Post-Mortality 2: Love You To Death

Be careful what you wish for, part two...

Children. How does one cope? They insist on making their own mistakes, no matter how hard one might try to guide them, no matter how one struggles to be patient with their mishaps.

My poor Natalie. I did try to warn her, but of course she wouldn't listen -- and now I heroically refrain from reminding her of that fact, as she sits in the window seat and stares out at the velvet night, waiting for Nicholas to return.

If he returns. Of late, he has been given to spending the days with his new mortal 'friend'.

She is all of twenty-two years old, with hair lacquered metallic crimson in the current fashion trend. There are holes pierced through her earlobes and her nose and her eyebrows and her navel and the webs between her fingers. A tattooed dragon curves over her shoulder, its tail encircling her breast; she is not shy about exposing any part of this tattoo, or the surrounding anatomy. She has a fondness for mixing plaids with floral prints, and wearing as little clothing as possible.

The first time I glimpsed this creature, I thought I might actually die laughing.

Natalie, however, is not amused. When Nicholas came home sporting a gold metallic streak in his long hair, they came to blows for the first time in fifty-four years. The look on his face when she threw him across the room was utterly priceless: Nicholas has never fully assimilated the fact that his precious Natalie is now as powerful as he is. Touching, that he hesitated to respond in kind -- my Nicholas, ever the knight.

But he will not give up the mortal girl for Natalie's sake, and I am tempted to discipline him severely for that.

Blind as ever while in the grip of his selfish desires, he does not see her grief, her anguish. He doesn't realize how she suffers, struggling with the knowledge that her beloved has found another. Self-righteously, he claims that it is neither infatuation nor romance... but anyone with eyes can see the truth.

Especially a woman who once stood in that mortal girl's place.

"I'm Janette," she said to me this evening, just after Nicholas departed in a huff after another of their arguments. "I'm Janette, mark two. Yesterday's news."

She looked so forlorn that I embraced her, and she clung to me for quite a while, seeking comfort.

Nicholas' welfare was reason enough for me to bring Natalie over, for I knew that he would never forgive himself if she died. After centuries of his venom, I had expected more of the same from his protege, and resigned myself to a long and tedious battle.

Instead... Natalie became my daughter.

Unsurprising in retrospect, for the incidents resulting in her birth to darkness disturbed her far more than she allowed herself to acknowledge. She could not turn to Nicholas for support, for he had been shattered by those same events and was only beginning to recover; I suppose she had no option other than to turn to me.

In our struggle to keep Nicholas reasonably sane, we had no choice but to turn to each other.

After fifty-four years of her devotion, he has now rewarded her with betrayal. Ah, Nicholas; for all your high-minded ideals, your feet of clay have tripped you up once more.

I cross the room to my Natalie, and let my hand glide across her soft curls. Such a lovely texture to her hair. "And will you wait here until he returns?" I ask her. "It may be quite a long wait."

"What else can I do?" There are tears in her voice, tears in her eyes. I wipe the droplets away before they can spill from her cheeks and stain her snowy white blouse.

"Nicholas is a fool," I tell her, not for the first time. In fact, over the past fifty-four years, it is the main piece of advice I have conveyed to her. "You must not allow your existence to revolve around his; you will only destroy yourself if you try." How many times did I urge Janette to persevere, to pursue him, in the hopes that her success would keep him tamed? If my Janette hadn't possessed such formidable strength of will, she would surely have been devastated by the battles that ensued. No, far better for Natalie to find her own path.

"What else can I do?" she repeats bleakly. "Lucien, I'm losing him, and I just can't bear it..."

She leans into me, and I hold her. It is a strange sensation. I never encouraged such physical expression from Janette; with her background, it was better that our relationship contain a certain... distance. But Natalie is a very different person, weaker in her own way and yet stronger in others. She does not -- necessarily -- equate physical contact with sexual desire, a remarkably refreshing attribute.

As I stroke her silken hair, an idea occurs to me, a startlingly attractive option. I have always refrained from extending the invitation, out of respect for Nicholas -- but that reason no longer obtains.

"Hunt with me," I say.

A tremor races through her slim form. "I..."

"You need not join me, if you wish to abstain," I elaborate. "Simply... accompany me on the hunt." Knowing perfectly well that no fledgling of her tender years is capable of witnessing the kill, scenting the blood, without responding to the lure.

It is obvious from her face that she has considered this before. In over half a century, Natalie has never killed, never sampled blood fresh from the source. I have respected their wishes in the matter, and kept my own routine separate from their existence -- but I have always felt saddened that my beautiful young daughter has never known the savage ecstasy of the chase, the sweet thrill of living blood.

I have waited half a century, for just such a chance as this.

"Come with me," I coax her, with all the gentleness I possess. The very thought of taking my child on her first hunt is unbearably alluring, but I restrain the response as best I can. "Natalie..."

It only takes her a moment to decide. A flash of rebellion in her lovely eyes, a determined twist of her lips. Without a word, she rises, and I escort her to the door.

We take flight from the backyard, under cover of darkness, and depart our comfortable suburb for the fringes of the city.

He is a large man, burly and strong, with a rough voice to match his profane language. His thoughts are filled with venom, picturing the girlfriend who left him for a kinder man; he fingers the knife under his mattress and makes his final plans for her murder, savoring the thought of her lifeless form bleeding on her new beau's carpet.

Natalie stares into the bedroom window with loathing in her eyes, hatred for this insect of a human whose only purpose is to create suffering. I am pleased; it seems that I've chosen well. Perhaps his evil will counter her eventual guilt at what is to come.

I lure him outside with a telepathic suggestion, and he comes around the side of the ramshackle building with knife in hand, ready to lunge. It is a simple task to subdue him -- but instead I toy with him a bit, keeping most of my strength at bay, evading his slashes and goading him on, while Natalie watches intently from the bushes.

Finally, when my desire is almost unendurable, I strike, succumbing at last to my own hunger. The feeling of his hot blood rushing into my mouth is overwhelming, but somehow I manage to keep a part of my attention fixed on the real world, on my fledgling child.

She restrains herself far beyond what I would have imagined possible, until her hunger is an agony within her... then, in the space of a human heartbeat, she is beside me, kneeling at the monster's other side. I've been careful, saved her a full measure; curiosity triumphs over bloodlust, and I draw back to watch as my Natalie sinks her fangs into human flesh for the first time.

Her face is transcendent, filled with rapture, as the sensation floods through her. The innocence is broken -- for now she knows, firsthand, our great secret: there is nothing as perfectly exquisite as the kill, nothing that remotely approaches this ecstasy.

Not even the passion she shares with Nicholas can outdo this feeling.

When she is done, the body sags from her arms; I catch it, snap the neck quickly. Tonight, I will dispose of the kill, most likely in the deepest part of the river -- eventually, Natalie will have to learn to handle such things herself. But there is no reason for my daughter to have to face that unpleasantness tonight.

She is dazed, reeling, and I help her to her feet. "Ahhh... I never knew," she moans softly. "I never knew... but I killed him. I killed him. Oh, God, how could I kill him?"

Talk of gods invariably puts me in a foul mood, but I maintain my composure. "He was vermin, Natalie," I remind her gently. "His death will prevent the deaths of others."

"That doesn't make it right..."

Right and wrong, heaven and hell: how tiresome. Yet I must somehow summon up sympathy for my daughter's suffering, though truthfully I simply don't understand it. "It makes it better," I tell her, thinking that it sounds like something Nicholas might say.

Of course, Nicholas will never forgive me for this; will never realize that Natalie's 'fall from grace' was inevitable. Will never appreciate the fact that her first victim was carefully chosen for his evil, and for the relative safety of the encounter. The uneasy truce that my son and I have maintained for the last fifty-four years will be irrevocably shattered, once he learns of this.

Ah, well. My congenial relationship with Nicholas was becoming boring, in any case.

"Natalie," I say, capturing her face in my hands and once more wiping away her tears with my fingertips -- a deeper crimson tone, now -- "you are a vampire. I have sheltered you, protected you, made certain that you were provided for in every way..."

"You have," she interrupts, and the look of fondness in her eyes is unaccountably warming.

"But you must be capable of attending to your own needs," I continue. "Should we ever be parted, you must be able to feed and protect yourself. You must be able to survive. I have no intention of losing any of my children!" Interesting: until the words crossed my lips, I had no idea I felt so strongly about the issue. Or at least, about Natalie.

"Nick..."

"Would take care of you, yes -- unless he is otherwise occupied, as he is now. Or are you worried about his disapproval?" More tears to be stroked away from her velvet-soft cheeks. "Remember, my dear, that he hunted among the mortal flock for hundreds of years, with neither guilt nor remorse. Whatever enlightenment he claims to have found does not reverse that fact."

The guilt in her face becomes thoughtfulness, as she considers.

"You must be self-sufficient," I reiterate. "I will not cripple you by allowing any less, regardless of his beliefs or your own. Once I am certain that you have the ability to hunt and kill successfully, you may make whatever decision you choose -- but until that time, I will teach you what you must know, and you will follow my instructions. Oui, ma chere?" French endearments, old habit; Natalie doesn't speak the tongue, but has fifty-four years of experience in deciphering the basics.

She isn't happy about it, but she accepts the necessity. "Oui, papa," she murmurs reluctantly.

And is that the barest twinkle of eagerness lurking in the depths of her steady gaze?

We make our way back to the house, detouring briefly to dispose of the dead weight in my arms; and there is a smile on Natalie's face as she soars through the clouds by my side.

It is nearly dawn when Nicholas arrives; he is smoldering underneath his heavy coat. His own fault, for wearing flimsy metallic fabrics instead of something sensible like leather. His own fault, for a great many reasons.

He has the good grace to look sheepish as he glances toward me. "Not now," he mutters, "please, not now."

A century or two ago, I might have knocked him around a bit for such insolence, simply as a matter of principle. My mood is sufficiently dark that I am tempted to do it anyway -- but I can feel his hunger, emanating from him in a great wave, and it seems only sensible to leave him be for the moment.

Nicholas heads straight for the storage unit, snatches two full bottles from the top shelf, pops the vacuum seal on the first one and tilts it to his lips, drains it in one long draught, without pause. Drains the second bottle the same way, and reaches for a third. Studying him closely, I note the dark circles around his eyes, and the desperation within him. Oh, yes, he's torturing himself again. Fallen in love? Most likely.

Ah, Natalie, I underestimated you so badly at first; you have a strength I never thought to find in another. Whatever made you choose Nicholas, poor specimen that he is? Did his immortal weakness so enchant you that you were blinded to his flaws?

I, of course, am rather fond of Nicholas' flaws. I find them to be the most intriguing part of his psychology.The third flask goes into the disposal, and he reaches... "Really, Nicholas," I say. "Four?"

"Leave me alone," he mumbles, but there is no conviction in his voice. "I need it."

"Was your evening truly so... frustrating?"

A short laugh issues forth from his throat, an extraordinarily bitter sound. "Frustrating?" he echoes. "Try torturous."

"Then why do you torture yourself?"

He is taken aback. "I..." Shakes his head, tries again. "It's..." Stops short, and slowly, ever so slowly, his eyes widen and darken in realization.

"Oh, God," he moans, and the sound of it is so piteous that I feel a moment of empathy. "Nat's right, isn't she? She's known from the very beginning."

"We have both known," I remind him. "And she has suffered, Nicholas. She has watched you entwine yourself more and more deeply with this... this..."

"Cinnamon," he supplies. "Cinna."

Ridiculous name. "What are your intentions with this mortal?"

"I..." He sighs. "I don't know."

"Do you love her?"

"I-I don't know."

"But you intend to continue to see her, even though you find it torturous."

"I..."

"And regardless of how much pain you are causing your beloved Natalie?"

"Stop it! Leave me alone!"

He snatches up flasks number four and five and tries to evade me, get past me to the relative privacy of his room. I intercept him. "You have no right," I tell him sharply. "You owe her more than that."

"I don't owe her my life! Nor... my heart." His eyes cloud over, troubled.

"Don't you?" I am not concerned with Nicholas' personal torment at the moment; his attitude is infuriating. "I think you owe her exactly that, and much more. Certainly, you owe her more than fifty-four years."

"Fifty-seven," he mumbles. "We had three years before... before..." Even now, he can barely bring himself to discuss Natalie's 'birth'.

"In those three years, did you give her anything of lasting worth?"

The clouds in his eyes turn a darker grey.

"What have you truly done for Natalie, other than betray her?"

"I'm not..." His voice trails off. "I have, haven't I? I've betrayed her, just as you said."

I do not say a word. I don't have to. For a change, Nicholas is thinking almost clearly.

"What have I done?" he whispers, and buries his face in his hands.

Ah, but I have no patience left for his self-pity. "You have made a mistake," I tell him, "and if you have any sense, you'll rectify the situation at once," and depart, heading for my own room and a badly-needed day's rest.

The soundproofing of our home is adequate, but there is no effective insulation against the intimacy of our family bonds. They are both my children, and their argument is as clear to me as if I were in the room.

A shame, really; I am terribly tired, and long to sleep.

"How could you?" Nicholas' voice is anguished and self- righteous at once. "Nat, how could you?" Then, pure fury. "LaCroix. This is his doing! I'll..."

"It was my decision," Natalie interrupts. "My choice, not his. I've... I've been thinking about it for a while."

Dearest Natalie, my youngest child, the one who was a mere afterthought, is perhaps the most loyal offspring I've ever spawned. Her instinctive defense of me touches a part of my soul I'd thought withered away long ago.

"Thinking," she continues, "wondering. Wanting to know... what it's like."

"What it's like?" His tone is incredulous. "It's like killing, Nat. It's like murder."

"It's, like, survival," she shoots back. "Bottled human blood is a luxury, Nick! We can't manage without it -- and what happens if someday I don't have access to prepackaged food, and neither of you is available to take care of me? Do you want me to starve, until I'm so desperate I start killing people at random? Or should I maybe be able to choose my own victim, someone less innocent and more worthy of death?"

"More worthy of death?" Nicholas cannot believe his ears, it seems. "Nat... listen to yourself! What are you saying?"

She sighs. "I'm saying," she murmurs, "that I think it's time we both faced the facts. I'm a vampire, Nick. I require blood. And I have to be able to obtain it for myself safely, if the need arises. I... we can't hide from the truth forever." Her voice strengthens. "I've asked Lucien to teach me what I need to know." An outright lie, and Nicholas never suspects.

And how easily, how naturally she has covered my involvement in the matter, protecting me with casual ease from my son's wrath.

This child, a mere afterthought... what a rare and precious jewel she is. I find within myself a fierce determination, to guard her safety with the same steadfastness.

And to do whatever might be necessary to ensure that Nicholas does not cause her further pain.

I just wish they would continue their argument at another time, and let me sleep.

"I'm sleeping in the den," Nicholas says.

"Fine with me," Natalie answers stonily.

He storms out of the bedroom, slams the door with a force that echoes throughout the house, soundproofing or no.

When the turmoil of pain and anger and fear that is Nicholas' mind has retreated to the other end of the house, I drag myself from my comfortable bed (the pillow is beckoning to me with all the allure of fresh blood on a cold night, but somehow I resist) and seek out my youngest child. She's crying, the tears that she would not allow Nicholas to see. I seat myself on the edge of the bed, and stroke her hair the way a mortal might stroke a cat.

"I thought you were asleep," she mumbles through her tears.

"Who can sleep, with all this racket?" Half a century ago, it was difficult for me to feign the compassion required to deal with Natalie effectively. Now, the pretense has become second nature -- or else I have genuinely begun to develop the attribute. Which would be damned inconvenient. "Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. Or at least... I will be." She sits up, makes a brave attempt to hold back her sobs. "This is 'way overdue."

"Is it?"

"Oh, yes." A sideways glance at me. "And don't play innocent with me; you know it as well as I do."

I cannot repress my grin. My Natalie is perceptive; moreover, she dares to be honest with herself about her perceptions. A formidable challenge to Nicholas' stubborn denial.

It will be a delight, to watch these two struggle with each other through the centuries.

"I knew he'd find another me," says my daughter -- her voice is bleak, but steady. "I knew he'd fall in love with another mortal woman. I hoped it wouldn't happen, but... I knew it would." A bitter laugh. "He's Nick. How could it not?"

I slide my arm around her back, and she rests her head against my shoulder. "And I knew, right from the beginning, that eventually I would... you know."

"What?" I ask her. This is not the time for her to be taking refuge in euphemism.

She seems to realize what I'm doing. "Kill," she says clearly. "I knew that someday I would kill -- and that Nick would never forgive me for it."

"It's himself he can't forgive," I remind her.

"Yes, I know," she says wearily, "but he blames me, too. He wanted me to remain... innocent, untouched. As close as possible to the mortal woman I used to be. And what that represented to him."

A sign of her intelligence, that she recognizes the truth that Nicholas refuses to admit. And an immense cruelty, that she should be forced to face it in this manner.

Oh, I have to do something about this.

"But I can't help thinking," Natalie continues, "now that I'm just another vampire..." The tears well up in her eyes again. "Will he still love me at all?"

Unfortunately, I have no answer for her. Eight hundred years of careful study is not nearly long enough to unravel the tangle of complexities and contradictions that is Nicholas. Eight thousand years might not be enough.

Natalie, poor child, has not had even eight decades.

I hold her, and she cries in my arms -- cries herself to sleep; and I set her down carefully and cover her with the quilt, leave her to her unhappy dreams.

It is a relief to change my shirt, which is damp and stained with Natalie's tears.

And then I prepare myself for what I must do. I dislike venturing out in daylight; I don't have Nicholas' foolish craving to feel the sun on my skin. But this is a task that must be performed by day -- for there must be no hint that I am involved.

The tunnels of the sewers and the subways provide cover for most of the distance; shadows of buildings shelter me over the remainder. I emerge at my destination feeling considerably tense, but unharmed.

Cinnamon lives on the fifteenth floor of a housing project, and I glide up the elevator shaft so that none will witness my arrival.

Convenient that she sleeps by day, as we do; blackout curtains shield her apartment, and me, from the sun's lethal rays. Asleep, the punkish female seems to shed her camouflage, to embody the innocence which Nicholas sees in her.

There is a framed photograph, of the two of them together; he is embracing her and grinning at the camera.

Her eyes blink open, and she stares up at me, sleep- befuddled. "Who're you?" she asks me sleepily.

I say not a word, simply raise my hand -- the hand holding the dagger.

Afterwards, it is all I can do to keep myself from lapping up the blood spurting from her wounds. Torturous... and I must remain here until she dies, make certain that it is finished. Thankfully, her death comes swiftly, and I am free to depart.

I take the photograph with me when I go.

In the deepest levels of the sewers, I crush the laminated print into powder.

And make my way home as swiftly as I am able, longing to be free of the putrid sewer tunnels, and safe from the scalding sunlight.

A long, hot shower -- such facilities being, to my mind, the premier invention of the last several centuries. Fresh clothing, and a flask of blood to offset the gnawing hunger left over from the day's escapade, and I feel almost (pardon the expression) human.

Nicholas is fast asleep on the couch, his face troubled. Empty bottles of blood are strewn across the floor, one lying beside his lax fingertips. His eventual awakening will no doubt be unpleasant -- more so when he learns of Cinnamon's death.

Natalie, too, slumbers; streaks of crimson have dried on her cheeks. She will suffer as well, when the evening comes -- but not as badly as she might have, had I not taken action.

Nicholas will, in his misery, turn to Natalie for comfort. And for the time being, at least, their conflict will cease.

Soon enough, the scenario will play itself out again. But perhaps by then, my Natalie will be stronger, more able to survive the hurt. Who knows? Perhaps Nicholas will come to his senses and learn that these doomed loves are no more than a reflection of his wistful longing for humanity; that it is the mortality he treasures, not the woman herself. (And perhaps pigs will fly.)

In the meantime, the crisis has ended.

Maybe now I can get some sleep.

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