And so it ended, Vachon's life as he knew it, because, somehow, he had committed to two dates that night.

"Who knew Valentine's Day and today were the same  day?"

He couldn't possibly hope to entertain Tracy and  Urs at the same time -- two girls, one club -- as he'd seen done in countless movies. Heck, if the Hollywood hero rarely got away with it, what hope did he, a humble vampire, have? He was, after all, no Cary Grant; he wasn't even Bob Hope.

Vachon put down the cellular phone, and then stood, as numb and still as a statue, in the middle of the church basement. How had he gotten himself into this predicament? More importantly, how was he going to get himself out of it? His mind - his incredible, vampirically-enhanced mind - which had seen him through more adversity in the last five-hundred years than anyone would even wish to remember, was unable to help him out of this one seemingly-minor predicament.

As he always did in these situations, Vachon tried to imagine what his crew mates - his consanguineos - would do. Bourbon - the Frenchman, the suave former-Musketeer - would just get the two women in the same room and then somehow make a threesome of it.

Screed - a wharf rat in his youth, a deck rat in his prime, and a rat sucker in his eternity - would high-tail it off this sinking ship. "Cut yer losses, mate - while ya still gottsed yer 'ead above la agua."

How many times had Vachon heard that one? More than he could recall. How many times had Screed offered that advice because of some female entanglement? Too many. And how many times had Vachon listened? Not once.

"Well, there's a first time for everything, especially when you're immortal," Vachon thought.

It was just sunset now; he could be in Jersey before either Tracy or Urs realized he wouldn't be keeping their date. He reached for his knapsack, stuffed in his other pair of pants and the first two shirts he could put his hands on. Then, with the sack and his guitar in hand, he made his way out of the church.

The air outside felt cold, even to someone without a registerable body temperature, and he probably should have grabbed his heavy coat and helmet, but Vachon was beyond caring. He secured the knapsack to the back of his motorcycle, slung the guitar onto his back and tightened the strap across his body, and then he mounted the bike. With the press of a button -- god, how he missed the action of a good kickstart lever -- the engine roared to life and Vachon set off into the night, like a criminal gittin' the hell outta Dodge.

But the first red light on Yonge Street brought trouble. A classic, finned cadillac (which could only belong to a certain mild-mannered police detective) pulled up next to him. He did not have to glance at either occupant to know that he'd been made. Vachon needed another plan and he needed it a week ago last Tuesday! But, before his mind could move, he heard the death knell: it was Nick Knight, the undercover vampire, saying, "Tracy, I've gotta make a quick stop up here. Would you mind? I just need to run inside for a few minutes."

Vachon didn't even need to turn his head to know that Tracy, at this point, was looking right past Knight at him. And he didn't need to be told by that nagging voice inside his head that if he didn't discreetly pull over when the detectives did, he would be sporting a dozen roses through the heart by daybreak. What Vachon didn't know was whether Knight was trying to be helpful or just plain cruel.

The traffic light turned that loud shade of green - as loud as a death knell - and Vachon pulled ahead of the cadillac and then watched in his rear-view mirror as the car pulled over to the curb. Vachon turned the next corner, eased his motorcycle to a stop beside the curb, and waited. He knew Tracy would be there as soon as Knight stepped into the shop and out of view.

"Hi," was all she said when she arrived.

Her tone was light - almost cheerful - and her heartbeat only slightly elevated; his anxiety level, however, took a large jump. And while Tracy never did have a calming effect on him, normally the emotion was a good deal more pleasant, like an adrenaline rush that made him feel alive again. But his situation tonight could hardly be considered normal. At least she didn't seem to suspect anything out of the ordinary, and Vachon intended to keep it that way.

"Hi. You coming or going?" he asked in a manner more casual than humanly possible. Tracy lifted her eyebrows; she clearly had no idea what he was talking about. "Are you leaving the scene of a crime, or on your way to one?" he elaborated.

"Actually, we're on our way to check out some leads -- probably be more dead-ends, though." Tracy continued on, chit-chatting with him about her work as if she were talking about the weather. "There's some whacko out there...."

"Isn't there always," Vachon said silently to himself, trying to listen attentively to the subject Tracy seemed to find more interesting than any other ever invented, because it was the one thing that they always talked about whenever he saw her.

"... killing women, and then tearing their hearts out," she finished.

"Poetic justice," Vachon sighed.

Tracy furrowed her pale brow. "What? What do you mean?"

"Well, if it were me... I mean, if I were you..." he explained, "I'd be looking for some guy with a broken heart."

"Yeah, we've thought of that, but these women don't seem to have any connection to each other: different jobs, different neighborhoods, different friends, no common interests...."

"That describes a lot of women I know." Vachon had spoken out loud without realizing it.

"A lot of women? Oh, really?"

"Well, that surprised her as much as it did me," Vachon thought to himself, just having dug his grave a little deeper. "All I'm saying is maybe their friends aren't aware of the company they're keeping," he told her.

"Vampires?"

Vachon shook his head as he tried to hide a smile. "More like some guy who isn't normally their type; some guy they wouldn't take home to mom and dad; some guy they wouldn't necessarily admit to their friends that they're seeing."

She didn't like this idea - he could tell by the way her eyes squinted and her chin tilted slightly upward with thought. Maybe it hit a little too close to home, but, even so, could she ignore the possibility that maybe he was on to something?

"Well, it's certainly not another organ-harvesting ring - way too messy," Tracy began, thinking out loud - a habit of hers Vachon had noticed, though he didn't know if Tracy restricted the practice to only when she was in his presence. "And it doesn't seem to be a copycat of that Valentine stalker Nick nabbed last year.... So, hmmm. Okay, say you're right... how would he have chosen these particular women?"

"Hey, when the Metro Police puts me on the payroll, I'll start doing your job, okay?"

"Sorry. I didn't mean to talk shop."

"You never do, do you? Miss Avoid-The-Real-Subject," Vachon thought, but actually said, "That's okay."

"I guess I should go, you know," Tracy said as she took a step backwards. "Before Nick gets back to the car - I wouldn't want him wondering where I've wandered off to."

"No, we can't have him wondering."

She took another step back and gave him a tight-lipped smile, for some reason reluctant to leave. "Okay, then. Um, I guess I'll see you after my shift?"

Vachon nodded, realizing that his window for fleeing the country had come and gone.

"I'm sorry I get off so late," she said, dragging her heels still, and Vachon latched onto the auspicious statement.

"Hey, that's okay. You know, though... if you're tired, we could always do this another night," Vachon said, the idea pooling in his mind....

...Like the blood from a poorly executed kill.

"Oh, no! It's Valentine's Day - only happens once a year - I wouldn't miss our date for anything!" Tracy assured him before hurrying back to the car to await her partner's return.

"Well, two blown opportunities to get out of this," Vachon thought as he pulled his motorcycle away from the curb. "Shall we try for three?" he asked himself as he headed for the Raven.

Vachon eased himself onto the barstool and waited like a shadow in the moody darkness of the nearly deserted club. When he turned to face the bar, to get the attention of the bartender, he found a glass of refreshment had already found its way to him. He leaned an elbow on the bar and absently sipped at the dark red liquid. He'd hoped there would be something in the glass to distract him a bit, but he found the flavour lacking.

He watched the customers slowly filter in through the front door of the club as he waited for Urs. She was nowhere in sight, but he could feel her presence nearby and he knew she could feel him as well. As much as he sometimes hated to admit it, he found in their unique connection a solace, - though dulling when in excess, he came to craved it when they were parted for too long.

"Hi, you," Urs breathed in his ear.

Vachon smiled, though she stood behind him and could not see his face.

He swiveled around on the barstool and was almost surprised to find Urs as beautiful as always, leaning elegantly against the edge of the bar. Except for her modern-day clothes, he was reminded of the night he had first met her back in New Orleans.

Vachon slipped off the stool and moved to stand in front of her. Wrapping his arms around her, he pressed her back against the bar. She kissed him, gently at first, and then deeper as his arms tightened about her waist, pulling himself even closer to her.

How could he want anyone else when Urs was so much a part of him? And yet, he did; perhaps all the more because he felt that Urs knew he wanted more than she could give him, even when she was willing go give him everything. Urs was just so different from Tracy. Like night and day. It was almost as if he loved the one for the having and the other for the wanting.

The younger vampire broke off the kiss, pushing Vachon slightly away with the tip of a long finger as she slowly traced a meandering line down his chest and stomach, her eyes following the progress.

"What's the guitar for -- you're not going to play tonight are you?" Urs asked, indicating the instrument, leaning against the bar next to them.

He raised his eyebrows, having momentarily forgotten his earlier fancy of flight. "Oh. Yeah, no. I was... I mean, I'm just coming from... killing some time." Before you or Tracy decide to kill me! He hadn't decided to whom he would allow the privilege; that is, with whom he would break the date.

"I can hardly wait, you know. We haven't spent a Valentine's Day together since---" Urs suddenly broke off her words. She looked past Vachon for a moment before stepping purposefully around him and leaving without a word of explanation.

Vachon turned to watch her cross the room; she stopped when she reached the far side where the imposing figure of the Raven's owner stood. Lucien LaCroix was the one thing Vachon disliked about coming to the club at any hour. He tried to hear their conversation, but their voices were low and the pounding backbeat coming from the Raven's sound system conspired to defeat his best efforts.

It was not long, however, before Urs returned to the bar. Her smile was brimming with regret. "I'm sorry, Javier. LaCroix, he's.... Well, I'm not really sure what he is, other than insistent. It's strange, really; he seems... agitated, almost... upset."

Vachon thought it strange as well, though he had yet to figure out what LaCroix's current state had to do with Urs.

"He said he needed to leave, and he asked me to take over and then lock up after closing."

"Asked you?" Vachon found that hard to believe.

"Well, yeah, in his own way - and I suppose it's not a bad thing to have him owing me a favour."

Vachon almost laughed as he thought, "And little does the bastard know that I  now owe him  one!" He shrugged his shoulders and tried to look disappointed as he asked Urs, "So, we won't be going out tonight after all?"

"No. I'm really sorry, Javier."

He gave her a small, disappointed smile. "That's okay. It's not like there won't be other nights, right? Other Valentine's Days?"

She nodded and then he did feel bad, almost guilty, that their plans had been disrupted after all.

"Well, you could always spend the day with me at the church."

Urs smiled in agreement and Vachon's still heart seemed to beat for the first time in centuries. He kissed her forehead, then turned, picked up his guitar, and left the club.

Just as he swung his leg over the seat of his motorcycle, the cellular phone in his jacket pocket chortled its annoying sound that always made him regret owning the damnably cool piece of modern technology. In opposition to his sixteenth-century upbringing, he placed the plastic next to his ear and spoke, "Hello?"

"Hi, Vachon? It's Tracy. Um, turns out we're gonna finish up here early tonight; some beat-cop nabbed our killer in the act-- just in time, actually, to prevent another murder."

"So, one less lonely heart out on the street tonight."

"Yeah, I guess you could say that.... Um, so, I was wondering ... well, if you want ... we could meet early. I'm still at the precinct, but I could get home and be ready in about an hour...?"

Vachon smiled. "You got yourself a date, Trace."

A night with his favorite mortal. A day with his favorite vampire.

Can immortality be any sweeter than this?

The usual thanks: to Amy Rambow for beta-reading. You're the best!

The usual disclaimers: don't own 'em, didn't hurt 'em, but thanks for lettin' me play with 'em.

The usual notes: "My Favorite Blonde" is an old black and white film starring Bob Hope.

The usual sarcastic remarks: vampirism doesn't change guys -- they still suck! But ya just gotta love 'em anyways. ;-)

The usual bad, holiday poetry:

As it was written long, long ago
In the annals of history it does go
The goddess of love once had a son
And by her nature she did what had to be done
Carefully and well she called him Cupid
For she knew only that name rhymes with stupid.