Javier Vachon made his way through the crowd without appearing to see any of the other customers. At the bar he merely nodded to the woman tending it; a moment later his effort was rewarded with a glass of what any casual observer would think was red wine. The Spaniard stared at the glass for a long while before even reaching out to touch it with his long, pale fingers — fingers which had been born to caress the strings of a guitar, or a woman's heart. LaCroix had seen evidence of both in the months since he had taken over the Raven.

This was the one Janette had warned him about: savvy, yet impetuous, with a need to be wanted and a desire to be left alone. Someone, the vampiress had said, she might be interested in knowing several centuries from now, if  he was still around. Nicholas, on the other hand, was not as generous in his assessment, and LaCroix had to agree: irresponsible by nature, never thinking through the consequences of his actions, with no ends to justify his means.

The elder vampire watched as the younger slid one finger up and down the stem of the crystal before him, as if he were caressing the arm of a beautiful woman. His finger moved up across the side, up to the rim, which he rubbed like it belong to the woman's lips. Then Vachon's hand slid around the bowl, cupping it in his palm, allowing the room temperature contents of the bowl to warm his skin before he brought the glass to his lips to drink.

LaCroix shook his head as he watched Vachon gulp the blood-wine. To savor the vessel and not the contents seemed pointless to the old Roman. Immortality is indeed wasted on the young.

As the music waned for the briefest of moments while the live band changed songs, LaCroix noticed a woman moving through the crowd. He could see no more than the tops of her lovely, blonde curls, but he knew immediately whom she was. He had been watching her for months now, gathering her story a small piece at a time. In many ways she was the reflection of his Janette. Both cast off from their families, leaving them to prostitution as their only means of survival; both saved from a pointless death by men who saw how much more they could be. Yet this one's master had failed her. Unlike Janette, Urs was not able to fight for what she deserved — it was not a part of her, neither by nature nor nurture.

Why she had even come across, LaCroix had not understood for a long time, until one day he had overheard a conversation between Urs and one of the other club dancers.

The mortal had been accosted by someone in the alley behind the Raven and Urs had stepped in. A bruise was barely visible on the vampire's pale cheek where the man had obviously struck her for interfering. It had been a diversion to allow the mortal to escape inside the club. Urs joined the young woman only moments later — time enough to drain the offender, but not to securely dispose of the evidence. Yet, no dead body was ever discovered.

As he listened to Urs comforting the girl, LaCroix over heard something that made things all too clear to him: "You don't have to be afraid that he'll come back. I'm sure he's forgotten this place even exists," Urs had said. "I wish I could make you  forget as well." As the petite, young vampire squeezed the girl's hand in sympathy, he did not wonder why she had not taken the mortal's memories; LaCroix was a military man, a strategist — he knew that things forgotten were destined to be unwittingly repeated. The dancer would be more careful in the future to avoid such situations.

Urs would have been so easy to teach, LaCroix thought. She had an active mind and was eager to please. It would have taken next to no effort to show her how to live as a vampire should, how to relish her immortality, how to do more than just survive because she was too scared of the unknown to end it all at her own hands. And Vachon recognized none of this. It never occurred to the Spaniard because he never thought past his own immediacy. He was as soft and untamed as the curls on Urs's head, yet just as tightly wound. An odd combination in a man and an even odder one in a five-hundred-year-old vampire.

As Urs neared the bar, obviously intent upon joining the brooding Spaniard, LaCroix moved from the seclusion of his radio-broadcast booth out into the club. To all observers, the owner was merely replenishing his wine glass, but no one would have guessed that he had now placed himself within preternatural ear-shot of the two younger vampires. He watched as Urs joined Vachon, who ignored her as he downed another goblet-full of blood. She gingerly touched his shoulder and he allowed the gesture without so much as a change of expression to his dark eyes. She kissed his cheek, then rested her head lightly on his shoulder.

These two had been together for nearly a century, judging by the sparse information LaCroix had inadvertently gathered. There was an ease and a comfort between the pair — the gestures Urs made had been precisely what Vachon needed, though he would never consciously realize it — yet they were worlds apart.

"She's driving me crazy," Vachon finally spoke to his companion.

"What's Tracy done?" Urs asked, and LaCroix immediately understood that the woman in question must be Nicholas's new partner, rookie Police Detective Tracy Vetter.

"Nothing. Well, nothing that should be of any importance to anyone. It's just been stupid stuff. We actually got into an argument about the weather today. The weather!"  Vachon sighed heavily, his eyes still fixed on his glass.

"I suppose you never really know someone until you live with them," Urs sympathized.

"That's the truth. We've just never spent this much time together before. I had no idea she was so opinionated, so much of a control freak, so set in her ways, so.... Ugh!" The vampire pushed his empty wine glass away as the bartender passed; the woman refilled it, and then waited as he quickly drained the contents so she could refill it again before moving on to her other customers.

"You could always stay here, you know," the blonde offered, gently rubbing his arm with her delicate fingers.

"You know I can't, Urs. It's bad enough having one other person around all the time; the crowd downstairs at this place really would drive me over the edge. Maybe I should have imposed on Knight instead."

Now that would be something to see! LaCroix laughed to himself. Yet he wondered if Vachon might not, in the end, be a good influence of his errant progeny. Javier Vachon was, if nothing else, quite comfortable with his nature. While he did still kill, Vachon did it selectively and seemed to avoid it when possible — certainly not a philosophy Nicholas would term blatantly evil.

Of course, there was Vachon's irresponsible — nay slackerly — nature to consider, but on the positive side of that was his general enjoyment of life, something Nicholas had been lacking for quite a few centuries now — come to think of it, since he and Janette had ceremoniously joined and then so unceremoniously parted back in the sixteenth century. Nicholas was most obviously not  over the beautiful vampire, nor she him. Yet, their relationship had remained strained, to the extent that Janette had left Toronto to avoid him and he had failed to notice her departure for nearly four months; though, Nicholas, to his credit, had been sorely hurt when he had finally discovered the fact.

Janette. Beautiful Janette. The one who never need her master, LaCroix thought. The one who was grateful for her immortality, yet who failed to require anything more of him. She no more needed his attention than a yearling did its mare's. So unlike Nicholas. She never did truly understand the former knight. Nor would Vachon, for that matter, should the two ever strike up a real friendship, no matter if it was contrived on LaCroix's part or not.

"Javier, how much longer do you need to stay away from the church?"

"Only another week, according to the fumigation notice the city posted." The dark-haired vampire raised the wine glass again, but this time he did not drink. Instead, he absently rubbed the rim of the glass across his lower lip for a moment before setting it back down. "I know that's not a long time, but it certainly feels like decades instead of days."

"Well, I'll be here if you want to come by," Urs offered with an alluring smile. "We can even go out if you want. See a movie or go for a ride on your bike. Whatever you feel like." Urs hugged him again, and the Spaniard kissed the top of her head, obviously appreciating her efforts, but not really desiring them.

"Thanks. I'll think about it. Right now, though, I just ... need to be alone." Vachon squeezed her shoulders affectionately as he kissed her cheek, then moved off through the crowd and out the front door into the street beyond.

Urs sat at the bar watching his progress, not stirring until long after she had lost sight of him, undoubtedly not until her vampiric sense of him began to fade.

As the blonde got up to resume her dancing, LaCroix moved silently in beside her and took her arm.

"Your master was not in the mood for company this evening?"

"No. But ... that's how he is sometimes," Urs shrugged at her superior's inquiry. "It's nice to be needed, but, even when he seems to need me, he doesn't always want me."

"How unfortunate for the young Spaniard. But, then, young men rarely know what they truly want ... or need," LaCroix said as he casually maneuvered the young woman toward a quiet table at the back of the club. "Take Nicholas, for example ... you are acquainted with Nicholas?" he asked, knowing all too well that she was, though her poorly-hidden smile and pale blush told him more than he had even suspected: she was enamored of him, which only made the old general's plan easier.

"Nicholas seems to know quite well what he wants, though he lacks the ability to grasp what he truly needs, and, to that end, my dear," LaCroix said with a entrancing smile, as he pulled out a chair for her at the table they had finally reached, "I was wondering if you would be good enough to lend him some assistance...."