Moments later, he heard Vachon's voice, a tinge of urgency to it now. "Please, Knight. Do it! Stick it in. Pleeze...."

In the dark hallway, LaCroix could only imagine the scene. He moved closer to the open door; though in truth, he was almost afraid of what he might see.

"Ah, it hurts!" he heard Vachon cry out, but soon the Spaniard was moaning in obvious pleasure. "Oh, yeah, Knight. Give it to me. More ... moo-orrrre...."

LaCroix stood rooted to the floor until Vachon's moans subsided, then he forced himself forward, into the room.

Vachon was on the bed and Nick was leaning over him, gently brushing dark, damp strands of hair from Vachon's forehead. The younger vampire was breathing hard, but he spoke anyway.

"That was ... incredible. Almost like...."

"The first time?" Nick asked when Vachon seemed at a loss for the words. "Yeah, for me, too."

LaCroix drew a hand across his brow. He was feeling a bit warm again -- perhaps he was not fully recovered, perhaps the fever had not entirely subsided. Could it be that he needed more of the blood, the cure for the fever that had ravaged the vampire community?

He stepped forward, making his presence known. "Nicholas, I have need of you," he said.

"I'm with Vachon now," his prodigy replied, making no move to rise or even to remove his hands from upon the Spaniard's body.

"Nicholas," LaCroix almost growled, his voice filled with more desperation -- erm, irritation -- than he'd intended to show. "I need a syringe ... an injection."

Nick and Vachon both stared at him, eyes narrowed.

"He doesn't look sick," Vachon said quietly to Nick. It smacked of cattiness to LaCroix's ears and he did not like it one bit.

"He's right, LaCroix. You don't look sick."

"Are you trying to tell me how I feel? I believe I'm old enough to know if I am feverish! And I am. Quite. Feverish that is." LaCroix removed a black silk handkerchief from his pocket and patted it lightly against his cheeks. He looked from Nicolas's face to Vachon's and back; did they believe him? They must! He was too old and powerful not to be believed. LaCroix tugged at his suddenly-too-tight shirt collar.

With a sigh, Nick rose and crossed to him, placing a hand upon LaCroix's brow. "Hmmm," the errant knight said skeptically. Then he slipped his hand behind LaCroix's head and pulled him forward. Nick pressed his lips to his master's forehead. "Well, you do feel a bit warm...." Nick glanced over his shoulder at Vachon, who was watching with those obnoxiously alluring cow-eyes of his. "All right, LaCroix," Nick finally agreed.

As Nick reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out the blood-filled syringe, LaCroix began to roll up his sleeve.

"Oh, no, LaCroix. You'll need to drop trou' and bend over if you want this." Nick wiggled the syringe at him, temptingly.

"I will not, Nicholas. You gave Vachon his shot in the arm."

"Ah, but he's not as old nor as powerful as you," Nick replied with a wicked smile. "If he'd had the energy to roll over, he'd have gotten it in the ass, as well."