Smokers' Penance

Smoker's Penance: LaCroix

The smell of tobacco burning reminds me of a forest, and a fire, and a very young child... her smile was pure radiance as she reached up to me, thinking me her saviour. Her tears dripped salty-warm on my neck, and I stroked her golden hair -- and then I drained her dry, and left her corpse there to be destroyed by the advancing flames.

Nicholas, of course, was horrified, and railed at me for weeks. He argued that I was a vicious, conscienceless predator; he did not stop to ponder the fact that I had been badly burned and was in considerable pain at the time. How typical of Nicholas, to reserve his concern for mortals and strangers.

The curl of smoke above the bar reminds me of Janette, my dear Janette... gone now, departed, as all my children inevitably leave to pursue their own path; but she at least will come back at some point, when the unique solitude of mortal time begins to wear her down. It is this incessant change that connects us, for when human generations pass us by, the only constant in our world is our certainty of each other. Nicholas alone rebels against this necessity; the rest of us tend to keep in touch.

He wants me gone, departed, completely removed from his life; and yet how would he cope with the sudden void? My presence stabilizes him, whether he knows it or not, and regardless of the fact that he would rather walk into the sun than admit it.

The young ones dance, defiantly proud of their cigarettes, basking in the sudden freedom to do what they want, ignore all their prior -- human -- limitations. Nicotene is naughty, to the youngest of these children, who have never known the joys of true abandon. Infants not a half-century old who have never hunted, have never killed. Too dangerous, you see, to indulge in the hunt in these modern times.

With every human counted and catalogued, every kill can be traced and mapped, plotted and graphed... and so we cower in the shadows like simpering fools; and I look at my people and despise the depths to which we've been driven.

And naturally, these limitations are not enough for Nicholas: still he struggles to find his perfect world, some imaginary paradise where all will be as he chooses. For all his years, and all the times I have tried to break through his stubborn self-delusion, he still believes that there is some magical elixir that will remake his existence. He searches for his 'cure', with sublime faith that it will right all his wrongs, erase all his troubles.

As usual, I am the villain, for presenting the voice of reason. After all these years, I ought to be used to it, don't you think?

The infant vampires swagger through the club, never realizing that over ninety percent of them will not live to see their hundredth year of darkness; the attrition rate is high, at that age. And though most of these children are absolutely appalling, without education or intellect, chosen (it would seem) solely for the length of their hair or the breadth of a bicep or curve of a breast, nevertheless, it... disturbs me... when they die.

The mark of the ancients, after all, is no more than a tally of the deaths of one's contemporaries. Those of us who survive to old age, do so alone. Each fledgling's destruction is another grain of sand shifting in the hourglass, marking another day, another decade.

The mortals argue about the dangers of smoking, and I find myself amused by the irony: their self-righteous certainty that they are the first to face the issue, when human society is no more than an endless repeating loop. Technology being essentially superficial in the grand scheme of things, there is really nothing new; hasn't been in thousands of years.

Humans die, by their own hand or by others, and we do the same, albeit more slowly... and Nicholas continues to bang his head against the proverbial brick wall, and I watch and wait to see if he will ever gain enlightenment from it, or merely a massive psychic bruise.

And the cigarette smoke fills the bar with a dull haze, obscuring the world from sight, rendering the young ones as vague shadows, which might disappear at any time.

Smoker's Penance: Vachon

I like him.

No, really. Even though he's the original mortal wanna-be -- just like the girls and women who liked to follow me around during my pseudo-lives in the music business; the guys who elbowed each other out of the way to be my best buddy. Sycophants, all of 'em, so desperate to be part of the 'in crowd' that they'd do damn near anything... Nick's the same way, when it comes to humanity; and just like the groupies, watching him at work is amusing and more than a little pathetic.

Like most of the really old ones, he surrounds himself with a comfortable cushion of false humanity: luxury, wherever and whenever possible, opulence residing carefully within a veneer of Everyman. I mean, one look at his digs -- the loft looks sparse, but all the furniture is expensive and new, and there are treasures everywhere. So on the few occasions he's deigned to look me up on my own home ground, of course I can see the scorn in his eyes, carefully veiled (because he is nothing if not polite) but there nonetheless.

Still... I like him.

He's got this whole Mr. Responsibility thing going -- responsible cop, responsible vampire -- never mind the inherent contradiction between the two; and never mind the fact that his own life is about as screwed up as you can get... he lectures me about facing up to responsibility, and I'm not sure he's really got the faintest clue what the word means. To me, responsibility means facing up to the world around me -- who I am, what I am, what I want and where I'm going. Even with the Inca after me... I never abandoned a friend in trouble; I never let my private battles get in the way of my crowd -- my family. Somehow, I don't think Nick could make the same claim.

And yet, I still like him.

Maybe part of it is the whole Tracy thing. Generally, we don't let ourselves get close to mortals, not unless we're courting a mate or a child or a meal; that's standard wisdom, as basic as "Look both ways before crossing the street". And to continue the metaphor, nobody's gonna sympathise when you break the rule: hey, if you're not smart enough to look both ways before crossing...

But when I look at Tracy, when I'm close to her, the things that I feel... and I know Nick understands. Whatever other differences separate us, I know he understands that feeling perfectly well.

And I know he likes me. In his own superior, distant way - - after all, to him I'm a youngster, and never mind that on his cow-blood diet I could probably flip him through his own skylight if I tried -- Nick likes me. It isn't often that the oldsters 'stoop so low' as to recognize those of us who haven't completed our first half-millennia... even the General only deigns to notice me because Nick does.

Yeah, the General, that's what they call him, at least to his face; there are other names, but nobody with an ounce of common sense dares even think those terms within a five-mile radius of the Raven. You want to talk old, now that's old; none of us would dream of crossing him, but Nick does it with regularity, and walks away relatively unscathed.

Nick occupies a funny spot in our society: he's old, and he's one of the General's kids, and that makes him formidable, and at least nominally respected -- but in every other way, he's a laughingstock. Cow blood? A cop - - and an honest one at that? Searching for humanity? Get real.

And yet, I like him. Even though the others taunt me for the company I keep. I'm just glad that they don't know about Tracy -- only a few of my closest allies know about her...

Screed. Never thought I could miss anyone so much.

I sought out Nick after that, because I knew he'd understand that, too -- what it was like to lose a friend, one of your children -- and we got drunk on a couple bottles of the Raven's best stock, sat around and watched a hockey game, didn't say two words to each other except to talk about the score; and by the time I left, I felt much better.

But now there's this empty space in my world -- and I keep looking at Tracy, and thinking about filling that gap; and that's something I know I can't talk to him about.

To Nick, our 'condition' is equivalent to damnation. And I can sort of understand how he might feel that way, because there've been times I longed to walk in the sun beside some special someone... my solution, the usual solution, is to bring the someone into the darkness. But Nick can't do that -- doesn't believe in that -- and the very notion that I might be considering it, well, that's a confrontation I'd rather avoid.

And yet he 'assigns' me to look after Tracy, just the same way he's assumed responsibility for his mortal doctor friend. I guess he thinks everyone is as intent on self- flagellation as he is. Given my choice, knowing how Nick feels about vampire reproduction and the probable penalty he'll exact if I give in to temptation, I would gladly have left Toronto behind for at least the next few decades. Out of sight, out of mind... or at least, out of danger. Safer for Tracy, if retaining her humanity's part of her long- term game plan...

I haven't found the courage to broach that topic with her yet. I think I'm afraid of what she might say. Recoiling from me in horror, that I can stand; it's happened before, not often enough to bruise my ego, but with sufficient frequency that I've learned how to cope. But what if she says she wants it?

Man, Nick would have my head on a platter. Never mind that I'm not his child and neither is Tracy and that makes it none of his damn business; he would work me over something awful, and the General would make sure nobody interfered with 'his Nicholas', and I would be toast: as simple as that.

And despite all that... I like him. Don't know why. But I like him.

Stopped by his place the other night, mostly because I was between dividend checks and running low on cash, and in need of a drink, and I didn't want to have to ask the General for credit -- he'd do it, 'cause if we have one ironclad rule, it's that you don't let your brethren go hungry -- but I didn't want to deal with the aura of contempt he'd project. And for all his moral posturing, cow wasn't the only type of blood in Nick's fridge; he didn't like to talk about it, but any vampire can see the "fresh-blood" flush and know what you've been eating.

Nick was a little annoyed, I think because I hadn't bothered to call first (another one of those human rituals he puts such stock in; I mean, come on, vampires do not call each other before they visit) but he waved me toward his fridge and kept on playing his piano.

Always the same thing, classical stuff, and usually mournful; and I just had to ask him, "Don't you ever play anything upbeat?"

And he grinned up at me, and broke into the wildest rendition of "Johnny B. Goode" I'd ever heard... I ended up going home for my guitar, and the two of us jammed for something like six hours, and it was great, more fun than I'd had since my last band broke up.

Like I said, I like him.

He has the same contempt for my chosen lifestyle that any yuppie professional would have for your typical slacker -- never mind that my choice to be what I am was made with a lot more freedom and a lot less anguish than his own -- and heaven forbid I should light up a cigarette in his spotless apartment; his nose wrinkles, and he looks at me with the kind of accusing look that a mortal gets just before they tell you that you're courting lung cancer. He's keeping me tied to this place, to that woman, yet stands in the way of my ever getting what I truly want from her. He's possibly the biggest hypocrite I've ever met, so much the worse because he's wholly blind to the depth of his own self- delusion... and he thinks I'm irresponsible and immature.

But I like him.

Man, I need a drink.

Smoker's Penance: Janette

The cigarette smouldered stylishly in the elegant holder, a thin burning cylinder sending pungent smoke spiraling into the air... fashionable, this accessory, in the world of those who could not die of the toxins it propelled into the atmosphere.

She stood at the heart of the tiny club and surveyed the space, her own world: one created anew, bearing only a superficial resemblance to the one she'd left behind. This was a world without history, without memory -- one that bore no taint of the old presences, the old emotions.

In this world, there had never been a LaCroix, had never been a Nicholas; this world was hers and hers alone.

There existed within her an emptiness where they had been, yet she felt more alive for it -- that void within her left room for new experience, new growth. Limited by the scope of their arguments, of their possessiveness, by the small circle of "the family", she had been constrained to old patterns of behavior. The move had renewed her, refreshed her; there were no limits, not any longer.

She felt exhilarated, renewed: it was as if her previous lifetime in Toronto was no more than a dream.

Therefore it came as some surprise to see her there, at the bar, smoking a cigarette as awkwardly as she had that last time when the world was supposedly ending, and peering around anxiously.

In her mind, Janette reviewed the possible causes behind Natalie's presence; none of them added up to a pleasant sum, and she sighed -- mentally, where none could hear. It seemed that freedom was mostly an illusion, curtailed by reality, and that reality had followed her south to New York City, marring her fresh start with echoes of the past.

She glided across the bar, and braced herself for the confrontation.

"Natalie," she said courteously. "What a... surprise, to see you here."

The mortal woman took a sip of her drink, a drag of her cigarette, and turned to face her -- the luminous eyes were dulled by misery, held a grey despair unlike anything Janette had seen there before. "I did some checking," she said, in a flat, emotionless voice. "You never changed any money before you left, which meant you couldn't have been planning to go far. So I checked every entertainment paper I could find in the States, and there it was." A scrap of crumpled newsprint fell from her lax hand; a copy of an advertisement for Janette's new hot-spot.

"And you are here because..." Janette probed.

"Why do you think?" Nat parried, and took another sip of her drink.

"Nicolas." Janette sighed. "He sent you?"

"No. He doesn't know I'm here." Nat glanced away. "He doesn't want me," she said, in a voice nearly too soft to hear.

"Ah..." It was beginning to make sense. Nicolas had refused to bring Natalie across, and now the mortal had come looking for support, or for a 'donor'...

"You don't understand." The doctor seemed near tears. "I found him a cure. It worked. And Nick ran off with a blonde bimbo from Traffic."

Janette considered that for a moment, and felt a surge of anger -- not on Natalie's behalf, she carefully told herself. "Nicolas," she said, "is a fool. Particularly where women are concerned."

"He was using me." Natalie's voice trembled. "Just like he told LaCroix. He was using me the whole time." Then the sobs broke through her fragile composure and she turned away, in a pathetic attempt to hide her vulnerability.

Janette had often dealt with others' tears: the young women who came to her in desperation, the fledgling vampires overcome by their new reality -- she had developed a reassuring line of pattern, cultivated a sympathetic demeanor, insuring that she could provide a modicum of comfort to these children despite the fact that most of the time, she truly didn't care.

But this was different. This was the mortal woman who she had once considered a rival. And though she should have gloried in the tears, signifying as they did her triumph, instead she felt an almost crippling empathy that weakened her resolve, undermined the old resentment, leaving her genuinely distressed by Natalie's loss.

Janette had always done her best to avoid excessive introspection; she did not question her feelings, merely accepted them with resignation. For all that she had scolded Nicolas for his habit of picking up mortal 'strays', it seemed that she was now on the verge of doing the same things.

And his cast-off lover, no less. The irony of it appealed to her somehow.

"What is it you want, Natalie?" she asked, using a napkin to pat away the tears that threatened to obliterate the other woman's makeup, some part of her marveling at the fact that the liquid left no crimson mark.

The coroner blinked hard, stared at Janette with defiant determination. "I want to be brought across," she said.

"And you want me to do it." Not a question, but a statement.

"You're the only one I trust to do it." Now Natalie could not meet her eyes, gazing instead at the floor.

Janette wondered idly if Nicolas had ever mentioned to his mortal friend her tendency toward gluttony, decided not to bring up the issue. Some part of her was tickled by the thought of taking Nicolas' mortal ladylove, her ex-rival, as her immortal child -- and how often she had thought that if the woman weren't standing between herself and Nicolas, she and Natalie might have been friends; might have formed that bond despite that obstacle, if she hadn't fled Toronto for the dubious freedom of anonymity.

It was a rash decision, she knew, but one that was ever so common to their kind; so often, the decision to take an immortal child or lover was made solely on the basis of a momentary whim. LaCroix had been more cautious in his selection of Nicolas and herself, but even he would understand; he had made his own share of hasty choices, in that regard. Immortal blood could not fend off the infection of the fever that came from the infatuated heart, nor heal the psychic wounds of a companion badly chosen.

Natalie was strong, inside and out; she had been not merely a formidable opponent, but also a staunch ally -- and she was familiar, a known quantity, while Janette was more isolated, adrift, than she had been in centuries.

Freedom was a lovely thing, but it could be very lonely.

She wiped away the last of Natalie's tears with one slender fingertip. "Come with me, cherie," she said softly.

After it was over, Janette had plenty of thinking to do, and nowhere near enough time to do it in; she pondered her options very carefully, determined to be prepared when the time came.

The night after her transformation, Natalie awoke, consumed by thirst -- Janette was there, ready for her, with a supply of human blood so freshly drawn that it was nearly alive; and she watched while the newly-born vampire gulped down the precious liquid.

And was prepared, when the huge luminous eyes fastened on hers with an expression of abject guilt. "I lied," Natalie murmured. "I lied to you."

Janette regarded her soberly. "I know," she said.

The coroner drew a deep breath. "Nick isn't cured," she said starkly. "But he wouldn't... give me what I wanted. I was so desperate that I went to LaCroix -- he wouldn't do it, either. But he told me where you were... and as much as suggested that I look you up, though of course he'd deny it if asked."

It didn't surprise Janette, though she did wonder what LaCroix's motivation had been. Perhaps he hoped to provoke discontent among his children, or to drive another spear into Nicolas' fragile heart. Perhaps he merely wished to rid himself of a mortal nuisance. Perhaps he was simply bored, and wanted entertainment. With LaCroix, one never knew.

All at once, her words seemed to penetrate Natalie's miasma of angst. "You know?" she repeated dumbly.

"Of course I do. I saw it in your mind as I fed." No more hiding behind euphemism; she would not allow Natalie to be the hesitant, self-loathing creature that Nicholas had become, denying her own nature, her own soul.

Any other mortal might have been shocked, or frightened out of their wits; but Janette noted that Natalie had set aside both emotions in favor of pragmatic evaluation. "Why didn't you just kill me?" she asked finally.

"It would have solved nothing," Janette replied, that being the answer she had decided upon in advance. "As it stands, the situation has... possibilities."

She leaned forward, caught Natalie's face under the chin in a one-handed grip, emphasizing her strength just long enough to let the other know that regardless of her new nature, her maker was more than powerful enough to deal with any disrespect. "You induced me to bring you across under false pretenses," she said softly, so softly; experience and instinct had taught her that there was no point in shouting when a whisper could work equally well. "I have every right to kill you now, and if I do so, no one will object. No one but Nicolas; and I can handle him easily enough." A partial lie, at least, but she was willing to take the risk that Natalie wouldn't detect it.

The other woman was keeping very still, as yet unafraid but definitely growing apprehensive, waiting to discover what Janette might say next -- yes, a worthy companion, if she could keep her from self-destructing.

"But I will not," Janette told her. "Instead, I will educate you. Instruct you in what you will need to know to survive in this world -- as a vampire, and as a woman." The oldest vampires were the most powerful, not to be balked; and most of the ancient ones retained appalling attitudes toward those of the 'gentler' sex. Natalie, with her modern sensibilities, had no idea of the skills she would need to cope with that bias.

"And then," she continued, "when you have learned what you need to know, we will visit Nicolas together, and we will educate him."

A gleam lit up Natalie's eyes, and a smile tugged at her lips; and at that moment, Janette knew that she had once again triumphed.

Men. They thought that battles always needed to be fought with big, blustery weapons, won by the greatest show of force. They tended to remain ignorant of the power wielded by the subtle blade, the swift lunge and strategic withdrawal. Even LaCroix, who divined and appreciated her machinations on a certain level, had no idea how efficiently she manipulated him -- and Nicolas, well, he had nearly always been putty in her hands, when she wanted him to be.

Natalie was in her own way equally effective; with the proper tutelage, she would be more powerful still -- and together, they would be formidable.

They would take on Nicolas and LaCroix and triumph, and neither man would ever be the wiser.

To be certain, it was a different sort of renewal than Janette had sought, in her southerly move, yet the prospect of what lay before her was even more exhilarating than she could have imagined. The challenge of Natalie, of Nicolas, of LaCroix -- everything had changed, everything was new; in a strange way, she had been reborn along with her new daughter.

Looking at that child, she determined that the question of education was a valid one; and there was no doubt in her mind where they would begin.

"Tonight," she pronounced, "we are going shopping."

They would remake the world, Janette promised herself; but first, they were going to remake Natalie.

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