From the Ashes

From the Ashes

This story is set just after “Ashes to Ashes”. “The Human Factor” never happened.

Thanks to Cousin Shelley for her wonderful beta reading! She also suggested the title. Make sure to read her great stories if you haven’t already.

Disclaimers: Not mine. Big surprise, eh?

Nick dragged the old-fashioned steamer trunk through the front doors of the dilapidated farmhouse. It wasn’t heavy (for a vampire) but it was awkward. Nick idly wondered why it had taken humans so long to invent rolling suitcases.

LaCroix said softly, “Can I assist you?” His calm demeanor was only a thin veneer over the terror and grief that Divia’s rampage and final death had wrought. Nick hated to make any further demands on him, but it had to be done.

“I’ve got him. How’d things go with Tracy?”

“She only remembers that he had to move on. I left her everything else.”

“Great. Thanks. Where should I put him? You said you had a secure place?” Nick looked around as he spoke. Century-old farmhouses were not, generally speaking, vampire-proof. LaCroix gestured for him to follow. In the parlor, the Roman easily moved aside a solid oak bookcase laden with books. Nick noted the slight upward angle of the shelves, which would prevent the books from tumbling to the floor when the shelf was moved. That was the only indication that the shelf was hiding something. It would take several mortals to move it, and they would have scuffed the hardwood floor in the process. LaCroix simply lifted the entire bookcase and moved it a few yards away, revealing the trap door. LaCroix lifted the trap door (which weighed almost as much as the bookcase), while Nick opened the trunk. Lifting Vachon’s comatose body, he headed into the basement.

Nick carried Vachon through the open door and gently laid him on the mattress. The cell was as comfortable as a 12 by 12 foot room underground could be. The décor was a strange cross between luxurious and college dorm chic. Though there was no bed frame, the mattress was a double-sized pillow top, clothed in dark green silk sheets. Lots of pillows in dark colors added to the air of comfort.

A “bookcase” as tall as Nick made of blue Yaffa blocks was chock full of paperback editions. Another group of the plastic blocks held a CD player and a collection of music.

LaCroix stepped into the cell, carrying a bucket of water and several washcloths. Nick said, “Pretty comfy, for a cell,” keeping his voice light. He hadn’t failed to notice that many of the books were old favorites of his, or that the music matched much of his collection at home.

LaCroix pulled Vachon into a sitting position, yanking the dirty, bloody t-shirt over his head and tossing it aside. Nick winced at the less than tender movements. Between the wound and the hefty dose of curare Nick had given him before he’d removed the stake, Vachon wasn’t going to feel anything. Nevertheless, his own motions were gentle as he helped LaCroix finish stripping the Spaniard. They wiped the dirt and blood from his olive-toned skin and cleaned his hair as best they could. The injuries Divia had left and the deep stake wound had begun to heal, but still far slower than the norm. They tucked him in.

They locked the heavy iron door behind them and left a candle burning outside the cell. The bars would allow enough light to seep through for a vampire to read by, while the flame itself was out of reach. Though they hoped that Divia’s madness had died with her, they were prepared to deal with Vachon if it hadn’t.

Father and son replaced the bookcase and headed into the kitchen. LaCroix poured himself a glass and looked at Nicholas, surprised and pleased when he nodded. They both sipped, staring vacantly at the wall.

LaCroix forced his weary brain to work, to think of what needed to be done next. “We need to feed him.”

Nick shook his head. “I fed him after I dug him up. He should be fine until tonight.”

“I do hope it was something better than cow.”

Nick looked slightly sheepish. “I was in a hurry. I didn’t think to stop and pick up anything…” his voice trailed off.

LaCroix set the glass down with exaggerated care, resisting the urge to slam it to the counter. “So, what, Nicholas? So you opened a vein and fed him? Did you consider that Divia’s poison could be contagious?”

Nick protested, “Vampire blood is best after a severe injury! He might not have survived with mortal blood alone.”

LaCroix massaged the bridge of his nose. He could swear he’d never gotten a headache before he’d met Nicholas. He sighed and gave up.

“Fine. But not again until we’re sure the madness has been purged from his system.” Nick nodded in agreement.

LaCroix eyed him, “Obviously your unhealthy appearance is not wholly due to stress. You need to feed.” He refilled Nick’s glass. He cut him off as Nick started to protest. “I don’t want to hear it. Drink.” Nick took the glass. It had been a long night, and he’d fed Vachon everything he could spare and still get both of them to LaCroix’s refuge. Besides, while cow might cut it for normal, everyday life, times of stress demanded more satisfying sustenance. Since bottled blood had become available, he’d stopped feeling quite as guilty. In these situations, he reasoned, he needed to be at his best. So he drank the rest of the bottle, a glass at a time, LaCroix watching him as though he might try to pour the blood down his sleeves or into a nearby potted plant, the way he’d done with food and drink at so many mortal gatherings. He yielded, knowing that his father needed to be in control even more than usual when events spun out of his control.

He drained the last of the glass, and LaCroix took it and rinsed it out. “You’re filthy. You need a bath,” the elder announced.

Nick gave a token protest, “It’s nearly dawn. I’ll get a bath tomorrow night.”

“Not unless you plan to spend the night in the barn.”

“But…”

“Bath. Now.” LaCroix pointed imperiously. Nick hid his smile as he turned away. Overcoming even such minor resistance over such a trivial issue usually lightened his father’s mood.

LaCroix set the plug and ran the water into the claw footed tub while Nick removed his clothes. He grimaced at the dirt and blood imbedded under his fingernails. He peeled off his jeans and climbed into the tub. Apparently, LaCroix was going to supervise his bath.

If their link hadn’t been wide open, Nick would have been seething. For the first time in their entire history together, LaCroix’s walls were down. He felt his father’s need to nurture him as a way to deal with the terrible events of the last few days. He also knew that LaCroix finally saw him as an adult. He had survived Divia’s attack and killed her. He could feel his father's respect and perhaps even, pride.

Nick let LaCroix take the washcloth from him and scrub his back. He sighed, enjoying the sensation. Maybe this time they could reach some kind of lasting peace. He blinked, surprised as LaCroix’s heart leapt within him as that thought crossed the link. His father desperately wanted that, too.

Nick closed his eyes as LaCroix poured warm water from a silver pitcher over his hair. “Don’t you think that’s a little extravagant to use in the bathroom? Why don’t you just put in a shower?”

LaCroix sniffed disdainfully, “Showers have reduced a luxury to a chore, to be completed with utmost efficiency. Bathing should be a pleasure.” He rubbed lavender scented shampoo into Nick’s hair, his fingertips massaging his scalp. Nick sighed in bliss.

Nick’s hair was clean, but LaCroix kept up the gentle scalp massage for a while after he’d rinsed away the soap. Nick hadn’t permitted him this kind of intimacy in centuries. Only a few desperate quickies had punctuated their long separation. During those times, they had both been driven by a desperate lust brought on by horrific events. There hadn’t been time for such gentle, affectionate gestures.

LaCroix let the water out of the tub, then pulled Nick to his feet, handing him a large, fluffy towel. He draped a second towel over Nick’s hair and began rubbing it dry.

“Come, mon fils, it’s past sunrise.”

Nick nodded, not bothering to stifle his yawns. LaCroix gently led him to his room. He tucked Nick into bed, and turned to go. Nick said softly, “Stay with me?” LaCroix nodded, removing and neatly folding his clothes. Nick could feel his relief and gratitude across their bond, belying his father’s impassive demeanor. When LaCroix slipped under the covers, Nick nestled close, resting his head on his father’s chest. LaCroix gently caressed his hair.

Nick murmured, “This is nice.”

LaCroix nodded, “We’ve both slept alone too long.”
***
“Time to get up, Nicholas.”

Nicholas grumbled and pulled a pillow over his head. LaCroix placed a full mug beside the bed. “Come, we must break our own fasts before we take care of young Javier.”

Nicholas sat up and picked up the mug. “Breakfast in bed? I could get used to this. Maybe you should turn this place into a B and B for the night shift.”

LaCroix rolled his eyes. “Eat. We’ve work to do.” Nicholas downed the blood while his master studied his bare torso and frowned disapprovingly at the prominent ribs. A century of fasting had taken its toll. He refilled his son’s mug and pulled a dark blue t-shirt, underwear, and a pair of jeans from the small chest of drawers.

Nicholas dressed without comment. Over the centuries, he’d come to expect this from his father. Whenever time and space allowed, LaCroix set up bedrooms for him and Janette. He decorated these rooms to suit his children, and filled wardrobes for them.

With a half hour before sunset, father and son went to visit their patient.

Vachon was still asleep, the twisted bedclothes and scent of blood sweat indicating his sleep had been restless. LaCroix guarded the door while Nicholas opened a bottle and rested Vachon against his chest. He held the mouth of the bottle to the slack lips, letting the blood trickle inside. Vachon’s eyelids fluttered, his eyes burning red. Still, the aftereffects of his terrible injury and the curare made him too weak to do much. Barely conscious, he lay docilely in Nick’s lap as long as the blood flowed.

The Spaniard snarled briefly when the first bottle was emptied, but LaCroix had already uncorked a second. The fourth bottle was laced with curare. Just enough to weaken and relax him, in case the madness had not passed.

Vachon blinked, somewhat dazed now that his thirst was slaked. He gazed up at Nick. “Knight? What’s going on?” He glanced around the unfamiliar room. “Where am I?”

Nick gently smoothed the dark hair. “It’s alright, Javier. You’re in a safe place.”

Under normal circumstances, Vachon would have slapped that hand away and leapt to his feet. But he felt pleasantly relaxed and sleepy. It was strange, but pleasant to actually have someone stronger to rely on. Vachon had been on his own since he was 15.

“How do you feel?” Knight murmured in that same soothing, low tone.

“ ‘M good…fine.” Vachon smiled sleepily.

“Good. That’s good, Javier. I want to you relax and sleep as much as you need to. Alright? We’ll take care of everything else.”

Vachon drifted to sleep, his nude upper torso sprawled across Nick’s lap. LaCroix gestured for Nicholas to leave, but the boy shook his head. “He’s pretty out of it, LaCroix. I don’t want him to wake up and panic.”

LaCroix sighed. “If nothing else, you must feed.” He handed Nicholas a glass. He downed it and held it out for a refill.

“You know, if you just handed me the bottle, you’d save us both some effort.”

LaCroix sniffed. “That may be true, mon fils, but I will not encourage your barbaric table manners. Not after the centuries I spent reeducating you.” Nicholas grinned unrepentantly.

The pair sat in companionable silence for several hours. Nick had taken some of his enormous amount of accrued vacation and sick leave, so he had the next two weeks off. LaCroix hoped they wouldn’t have to spend *all* of that time caring for the Spaniard. Nicholas shot him a reproachful look when he caught that uncharitable thought.

A fearful whimper escaped Vachon, his head tossing restlessly. His sound slumber had changed into a nightmare or some sort of fit. Nick tried to sooth him with his voice and gentle touch, but the vampire hissed and swiped at him, laying open his face, exposing muscle and bone. Nick managed to get Vachon into a head lock, while LaCroix sat on his legs and grabbed his wrists. Vachon screamed and thrashed under them, trying to escape rather than trying to harm them.

“Motherdaughtermotherdaugh…let GO! Madre Dios! Don’t! Don’t hurt them!” He twisted and bucked frantically. LaCroix’s eyes were bleak, and his face seemed older than Nick ever remembered seeing it. Nick clenched his teeth, sending LaCroix mental comfort as he restrained the terrified Conquistador.

“Tracy! Please, Tracy, make it stop! Tracy!” The woman’s name was a scream.

“Should we drug him again?” Nick gasped after Vachon managed to elbow him in the gut.

“No. It has to run its course,” LaCroix answered. Nick nodded grimly, not wanting to know how LaCroix knew *that*.

Vachon’s frantic struggles tore open his wounds. Blood oozed sluggishly from the scratches Divia had inflicted. The dreadful chest wound began to bleed at an alarming rate. Bloody tears streamed down Vachon’s face as he sobbed and begged.

Nearly half an hour had passed before the fit ended. LaCroix carefully eased off of the injured vampire, who immediately huddled into Nick’s lap in a fetal position.

“Should we feed him? Drug him again?” Nick whispered, almost afraid that the speaking would trigger another episode.

LaCroix nodded. “I’ll fetch more.” Between the three of them, they’d consumed ten pints already. Although it seemed most of that was now splattered across the bed. LaCroix gently touched the healing gouges on Nick’s face, and then headed upstairs.

With Nicholas focused on Vachon, LaCroix took the opportunity to slide into a kitchen chair. He buried his face in his hands, ruthlessly trying to stop the tremors that wracked him. Nicholas…she had almost taken Nicholas from him. That was almost more horrifying than watching Divia die a second time. Watching Vachon slash him up, the wounds so similar to the ones Divia had inflicted…

LaCroix had no idea how long he sat there shaking. Finally, when he felt in control again, he pulled fresh bedclothes from the linen closet, filled a bucket with water, and stepped back downstairs.

Vachon seemed to have passed out again. Repeating last night’s routine, they bathed Vachon and remade the bed. Taking shifts, they bathed, changed, and washed a load of clothes. Now, they again sat in the small room underground, sipping blood. LaCroix, not bothering to disguise his weariness, said, “We’ve already gone through half of the blood I’d laid in.” Nick nodded; Vachon was eating enough for three or four vampires. “And we’ve only one dose of the curare left.”

Nick suggested tentatively, “Nat can get blood and curare without a lot of trouble.” He winced as his master’s hostility and loathing flashed across their link. “I can have her meet me somewhere…she doesn’t have to know where this place is.”

LaCroix’s ire moderated somewhat as the same thought occurred to both of them: She wouldn’t know where to look for Nick if his master chose to use this place for his original purpose. LaCroix smiled and said silkily, “In that case, why don’t you give the good doctor a call?”

***
Natalie Lambert drove towards their meeting place. At 4 am, even Wal-Mart was deserted. She couldn’t decide whether she was afraid or angry. Afraid, because Nick was with his master, doing mysterious vampire stuff. Angry…for well, pretty much the same reason. Nick had told her to get any funds he needed from his place. He usually had several thousand dollars of emergency cash stashed around his place, split between several hidey holes. Natalie mollified herself with the promise of a good hot dinner at Nick’s expense. With the Raven closed until further notice, Natalie had had to raid the morgue for blood. She’d gotten in the habit of storing more of it, ostensibly for testing and random samples.

Nick was waiting for her, leaning against the door of an old Ford truck. He smiled when he saw her. A genuine smile, which made her think that perhaps she hadn’t completely lost him.

“Nick, what’s going on?”

He sighed. “Divia attacked Vachon. He survived…but he’s not doing well.”

“What’s wrong with him?”

Nick ran a hand through his hair. “We don’t know exactly. He’s hallucinating, and he’s not healing very fast.”

“I could come take a look at him. I know a fair amount about you guys.” Natalie knew she was fishing, but she was curious about anything that could affect nearly invulnerable vampires so strongly. And she wanted to chaperon father and son.

But Nick was shaking his head. “I’m afraid not, Nat. He’s really dangerous.” He turned his face towards the light, tracing pink parallel slash marks that ran across his cheek. Natalie touched the scars. The wounds must have been bad to still be this visible. “LaCroix says this will pass. I think…I think he’s seen this before.”

Natalie clenched her teeth. She’d come to hate the phrase ‘LaCroix says’. She forced herself to speak civilly. “I could only get 11 pints.”

He sighed, “Better than I expected, but worse than I’d hoped. A lot of the Community is still in hiding…I don’t know how we’re going to get blood in quantity on short notice.”

“You could rob a blood bank,” Nat joked, then gulped when Nick nodded.

“We may have too. Still, this should hold us over for another day, maybe.” Nat’s eyes widened at that. She had a general idea of how much blood the average vampire consumed per day. 10 or more pints a day split between three vampires was a lot of blood, especially considering the age of the vampires involved.

Nick carried the cooler to the car. “Nat, by the way…keep an eye on Tracy for me, will you? Let me know if she acts…weird. I'll be checking my messages when I can.” Then, before she could ask what he meant by ‘weird’, he drove off. Nat huffed grumpily, then sighed and went looking for the most expensive restaurant open at 4 am.