I have taught them?"


Julia shook her head. "I don't know, Lucien. I don't know
about past promises and pains. All I know is that I love you
and want to be with you."


LaCroix didn't move.   "Even at the cost?"


"Cost?" Julia touched her forehead, feeling the palpable
throbbing passing through her temples.


The ancient caught the woman by her forearms, holding her
fast. "The cost, Julia. The price of blood on your hands.     An
eternal life drenched in blood you might find more biting than
the rain which drenches us now. A thirst so consuming that
you would kill your own child for what you seek."


"You . . . you don't seem so controlled by the hunger," Julia
pointed out.   "You've been with me constantly for over thirty
hours, and I'm still living.   The children and I . . . why didn't
you kill all of us?"


"Centuries of discipline," LaCroix replied. "And don't believe
for a moment that I was not tempted to do so." Julia opened
her mouth as if to speak, but LaCroix cut her off. "My decision
not to kill you was based on my own survival needs. Too many
mortals knew that I was with you, and thus the children as
well. If you were to be killed, I would be the natural suspect.    I
have no desire to shed my current identity just yet."


"But," Julia insisted again, "you *can* control yourself. I *could*
control myself." She reached up and touched his face. "Just
maybe I'm the one that could make it, could fill that void in
your heart."


"'Void in my heart,'" LaCroix scoffed. He caught her hand and
squeezed it painfully. "Monsters do not have hearts, Julia. Not
emotional ones. We cannot afford emotional hearts, and your
need to express yours is further proof that you would be a
liability to me." LaCroix allowed his eyes to go hot red. He
opened his mouth and pressed her hand hard against the sharp
incisors protruding there. She cried out slightly as her flesh
was impaled.   "This is the reality, Julia. My existence is not
some Love Boat cruise or Fantasy Island tour. My kind are
hunters . . . killers. And I am the epitome of my species."


The woman was crying again. A thin trickle of blood ran from
the back of her hand down to her wrist. LaCroix watched its
trail for just a moment, then licked the blood away.


That's when Belinda's cry reached their ears.


Julia turned in shocked, dazed surprise.   "That sounded like
one of the kids."


LaCroix reached out with his senses, locating the child. Her
heartbeat was rapid with fright and drawing closer. He
listened more keenly and heard her breathing. It was shallow
and damp.


"Belinda Rambo," LaCroix said, his voice void of emotion.   "It
appears the child has fallen into the water."


"The creek?" Julia's eyes were horrified as she turned toward
the bayou. "It's almost over the banks, and the current is too
fast. She'll drown."


"Most likely she will," the vampire replied.


Julia pulled against his grip.   "We need to try and save her."


"Why?" LaCroix held the woman fast.


Julia turned and stared up into the vampire's face.   LaCroix's
eyes were blue and glittered brightly.


"You know that little girl," Julia cried out. "You've talked to
her, played with her. How can you not try and save her life?"


"Mortals die." LaCroix said. "It is of no concern to my kind,
*our* kind."   He glanced toward the river just in time to watch
the child's passing.   Belinda's red head bobbed once to the
surface before she was again swallowed by the water. The
vampire shifted his gaze back to the woman.
"Stay with me."


***********************************

End of part 60


*******************************


Pete stared in shocked bewilderment as Beda disappeared
beneath the surface of the churning bayou.   He tried to move,
but his legs went rubbery and he fell to the ground, crouching
on his knees. Pete stared at the spot where the girl had gone
under and felt ill.


<Never fit for nothing,> Harsh words rang in the boy's ears,
entoned in Aaron Brackin's stiff baritone. <Little piece of shit is
what you are, Petey boy. Wuss clear up to your asshole.>


"I . . . I tried!"   Pete cried aloud, head tilted into the rain's blow.
"I tried!!"


<And failed, as usual,> Aaron's tone was accusatory.   <You're
nothing but a miserable little failure.>


Pete's shoulders sagged, his whole body defeated.   <Failure.>


If a child hears the words often enough, how can he not begin
to believe that a particle of truth is in the statement? Pete had
failed to save Belinda Rambo. Despite his best attempts, Pete
*was* a failure.


<Little piece of worthless shit,>   Pete slumped and fell, burying
his face in the mud.


********************************


Julia looked toward the river again, her mind cloying and
jumbled.


LaCroix watched the woman closely, watched her internal
struggle playing out in the emotions which crossed her face.
Finally, she turned to him again, her voice catching. "We've got
to try and save her, Lucien."


"If she is meant to live, she shall." LaCroix held Julia's arms
firmly. "She is in the hands of the Fates now, and they will
decide if it is the time that her mortal thread be cut."


"But . . ." Julia argued, tears hot on her cheeks.


"If you interfere, if you go to her now, then you shall prove to
me that you are not yet ready to let go of your own mortal
yearnings, Julia." LaCroix deliberately kept his voice low, calm.
"I am prepared to betray a one-hundred-year-old promise
which I made. I am prepared to offer you eternity, but you
must make a choice. The child or me--it cannot be both."


"But . . ." The woman's eyes were frightened, uncertain.   Her
brain rolled over in agony, clutching at itself.


His voice so low.   "The child . . . or me."


***************************


Peter Brackin sobbed into the moist soil beneath him. A sharp
pine needle was jabbing the inside of his nose, but the boy was
too despondent to remove the painful splinter. All he could
think of was his failure.


<Wuss.   Worthless piece of crap.>


<Get up, Pete,> Another voice, unrecognizable and far away.
<Get up and start running. Maybe you can still help Beda.>


Pete looked up, staring around for the unseen owner of the new
voice. It was strong, confident, male and commanding.


<Get up, Pete.   Maybe you *can* save her if you try.>


Pete struggled to his knees again, staring for a moment at the
mud splattered on his bare chest. Then, with all the strength he
could muster, the boy rose to his feet.
"Beda!" he cried out. Still yelling the girl's name, Pete began
running along the creek bank, following the course of the
stream.


***********************


"Why can't I have both?" Julia was genuinely confused as she
stared into the vampire's face. "You've showed compassion
during your time with us--feeding the children, finding us
shelter. Why are you asking me to make a choice like this?"


LaCroix gave no reply. He lifted his head and would not look
at the woman. His terms had been given, and she could either
comply or refuse them.


Julia glanced once more toward the bayou, her heart aching.
She shook loose of LaCroix's hold and took a tentative step
toward the water.


"Come help me.   Let's save Beda together."


LaCroix refused to look at her.


"Please, Lucien.   Help me.   Then we'll be together . . . I
promise."


He looked directly at her, his face hard. "An evening of broken
promises, I fear, dear Julia. Go . . . do what you must. Just as I
must do."


He turned his back on the woman.


Julia gave him one long, furtive glance, then moved again
toward the river. "I've got to try, Lucien. I must." Then, she
began running.


LaCroix turned and, unmoving, watched her go.


*****************************
Pete broke into the clearing, panting, his lungs screaming for
more air. He looked around quickly, sighting the vampire
standing alone. Pete followed the creature's gaze and saw Julia
Sanford slipping into the tree line which bordered the creek's
edge.


The vampire! If anyone can save Beda, then he can! The
realization hit Pete with sudden ferocity and he bolted toward
LaCroix.


LaCroix turned in shocked surprize as a hand clutched his arm.
He followed the limb and stared into the frightened face of
Peter Brackin.


"Beda . . ." the boy gasped.   "She fell in the water."


"I know," LaCroix said softly. "Julia just left on an errand of
mercy, determined to try and rescue the girl. I trust you're on
such a mission yourself, Mr. Brackin?"


"Ms. Julia went . . . alone?" The boy wasn't sure what this
meant. "Aren't you going to help?"


"I have no intentions of interfering in Ms. Rambo's fate, no."
LaCroix shook his head.


"But, you've *got* to!" The boy's hold on LaCroix's arm
tightened, causing the vampire to stare at the child's hand.


"And, why must I intervene?" LaCroix asked sardonically.


"Because . . . because I need you to," Pete's voice was pleading.
"It's my fault that she fell in the water, and you've got to save
her, please!!"


"What makes you think that *I* can save her, Mr. Brackin?"


"Because you're a vampire," Pete blurted the words, choking on
them. "You're stronger, faster and all that stuff." Then another
thought struck the boy. "Is it because you haven't eaten and
you're weak?   Then take what you need from me!" The boy
began clawing at the crusted wounds on his shoulder, forcing
them to bleed again.   "Take my blood, but, please--help
Belinda!!"


LaCroix's face was stone. He stared at the blood flowing from
the boy's shoulder. Then, without words, the vampire tilted his
eyes skyward and vanished.


Pete stared after LaCroix for just a moment, then dropped to his
knees and fainted.


*********************************


End part 61


**********************************


Julia sprinted along the embankment, searching for any sign of
the child in the water.   Nothing.


"BEDA!" The woman's voice cried out against the roar of the
rain. "BEDA!"


Nothing. No sound but the terrible clamor of the swollen
creek, crushing everything in its path.


Julia ran on. Her head hurt like the blazes and her lungs
breathed fire, but she continued to chase the illusion that she
might be able to help the child.


She was running so hard that she almost missed Beda
altogether.


A sound overhead caused Julia to look up momentarily. When
she looked down, her eyes caught sight of something different
in the course of the water. A secondary current spread out
from the bank, indicating a break in the flow. In the heart of
the break, just below the surface, was an outcrop root. And,
caught in the root was the body of Belinda Rambo.


"BEDA!" Julia screamed as she halted at the ledge. This was a
deeper part of the creek and the water was at least three feet
below the crest line. The child's body floated face down in the
water, bobbing to the surface occasionally as she was buffeted
by the current. Julia put a foot on the mud of the embankment,
prepared to climb down to the child. The woman's foot slipped on
the wet surface, and she barely caught herself before she, too,
slid into the water.


"Hold on Beda! I'm coming to help you!" Julia called out, even
though she knew the child probably couldn't hear. The woman
flattened herself on the ground and groped over the creekside,
trying to reach the girl. Julia's fingers encountered nothing but
mud, leaves and fouled debris.


"Dammit!" Julia cried aloud. She strained to reach again,
wishing her arms were just a tiny bit longer.


<LaCroix's arms could have reached her easily,> Julia thought
bitterly as her own fingers again failed to snare the child.
<Damn him. Why isn't he here helping me?>


<A vampire.> As the woman continued to try and hook(try hooking)
Belinda, her mind hung on the man . . . no, the creature which
she had so recently confessed to love. <Amazing. Can't be true.
No such things as vampires and goblins.> But, she had seen it
with her own eyes. The eyes of the beast. The fangs gleaming
with blood need. Julia shook her weary head and tried to
concentrate on Beda.


The child bobbed again to the surface, and Julia was able to
catch a few strands of hair. Then, Beda was gone again, only
the broken tresses caught in Julia's fingers.


The woman stared at the coarse, red hairs and began quaking.


"Dammit, Lucien, I NEED you.   HELP ME!!"


*******************************


<Get up, Pete.> The strong inner voice commanded the boy to
consciousness. <Get up and try.>


The boy's eyes flickered open.    So tired.


<Get a move on, Pete.   If the girl dies, you're responsible for it.
You've got to try.>


Pete closed his eyes again.   <So very tired.>


Rough hands jerked Pete abruptly to his feet.    The vampire's
face leered into the boy's terrified one.


"Go help the females," LaCroix hissed.   "It is not my affair, but
it *is* yours."


"But . . ." Pete's words were lost in LaCroix's shaking of the boy.


"What's wrong with you, Brackin?" LaCroix berated Pete. " I
thought you were a soldier, a valiant warrior willing to face
odds which you knew you had no chance of defeating. Was my
respect of you ill spent? Are you really just another young
coward intent on saving his own skin at the cost of your army?
Are you willing to lie here in your own waste while your
fellows fall?"


LaCroix stepped back, waiting.


Pete stood silent for a moment before lifting his face to the
vampire. "No," the boy answered, his voice cracked.


LaCroix's eyes narrowed. The lower octave of the boy's tone
had not escaped him. He grasped Pete again, catching the
boy's eyes and heartbeat.


"Forget me," LaCroix said, his words timed to Peter's pulse.
"Remember that you are brave and worthy.   Remember your
friends."


Pete shook his dazed head, trying to clear his thoughts. "Beda!"
he suddenly shouted aloud, then headed at a run downstream.


*******************************


"Help me," Julia sobbed again, her arms aching from trying to
reach the submerged child. "Please, God . . . help me."
"Ms. Julia?!" The thin form of Peter Brackin was suddenly
beside her, searching the water where the woman was
reaching. "Beda!" He spotted the girl.


"I can't reach her," Julia cried.


"Maybe I can."  Pete fell to Julia side, catching hold of her
hand. "Here, hold on to me and maybe I can reach down and
grab her."


"NO." Julia's eyes rounded with fear.   "I might not be able to
hold you. You might both drown."


"We gotta try!" Pete insisted, clasping the woman's hand in
both of his. "If we don't, she's gonna die for sure." He smiled
reassuringly--so young, yet so mature. "We gotta try."


Julia drew strength from his touch and nodded. Her grip firm,
she held tightly as the boy rolled off the ledge and onto the
mud-clay surface of the bank.


Pete floundered for a moment, his full weight pulling on Julia's
aching shoulders. She gritted her teeth and held the boy's hand
with both of hers, determined that she would not let go.


<Lucien.>


Then, the boy found footing. He clung to the side of the bank
and bent at the waist, reaching for the girl. Pete's fingers
probed the water in the area where Beda had last been seen.
Nothing.


Frustrated, the boy slid further down, hoping that Julia's hold
would stay strong. "Just a little more," he begged the woman.
"Just a little more."


<Lucien.>


Pete's foot slid under the water, touching something pliable and
soft. He darted his hand beneath the surface and caught the
girl's arm.
"Got her!" Pete cried out, looking up.


Julia pulled with all her strength, but Pete was unable to help
her. The bank surface was just too slippery and he kept
dropping back, his bulk tearing at the woman's arms. Julia, her
head exploding with pain and thoughts, cried out in agony as
she felt her grip slipping.


<LUCIEN!>


Strong arms reached past her, taking hold of the boy's wrist,
easing her burden.    The sudden loss of tension against her
shoulders caused the woman to collapse.


"Lucien . . ." she prayed.


Julia turned on her side and watched as Sheriff Duke LeFort
pulled Peter Brackin and the limp body of Belinda Rambo to
the terrace.


"Get back," LeFort instructed the woman and boy as he pulled
the comatose child further from the river. "That bank is
crumbling."


Even as the Sheriff spoke, the ground shivered and broke off in
chunks. Rock, clay and mud oozed and dripped into the creek
below.


Shaken and exhausted, Julia crawled toward Beda. Belinda's
face was gray and non-responsive, her body looked so small.


LeFort had already begun CPR on the child, his raw breaths
forcing the girl's lungs to expand.   Julia and Pete watched in
dread silence, willing the child to live.


A rough hand clutched at Pete's arm. The boy turned round
quickly and stared into the soaked face of Aaron Brackin.


"Pete," the man said, his eyes tense and searching.


Pete understood and smiled. "I'm okay, Dad. Everything's
okay."   Aaron Brackin pulled his son to him and hugged the
lad tightly.


Belinda coughed. LeFort held the child on her side.    Brackish
water and leaf chunks flowed from Beda's mouth as her lungs
fought for a pure breath.


LeFort lay the child on her back again. Belinda opened her eyes
slightly, blinking at the faces which watched her intently.


"I really hate swimming," the child coughed.


LeFort scooped Belinda up in his arms and headed wordlessly
in the direction of the estate, Peter and Aaron Brackin close on
his heels. Julia paused for a moment, surveying the woods,
then turned and, staggering somewhat, followed.


>From the shadows, LaCroix watched.


***************************************


End part 62


************************************


Less than twenty-four hours in the hospital, and she was
already bored to the point of rebellion.


Julia pointed the channel changer at the overhead television set
and surfed without intent. Most of the local news was still
airing pictures of the devastation of the just-passed storm. Julia
watched as images of broken trees and wind damage filled the
tiny screen.


Her thoughts, though, were elsewhere.


<Lucien.>   She bit her lip, wondering. Had it really
happened? Or, had it all been a concussion induced
nightmare? Julia moaned as another stiff pain clawed at the
back of her bandaged head.


The illumination in her room was low.   It was night out, and
the lights had been dimmed to reflect the evening hour. Julia
snapped the television off and reached for the call button. Her
hand paused, though, when she saw her door open a crack.


"Oh, good.   Nurse . . . I really need some more pain med . . ."


Her voice trailed off as Lucien LaCroix slipped silently into the
room.


Julia's eyes traced him, taking him in. He was clean, well
dressed in his normal black attire and perfectly groomed.
LaCroix's normally pale cheeks were ruddy with color.


"Well," Julia admonished, running a hand through her
bedraggled auburn hair. "Here I look a fright and you barely
show a sign of wear. In fact, you look damn good,
considering. . . "


"Considering?"   LaCroix lifted an eyebrow in question.


All humor fled from her face. "Considering . . . our ordeal."
Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. "Damn you--why didn't
you help us?"


The vampire stayed in the shadows. "It was a mortal affair," he
offered simply. "I am not mortal."


Julia turned away from him. LaCroix moved to her bedside,
seated himself and took her hands. He pulled, forcing her to
face him.


"This is how it is, Julia. This is the price of immortality.    One
cannot cling to things mortal, or you will most surely be
suffocated in their sorrows."


"Do you feel sorrow, Lucien?" The woman turned fierce eyes
upon LaCroix.    "Did you feel sorrow as you watched all of us--
me, Pete and Beda--dying before your eyes?"


LaCroix held his gaze firm. "Do you truly think that I would
have let that happen, Julia? LeFort was close by. Should I have
revealed myself to him and been forced to kill him also?"
The woman didn't answer for a long moment.


"Is that why you're here, Lucien? To finish things? To clean up
any messes left behind?" She looked at him boldly. "Are you
here to kill me?"


The vampire slowly shook his head, his eyes never leaving
hers. "No."


Her eyes widened.   "The children . . .!"


"Are perfectly safe." LaCroix caught Julia's shoulders and
gently pushed her back into the bed. "Everyone is safe."


LaCroix sat back, musing. "It seems that Mr. Brackin achieved
a level of maturity during our recent sojourn. Near the end,
puberty set in, and I was able to 'suggest' things to him. His
memories of 'vampires' have already faded, replaced by
thoughts of football, college and . . ." LaCroix smiled, " . . .
young ladies."


"And Beda?   Were you able to work your magic on her?"


LaCroix's smile faded to bemusement. "Unfortunately, no. Her
childish prattling of monsters is still quite vivid, I fear. But,"
the vampire's voice was gentle, "in time, such thoughts will
fade into vague recollections, just as all sights and sounds of
childhood do. Pushed to that area of the brain which can
handle and rationalize our demons--both outward and internal.
I suspect that she will grow into an intelligent young woman
with a lifelong love of mysterious and ghostly things. She may
even grow up to write horror stories," LaCroix laughed.


"And me?"


LaCroix's face clouded.


"What are your plans for me, Lucien?"


His voice was low. "You once approached me regarding your
future wishes, Julia. I gave you the choice to come with me,
and you chose otherwise. I offered to break my promise of one-
hundred years, and you rejected me."


"I . . ." Julia's voice was broken in sadness.


"Shall I break my promise again Julia?" His eyes searched her
face. "Shall I dismiss your rebuff as proof of your loyalty . . .
not to me, of course, but to those placed in your care? Should I
reward you for being a just and good woman? Do you have the
strength and resolve needed to come with me now, or will
there always be another cause which beckons for your
attention, pulling you away from me?"


Julia remained silent, unable to reply.


"Do you fear me, Julia?" LaCroix's eyes sparked gold with
passion.   "You should -- my patronage carries a heavy price.
A cost you should understand well before agreeing to pay. I
demand your loyalty, your absolute submission -- no less can
be tolerated. Do you understand?"


Julia closed her eyes and nodded.   Tears flowed down her
cheeks.


"The pain is momentary," he whispered, his voice now
reassuring. "A small price for eternal life . . ."


". . .by your side," she murmured, completing his thought.
Their thoughts.

The woman opened her eyes, meeting his.   She felt herself
pulled into his cool blue promise. He reached behind her head,
cupping her neck in his hand, and lifted her to him.


"The choice is yours, Julia," his voice was calm.   "I will not take
you if you do not come willingly."


LaCroix watched as she closed her eyes again.   He watched the
flicker of emotions passing across her face like a strobe. Finally,
Julia opened her eyes, a faint, sad smile on her lips.   "The
children . . . Beda needs me. I have to help her understand . . ."


He had his answer. Gently, he lowered her head to the pillow
and touched her lips with his own.  His kiss took her breath
and, with it, her memories.
As he opened the door to exit Julia's hospital room, LaCroix
heard one sob.


He did not look back.


***********************************************


End of Part 63


***********************************


A WEEK AT THE BED AND BLOODFEST


A LaCroix Story


By Patt Elmore


Part 64--an epilog


************************************


"Promises," LaCroix spoke quietly into the microphone, his
voice caressing the hard mesh. "Sweet whispers in the night;
cherished moments shared as commitments are made. "


The ancient leaned closer. "So many times, promises fall from
our lips. Our intentions are good, our loyalties true. But even
the truest, most honorable can call to question some promises
made."


Unseen by his KDRK listeners, LaCroix held up an intricate
silver bracelet and began examining it. It was an action that he
had repeated many times in the past few months.


"What happens when one discovers that their promise was
based on falsehood? Should the promisee be bound by his
oath?   Is he automatically freed from his pledge with the
discovery of deceit? Or is he still honor bound, his promise
made to himself, not to another?"
LaCroix glanced at the overhead clock and sighed a quick
smile. "But the time has grown short, and I must leave you,
gentle listeners. I look forward to hearing your views on the
subject tomorrow evening, for I, the Devil's Advocate, will be
back. That's a promise."


***************************


Julia Sanford reached toward her dashboard and flipped the
radio off. She'd never been a big fan of shock jock radio, but
there was something about this Devil's Advocate which
intrigued her, made her smile at his rather risque, on-line
antics.    Prior to her 'accident,' Julia had never been much of a
night person, but now she lived for the sweet peacefulness of
the dark. Yes, many things had changed in her life and
attitudes of late. Julia slipped a CD into the changer and
grinned over at her companion.


"I am really *ready* for this vacation to New Orleans," the
auburn-haired woman said cheerfully. "This has been a rough
couple of months--and I think they would have been
unbearable it you hadn't come along, Cha."


The Asian woman smiled at her new friend, met during a visit
to the local theater. Both women had gone stag to the
performance and had struck up a conversation. Mutual
interests and likes had soon made them fast friends.


"I, too, Julia, am anxiously looking forward to our trip," the
almond-eyed woman smiled serenely. "I feel it will be a most
memorable holiday."


*******************************


The End


Again, thanks to my wonderful beta readers--Jules Stafford and
Bonnie Rutledge. They continued to keep me in line. A
dubious task, I assure you.


And, a special thanks to everyone who took the time to mail me
a note regarding the story as it was posted. Your feedback was
welcome, interesting, enlightening and most appreciated.   Best
wishes to all of you.


Patt Elmore
patt79ad@juno.com
pattelmore@juno.com