A noise in her normally quiet apartment startled Tracy Vetter awake. Her pale blue eyes were wide as she waited — unmoving — beneath the covers. Listening intently, she finally heard the noise again. It came from beyond the foot of her bed, which meant either from the walk-in closet or the bathroom. The sound had been almost metallic, but she could not quite identify it. She continued to wait.

Eventually one of the floorboards creaked; the only one loose in the entire apartment was between the sink and the bathtub. Tracy wiggled her fingers out from beneath the blanket and tried to sneak a discreet look through the darkened doorway into the bathroom. Slowly peeling back the covers, she slipped her long, bare legs out and onto the carpeted floor. Knowing that her gun was in its usual spot — the top-right drawer in the desk in the living room — the young detective stood up slowly, hoping that the box springs would be kind with their silence. They were not. Tracy froze in mid-stance, staring at the bathroom, wondering if the intruder had heard the creaking of the springs.

He had.

A dark head peeked out at her from around the door jamb. "Hey, Trace."

"Vachon!" Tracy relaxed and plopped down on the bed, this time unconcerned about any mattress noises.

The very-young-looking vampire stepped fully into view; the straggly ends of his damp hair rested carelessly on the fluffy peach-colored towel which covered his otherwise bare shoulders. Vachon strolled over and casually sat down at the foot of the bed and smiled, apparently waiting for her to say or do something.

Tracy sighed before returning his smile, though hers was a bit more tired and a good deal less bright. "Well, this is a pleasant surprise." She managed to sound sincere despite just having been rudely awakened from a very deep, blissful, and much needed sleep. Tracy glanced over at the clock wondering how many hours of sleep she had actually gotten. It was quarter-past noon, which meant five hours.

Realization suddenly dawned on her still-groggy mind. Vachon had not been in her apartment when she had returned home from work in the wee hours of the morning. Suspiciously, she narrowed her eyes at him. "Hey, I thought vampires couldn't go out during the day."

Vachon shrugged, but Tracy prodded him in the arm with one long finger. She hated it when he was in the mood for twenty questions.

He took a breath, then wet his lips with the tip of his tongue before replying, "Semantics, actually." Vachon paused for so long that Tracy began to think he would say no more on the subject. But, then, he continued: "We can't go out in the sunlight. And, if you've been outside this week — which I know you have — then you know that not the faintest little glimmer of sunshine has touched down upon our fair city in more than a few days." Vachon smiled almost smugly at Tracy. "So ... I thought I would take the opportunity to drop in and say 'hi.' Hi." He pulled the towel from his shoulders and began rubbing his hair with it. "Oh, and thanks for the towel. I got soaked on my way over."

"Is the fog still that thick?"

"I wouldn't be here if it wasn't. So ... that would be a 'yes,' at least at the altitude I was traveling." He finished drying his hair, which was now in desperate need of a comb.

Tracy took the liberty of offering one to him. "In the left-hand drawer."

"I know," was all Vachon said as he walked back towards the shower to hang up the towel.

Tracy stared after him for only a few moments before she got off the bed. As she entered the bathroom, she noticed a small heap lying on the floor near the sink. It was Vachon's shirt — the one with the small purple and navy stripes. As much as she hated when clothes were carelessly tossed on the floor, Tracy was please to see this one there, instead of on Vachon. She hated the shirt.

Tracy silently watched Vachon's reflection in the mirror as he pulled the not-so-fine end of her comb through his thick locks. After a short while, their eyes happened to meet and Tracy, suddenly embarrassed, quickly looked away, "I, ah, think I have a dry shirt you can borrow — if you'd like, " she said, trying to force her voice to sound completely calm. When Vachon smiled at her before nodding acceptance Tracy knew she had not succeeded, so she tried a different approach, "Um, I've been meaning to ask you for a while now: How come you have a reflection?"

Vachon stopped combing midway down a section of dark hair. "What makes you think that I wouldn't have one?"

"I don't know." Tracy lifted her left shoulder in a half-hearted shrug. "Some old movie, I guess."

Vachon's smile grew wide and he turned around to face her. "Can't believe all those old legends, ya know. I don't know how to turn into a bat, either. Sorry to disappoint you."

"Oh, no, that's okay," she said, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "That's one myth I can do without!" Tracy dipped her blond head, slightly annoyed that she was still ignorant of even the basics about real-life vampires. "So, what else is there that I don't know about you guys?"

Vachon shrugged. "You already know more than you ought to. More than what's safe for ... a mortal to know."

"Oh, yeah, like I'm gonna tell anyone. Think I'd like to spend 48 hours in psychiatric lock-up for observation? No, thank you!" Tracy walked back out and sat down on the bed again as Vachon finished combing his hair. It was really getting long — it grew much faster than her own, but then so did most people's hair. She stared at the open doorway as she waited for Vachon to finish. Tracy had admitted to herself quite some time ago that she was attracted to him, but she could never quite figure out why. Vachon certainly was not her usual type. Motorcycle, no job, long hair.... She wondered if she could convince him to cut his hair.

"Vachon?"

He popped his head around the corner of the door jamb again. His hair was combed back off his forehead and Tracy could clearly see his arched eyebrows as he waited for her to continue.

"Have you ever had short hair?"

"Yeah. So, did you say you had a shirt I could borrow?"

"Ah-huh." Tracy got off the bed and walked over to her closet. Opening the door, she scanned the interior and found a navy blue T-shirt which she thought would fit him. "How's this?" she said as she held it up for his inspection.

Vachon stared at her, almost as if he were questioning her sanity. "Metro Police?" he said, reading the white letters, large across the front of the shirt.

"Yeah. It's what I do. Remember?"

"I remember." He took the shirt from her — "Thanks" — and smiled.

She sat back down on the bed, crossed her legs, then pulled her long, white nightshirt over her bare thighs. Tracy watched Vachon as he slipped the T-shirt over his head, mussing the hair he had just so neatly combed; he seemed not to care, if he even noticed.

"So, when did you have short hair?"

Vachon shrugged, then added, almost as an afterthought, "I don't know. For about the first half of this century, I guess."

Tracy stared at Vachon, astonished. "Like short short?" She gestured at ear-level with her hand.

"Yeah. Maybe a little shorter." A lazy smile touched the left corner of his mouth. "That's one thing about being a vampire: survival means being able to blend in. These days no one notices a guy in jeans and a T-shirt, but a hundred years ago I would have been breaking decency laws in some cities. ... As would you." The last he added with a large grin.

A deep blush rushed over Tracy's face as she glanced down and noticed that her nightshirt had crept up, exposing a good deal more of her thighs than she had realized. Tracy glared at Vachon — who kept right on smiling — as she got up and pulled a pair of black sweat pants off a nearby chair. The young blonde turned her back — unaware that she was giving her visitor a lovely view of her bare backside — as she pulled on the sweats.

"So, what are you doing here?" Tracy returned to her seat at the foot of the bed.

Vachon sat down on the opposite corner. "Oh, I couldn't sleep, so I thought I'd drop by and see if you wanted to do something."

"Well, remind me to return the favor some time," Tracy replied, just about as sarcastically as she felt. Five hours was not nearly enough sleep, and it was the most she had gotten any day this week!

"Any time," Vachon smiled again.

His smiles were certainly coming in abundance today, and they were doing a number on her. Tracy simply could not remain annoyed at this guy no matter how hard she tried, and she thought she was trying pretty hard.

"Well, since you're here ... and since I seem to be up..." she said, finally giving in. "What do you want to do?"

Vachon shrugged.

Tracy held out her hands and raised her eyebrows in question. "Look, you're going to have to throw out some suggestions. I'm pretty much in the dark about what vampires can do during the daytime."

Vachon laughed, stopped, then laughed a little harder.

"What?!" Tracy had no idea what her intruder found so amusing.

Vachon took a deep breath. "In the dark about vampires?" His shoulders shook as he laughed again.

Tracy narrowed her eyes at her uninvited guest. "You ... are in a weird mood today."

"Me, weird? Maybe I'm just like this during the daytime. You know, like how some people get a little crazy when there's a full moon...." There was a twisted gleam in his eyes. Vachon was enjoying himself, for whatever reason.

"Just don't start baying at the sun, okay?" She shot him an indulgent, smarmy grin.

"Promise." His smile was a good deal more genuine than Tracy's had been. "So ... you want to do something, Trace? Might not get another opportunity like this for a long time."

Tracy nodded, "But I'm going to need a shower and coffee first."

"Well, I can't help you with the shower — unless you want me to scrub your back...."

Tracy raised her pale eyebrows at Vachon. His offer made her nervous: she almost hoped he was in earnest, but she prayed that he was not.

"Guess I'll just try to make you some coffee then," the vampire said, obviously enjoying the flustered state he had so easily put her in.

"You know how to do that??" Tracy could not believe that he did.

Vachon shook his head, then shrugged. "But how hard can it be?"

Tracy knew that it would take her just as long to explain it as it would to simply do the task herself, but she indulged him anyway, explaining the coffee grounds to water ratio, as well as where the coffee and the filters were kept. Vachon seemed to get it — at least he kept nodding his head, repeating under his breath everything she said. So, Tracy left him to the coffee and took her shower.

When Tracy, clean and fully dressed, finally stepped out into the living room, she found Vachon sacked out on her couch watching television — flipping channels, actually. He made no move to get up, but he did at least acknowledge her presence with a nod of his head, though his eyes never left the television screen. Just a normal guy — right, who drinks blood. But at least he had made her coffee; Tracy could smell the wonderfully pungent aroma as she made her way into the kitchen where it was warming in the coffee maker. The young woman looked at the liquid through the glass of the coffee pot for a moment: a nice, dark brown, almost the exact same color as Vachon's eyes....

Tracy shook her head; she really did not need to encourage herself to have such thoughts. There was that blood-drinking thing to consider, after all. She may not know much about vampires, but she knew enough to realize that a predator was still a predator no matter how domesticated it may seem. Lions at the zoo, even though well-fed and cared for, still attacked their handlers on occasion, and she had no reason to believe that Vachon was any more tame or predictable than those lions.

The off-duty police detective pulled a mug out of the cupboard, splashed some milk into it, then added her coffee, She took a tentative sip — not quite sure that Vachon had made it correctly — but it was fine. Strong, like she liked it — the way she needed it to be these days. Just when Tracy had gotten used to working nights — which had taken quite a while — she had ended up pulling a couple of day shifts; the department had been short-handed due to a virus that was going around, and the change had thrown off her sleep pattern all over again. And now this. She should just tell Vachon to go, that she did need more than five hours of sleep, but, then again, it would be fun to spend some time with him. She hardly ever got to see him — just the odd occasion when she needed his help with something , or if he happened to be around on one of her days off.

"So, Vachon, did you think of something we could do today?" Tracy took another swallow of her warm coffee.

Vachon shrugged, still engrossed in flipping channels on the television.

Had she really gotten out of bed for this? "Vachon?"

He clicked off the TV and dropped the remote onto the sofa as he got up. Vachon sauntered over to the bar between the kitchen and the living room and seated himself on one of the barstools. Then he smiled at her. "Is it okay — the coffee?"

Tracy nodded. "Perfect. Thanks for making it," she said as she warmed her palms against the ceramic mug. "So, did you think of what you wanted to do today? I'm guessing you probably want to do something which you can't do at night, right?"

"That would be nice, yeah. Except, I don't really know what would be opened during the day — not one of those things I normally pay much attention to."

"Well, there's always the zoo..." Tracy suggested before taking another sip of the caffeinated brew.

Vachon shook his head. "I can do that at night — it's kinda nice, actually, with no one else around. Remind me and I'll take you with next time."

"Ah, thanks." Tracy was not so sure that breaking and entering was such a good thing for a rookie detective to be doing on her off hours. "Well, hmmmm.... With the fog, we probably don't want to do anything too outdoorsy. We could check out the Metro Police Museum — I haven't gotten over there yet."

"We could wander around the R.C. Harris Filtration Plant," Vachon countered, obviously not thrilled with Tracy's suggestion.

Tracy wrinkled her nose for the second time that morning — a water treatment facility was not something she really wanted to get out of bed for. "There's always Casa Loma."

"Or the Upper Canada Brewery."

Beer? Tracy sighed to herself. "The ROM?"

"Scuba diving at Fathom Five?" Vachon offered with another of his knee-weakening smiles.

"Scuba diving? That's all the way up by Lake Huron — I'd never make it back in time for work!" Tracy thought for a moment. "What about ... Black Creek Pioneer Village?"

Vachon frowned slightly as he shook his head. "Fort York," he said decisively.

"The Royal Botanical Garden?" she suggested.

"Edward Gardens."

Now he was smiling again, and Tracy finally got the feeling that he was being contrary on purpose. "Vachon!"

"Allan Gardens?" he said, all innocence, pretending that he did not know what she was getting upset about.

Tracy narrowed her eyes at the evil vampire. "Are you doing this just to be difficult?"

Vachon smiled almost wickedly but said, "No."

"Fine. Allan Gardens it is then!" Tracy flashed Vachon a wicked smile of her own. "Well, let's get going then. I'll drive." Tracy jangled her car keys at Vachon, who slid off the barstool and walked over to the door. "Where's your jacket?" When Vachon simply shrugged, Tracy inquired, "You did wear one, didn't you?"

"No. I forgot."

"Forgot? Vachon , it's cold out — in the mid-fifties at best!"

Vachon shrugged again. "I didn't notice." Tracy looked askance at Vachon, so he added, "I don't feel the cold, so ... sometimes I forget."

"Wow. Really? Like even when it's snowing out?" Vachon nodded. "How about the heat? I bet that church of yours gets pretty stuffy during the summer."

Vachon merely lifted his shoulders again before unlocking the apartment door.

"Well, people are going to stare — I thought you said vampires needed to blend? Wait here while I go see if I have something you can borrow." Tracy marched back into the bedroom, wondering how little-boy-vampires ever survived without their mommies. Rummaging through her closet, Tracy realized that she did not have anything appropriate which would not look silly on him, except the dark trench-coat she herself was already wearing. She slipped out of it, then grabbed her brown-wool coat off the nearby hanger. As Tracy turned to exit the walk-in closet, she bumped smack into Vachon who had been standing behind her for who-knows-how-long. "Ugh! Vachon."

He grinned in amusement, but then said, "Sorry. That for me?"

Tracy nodded, then shoved the dark coat hard into his chest.

"Umph ... I guess I deserved that, huh?"

"Yes."

Vachon threw on the coat, which was just a tad too narrow through the shoulders to fit absolutely perfectly, then said, "Well? What are you waiting for — are we going?"

Tracy lifted one eyebrow at Vachon before pulling on her own coat as she followed him out of the apartment.

"...But I don't need one. I'm ... already dead, remember?"

"It's the law, Vachon."

"Yeah, but you're a cop. Don't they make exceptions for you guys? They let you speed, after all."

"Vachon! You know that's only in emergencies. Would you just put the damn thing on?"

"Okay, okay. But I get to pick the radio station."

"Fine. As long as you wear your seat belt."

Vachon spent the next few minutes doing exactly what he had done with her television set: flipping stations. He went so quickly that Tracy could barely catch the melody or even a complete word. She had no idea how he could possibly discern one bit of music from another. The noise was quickly getting to her, but Tracy steeled her nerves and valiantly remained silent.

As they drove down Dundas Street West, Tracy decided to take a small, unscheduled detour. She hung a left when they reached Spadina Avenue, then took another left onto Baldwin Street.

"Hey, where are we going? The Gardens are that way." Vachon pointed over his shoulder in exactly the opposite direction from which they were now traveling.

"I know. I just wanted to make a quick stop. I'm not normally up at this hour either, and I thought since we're so nearby...." Tracy pulled into the parking lot, took her ticket from the man in the kiosk, then found a parking space.

"Where are we going?"

"There." Tracy pointed across the street to the moderate crowd of people milling around the more-than-two-dozen outdoor vendors. "The Kensington Market."

"Um, Trace? Produce really isn't my thing."

"They have other stuff, too, Vachon. Besides, it won't take long. Come on." But Vachon simply remained in his seat — staring out the front window — seat belt still firmly in place. Tracy shrugged, grabbed her knit hat and shoved it on top of her head, then got out of the car, slamming the door perhaps a bit harder than she should have, even under the circumstances. But this had been his idea after all. She would much rather have stayed in bed if he was going to act like this. Tracy continued to mumble to herself as she crossed the street.

The first vendor she came to was selling bread, which smelled heavenly — all sorts of odd flavors which she never saw in the grocery store: pimento rye, pumpkin seed and whole grain, marbled white and dark pumpernickel. She gave the man behind the table a large smile when he offered her a sample of the honey wheat bread. It was delicious and it reminded her that she had not yet eaten and was a bit hungry. The family at the next stand was selling fruit: pears, apricots, and almost a half-dozen varieties of apples. Tracy was selecting a few of the red beauties when an apricot suddenly appeared beneath her nose. Startled, she gasped slightly. Turning, she found Vachon standing next to her, holding the fruit in question.

"Aren't you buying any of these?" He brought the fruit up to his nose and inhaled the scent.

"No. I don't really like apricots."

"Really? Odd." Vachon put the apricot back down amongst the others of its kind.

Tracy paid for the three apples she had selected, and then began to walk again before continuing their conversation. "Why is it odd?"

Vachon's voice was very low when he answered. "I just always thought mortal blood smelled the way it did because of the food you ate. Our ... blood smells like, well, blood, sort of. I guess it is different though; when I was mortal, I remember the smell of blood being kind of heavy — cloying — but our blood.... Well, the scent is the same but it's ... lighter somehow, like ... there's something missing."

"So, every ... mortal's blood really smells different?"

Vachon nodded. "It's faint, and you really have to be pretty hungry to pick up on it, but ... yeah."

Tracy began to eat one of her sweet apples as the two wandered further into the heart of the street market. They passed a stand selling flowers, asparagus, broccoli, and the like, another with tye-dyed T-shirts. Vachon stopped at a table displaying hand-carved toys. Tracy took a quick look before moving on, but when Vachon did not follow, she turned back. There was an oddly intent look on his face but Tracy could not figure out what was so interesting.

"Vachon? What is it?"

He did not answer, as if he had not even heard her.

"Here," the clerk said, offering Vachon one of the toys. "Try it." It was an old-fashioned pop-gun; when you quickly pushed the red-painted handle in, the cork — attached to a string — would pop out of the end. Vachon played with the toy for a few moments — shoving the handle in and pulling it out — amused by the noise it made each time the cork was expelled from the wooden barrel by the force of the air. Vachon seemed fascinated with the toy's simple, yet effective, construction.

Suddenly, he handed the pop-gun off to Tracy.

"I had one of these..." Tracy began, but Vachon was still not hearing her.

He had chosen another toy off the table. Tracy had no idea what the toy was called, but she remembered playing with one once, and not being very good at it. It was a carved cup on the end of a stick, and tied to the stick with a measured length of string was a wooden ball. The objective was to flip the ball into the air and then catch it inside the cup. She had been about as coordinated with this toy as she had been with those fifty-cent paddle balls.

Vachon ran his hand over the lacquered wood of the cup. He dumped the ball out into the palm of his hand, then stared at the polished sphere for a moment before caressing the surface with his thumb, and closing his hand over it. Finally, he dropped the ball, letting it dangle from the end of the string which tethered it to the handle. Tracy watched, as completely enthralled by Vachon's reaction to this toy as Vachon was with the toy itself. Suddenly, he gave a quick flick with his wrist, sending the ball arching up into the air and landing smack-dab inside the cup. Tracy was amazed at Vachon's luck, until he dumped the ball out of the cup, flicked his wrist, and came up with the exact same result — an ace in the hole. Wide-eyed, Tracy stared as Vachon repeated the astonishing feat — again and again and again.

After several minutes, Vachon, still flipping and dropping the ball in and out of the cup, wandered away from the table, oblivious to everything else.

"Hey! You have to pay for that!" the clerk shouted after Vachon. But before the woman became any more upset, Tracy dug into her pocket and paid for the toy herself while apologizing for her friend's odd behavior. She then trotted after Vachon, who was wandering through the crowd, seemingly not paying any attention to where he was walking, leaving others to move out of his way.

"Vachon? Vachon!" She caught him by the shoulder, causing him to miss his shot for the first time since picking up the toy. He glared at Tracy, which prompted her to ask, "What is with you?"

He shrugged, then went back to playing with the toy. "I remember my father making an emboque" — Vachon stopped playing for a moment as he held the ball-and-cup toy up, turning it over in his hands — "one winter when I was very small. I sat nearby at the hearth each night as he hewed the wood, trying to figure out what he was making. Then I sat wondering whom the toy was for — I didn't figure it out until I saw him caring 'Javito' into the handle."

"Javito?" Tracy smile as she asked.

Vachon nodded, meeting Tracy's eyes with a bit of a smile. "That's what I was called by my family when I was a boy."

Tracy smiled wider. "It's cute."

Vachon frowned slightly at Tracy's assessment, obviously never having connected the word 'cute' with his name before. Then, he returned his attention to his new toy and Tracy took another bite out of her apple; they wandered back to Tracy's car in silence.

Vachon continued to play with the emboque even after they had settled inside the car. Tracy watched him make a dozen perfect catches in a row, baffled at his skill. "You know," she began, "you're very good at that."

"Amazing, isn't it?" Vachon said meeting her eyes with a self-satisfied grin. When Tracy glared at him, he continued, "I was never this good as a kid. And I haven't has one of these since."

"You haven't? So, how can you be this good? It's been, what? Four centuries?"

"Almost five, actually," Vachon corrected. "As a vampire, I have certain ... enhanced abilities — predatory responses — which aid in survival: better hearing, keen night-vision, a devastating smile—-" Tracy narrowed her eyes at Vachon and he amended this last statement. "Okay, you're right. I had the smile before I came across." He grinned widely at her, and she had to admit, but only to herself, that it was a damn-fine smile.

"So, what does that have to do with this toy?"

"My reflexes are also much better than they ever were as a mortal." Vachon put the toy down in his lap, then moved to caress her chin. He continued in a slow, measured tone, "Improved hand/eye coordination is essential in the seduction of prey. Ever see a clumsy anaconda? Of course not, because the inept ones never survive long enough to make it into any of those National Geographic nature films. Prey fights back sometimes, too, you know."

Tracy shuddered as she brushed his hand away. "Prey? How can you say that so casually?"

"You already know this about me, Tracy. I'm a vampire. I drink blood ... usually human blood. Predator," Vachon said slowly for emphasis as he put his open hand on his chest. "Prey," he finished as he gestured in the same manner towards Tracy.

"Don't!" she said firmly as she grabbed his out-stretched hand. "That's not funny, Vachon."

"Wasn't meant to be. Look, cows eat grass, people dine on meat from those cows, and vampires ... drink blood from those same people. Sorry, but you're no longer at the top of the food chain."

"But you once told me that you rarely kill anymore."

"True. It's too dangerous, too difficult to dispose of the evidence. We can't risk mortals finding out about us. But what I do drink is still human, Tracy — that stuff in those bottles I have back at the church...."

"Where does it come from?"

Vachon shrugged. "Don't know. Never really thought about it. But then I doubt that you wonder where that pork chop you had for dinner yesterday came from."

"Oh my gawd! You mean there could be places where people are being raised for food, killed for their blood?!"

"I doubt it. But why is that any more horrible than cattle ranches and slaughterhouses? We all need to eat, Trace."

"But they're people, Vachon. Like. Like you ... well, like you used to be. That's murder."

"Why? Because people are more intelligent than cows, or sheep, or even pigs? What if I told you that I only drink from dumb humans — would that make it okay with you, Tracy?"

"Of course not, Vachon, because people have souls ... even the dumb ones. I just don't see why you can't live off of animals like your friend Screed does."

"I could. But I choose not to ... and probably for the same reason you choose not to be a vegetarian. There's just something about a nice grilled piece of meat, isn't there? Nothing else tastes quite like it — oh, it's been a while, but I remember. There's a unique flavor, a unique texture to the meat. Well, there's something about human blood which is different from anything else; some might say it's due to the presence of the human soul or the complexity of the human existence. I don't know what it is, but asking me to live off animal blood, Trace, would be like me asking you to eat nothing but tortillas for the rest of your life ... while you're living in a pastry shop."

Tracy stared at Vachon. How the hell was she supposed to respond to that? This was the most frustrating thing about Vachon, Tracy thought to herself. He was good at whatever he chose to be good at, seemingly with no effort. And the worst part was, he could talk her into a corner so that her head never even had a chance to start spinning. It did not matter if he believed what he was saying or not, but he liked playing Devil's Advocate; Vachon could probably play against Satan himself and win!

"Tracy? What's the matter?"

"Nothing." She put the key in the ignition, finally starting the car. She quickly glanced over at Vachon again. "Seat belt," Tracy said in a tone he had better not argue with, and he did not. She then backed out of the parking slot. When they reached the kiosk, she rolled down the window and handed the man her ticket, followed by the parking fee. Tracy signaled, then pulled out into the street, heading up towards College Avenue which would lead them to the botanical gardens. She glanced over and noticed that Vachon was staring out the window, no longer interested in play with ... what had he called it? "Emboque? What does that mean in English?"

"Huh? This?" He held up the toy again. "I'm not sure. It ... it sort of describes the skill necessary — the motion of catching the ball inside the cup."

Tracy nodded and they fell silent again. She signaled, then took the right turn when they reached the light at College Avenue. "A pastry shop?" Tracy finally asked, wondering if he had meant that as a jab at mortals in general or her in particular.

"What? Don't you think you'd make a good chocolate eclair?" he inquired, smiling again in that easy manner he had.

"An eclair?" she said, incredulous at his chosen comparison.

"Would you prefer to be a lemon torte?" Vachon asked, seemingly in all seriousness as he looked at her from under his dark bangs.

"I would prefer not to be a food item. Thank you!" she responded, taking her eyes from the road for only the briefest of moments in order to glare at him.

"Okay, I promise."

Tracy was focusing on the road again, but she thought he must be smiling; his voice had that soft quality to it which sounded so sincere. "What?"

Vachon held up his right hand and vowed, "I promise I will never make a meal out of Tracy Vetter. Okay?"

"Ah, Vachon? This conversation is just way too weird for me. Can we talk about something else for a while?"

"Sure," Vachon said as he picked up the toy again, rubbing his fingers over the pale wood. He began flipping the ball into the cup again. And the muffled sound of wood striking wood filled the car.

After several blocks, Vachon finally spoke, "How come I haven't seen you lately? Crime take a holiday or something?"

"Far from it, but it's all been the typical sort of stuff — nothing ... bizarre."

"So that's the only reason you come by? When you need help with the really weird shit?"

"No, of course not. But I've been working my butt off lately! Pulling double shifts and everything. There's some flu or something going around, so we're short-handed on top of there being an unusually high number of homicides recently." When he did not comment, Tracy added, "The next night I have off, I'll drop by, okay?"

Vachon smiled, and Tracy wondered if she had just missed something. Here he shows up, out of the blue, and now he has somehow gotten her to promise to stop by for a purely social visit. Tracy sighed to herself at these thoughts. He just never came right out and said what he meant, what he was thinking, what he wanted. Vachon was always keeping her off-balance, guessing — intentionally or not — and, the worst part was, he seemed to thoroughly enjoy doing it.

All of the parking lots on Carlton Street near the Gardens were full — it was nearly two in the afternoon, so Tracy was really not that surprised. They would have taken the bus had the young detective not needed her car for work that evening — with Vachon there was no telling if she would have time to get back home to pick it up before her shift. Amazingly, Tracy found a lot with a vacancy not too far down McGill Street — her lucky day!

It was not much of a walk to Allan Gardens from where they had parked, for which Tracy was thankful; it seemed as if the fog had gotten thicker since their last stop, if that was even possible. Shoving her hands deep into her coat pockets, Tracy picked up the pace which Vachon matched stride for stride, and it was not long before they reached the block which the gardens occupied. Once there, they took the most direct path to the glass-domed Palm House in the center.

It was warm and humid inside, and bright from all the artificial lighting. "Are you okay in here? I mean, the lights won't bother you?" Tracy immediately asked.

Vachon held his bare hand out for a moment before replying, "Naw. See? No smoke. They're just regular lights — they probably only use them on days like this, and on the odd occasion when this place is open in the evenings. But, you're right, those special grow-lamps they use in nursery hothouses would probably give me a tan I wouldn't soon forget!" Vachon laughed as he shook off the droplets of water the fog had left on his hair.

"I can't believe how curly your hair is!" Tracy reached out and touched a stray strand. "The fog really did a number on it."

Vachon smiled. "Oh, yeah? Looks who's talking, Goldilocks!" He reached over and pulled the knit hat off her head.

Tracy turned away, trying to catch her reflection in one of the panes of greenhouse glass. When she did, she groaned at the sight. Knowing that it would get all wavy and fuzzy once it dried, Tracy tried to smooth her disheveled hair back into place, but Vachon took her wrists in his hands and stopped her.

"Just leave it, okay? It actually looks ... cute." He smirked at her, and Tracy was unsure if he was mocking her or not. "Really, it's fine, Trace. Not like you need to impress me or anything. Don't forget, I've seen you covered in sewer grime. Remember? This is nothing!"

They stared at each other for a moment, Vachon still gently holding Tracy's wrists. Then he leaned in slightly. Tracy tensed, knowing that he was going to kiss her, which she wanted him to do, of course — so why was she so rigid with fear?

But Vachon released her hands without kissing her. He walked past Tracy, wandering into the glass house, before looking over his shoulder at her. He whispered just loud enough for her to hear, "Come on. Just remember not to throw any rocks."

"Rocks? Why would I...." Her voice trailed off as soon as she got the very old joke. Tracy smiled in spite of herself and wondered if it had been an old joke when Vachon had been a mortal. "Did they even have greenhouses when you were growing up?"

"Not like this." Vachon gestured towards the lofty, paned dome above them. "The Romans built small sheds of mica and wood, but it was some Italians, tired of frost-damaged oranges, who developed the ideas which eventually evolved into these modern structures. But that was long after I was dead." Vachon turned his attention to one of the botanical information signs attached to the metal hand-railing.

Tracy joined Vachon at the railing, not even pretending to ready the sign he seemed so interested in. "So, what was it like when you were ... young?" she asked quietly, truly curious about a time she virtually knew nothing about.

"Farming when I was a kid, back in the early fifteen hundreds, wasn't anything like it is today. I mean, it's possible to feed the whole world on what the United States and Canada regularly produce in wheat alone." They began to slowly walk along the greenhouse path again. "But there was a time when people couldn't even grow enough forage crops to support cattle over the winter, so the bulk of the herd was slaughtered in the fall and the meat was salted to preserve it." Vachon was still speaking very quietly to Tracy, causing her to lean close in order to hear him. "And no one in the part of Spain I'm from could even afford to raise cattle. Would you believe that I saw my first cow when I was a hundred and seven?"

"No way! You had to have seen a cow before that." Tracy was certain he was teasing her again, trying to find out how gullible she really was.

"Nope. I didn't know of anyone who even owned a cow when I was a boy." Vachon absently ran his fingers through his thick bangs as he continued to reminisce. "And I spent many of my later years in North and South America; I saw herds of llama and buffalo decades before I saw my first cow, which had been brought over from Europe by some settlers."

"But ... your name ... I don't know what 'cow' is in Spanish, but isn't it similar to what it is in French: Vache? Wouldn't that mean your family once had something to do with raising cattle?"

"You'd think so, wouldn't you?" Vachon raised his eyebrows and smiled at her, which caused Tracy to frown.

She hesitated slightly before making the accusation: "You're not telling me that's not your real name, are you?"

Vachon smiled again.

Tracy gaped, both shocked and annoyed: "You lied to me?"

"No." The smile on his lips softened. "Actually, the name is a corruption of vascon which means that my father's family, at some point, came from what are now the Basque Provinces in northern Spain." When Tracy's expression mellowed, he asked, "What's Vetter — Swiss?"

Tracy nodded. "But I don't know what it means."

Vachon stood with his hands on his hips as he thought for a moment. "Sounds like it might be some sort of military name. Bet your ancestors were soldiers or sheriffs or something."

This made Tracy smile. "Guess being a cop really is in my blood."

"Maybe. But your forefathers could have been mercenaries, even spies...." There was that wicked gleam in Vachon's eyes and Tracy, for once, knew that he was teasing and not mocking her.

"Hmm ... guess you had just better watch your back then, eh?" Tracy flashed him her sweetest smile before lifting her nose in the air and sauntering off, pleased that she was finally able to tease him back.

But Tracy had only taken a few steps before Vachon's hand clamped over her mouth, cutting off all air in or out of her lungs, and his arm tightened around her waist, virtually immobilizing her.

"No, you had better watch yours," the predator whispered tenderly in her ear. And then, just as suddenly, he released her.

Vachon smiled sweetly at her as he walked, backwards, deeper into the tropical wing of the Palm House. She stared at him, finally realizing that she truly could never win with him. The question was now whether or not she should stop trying — was it the game or the victory which was important to her, to Vachon?

Vachon, still walking backwards, almost gloating, motioned for her to catch up. Too late to warn him, Tracy noticed the clay pot lying off to the side of the aisle; Vachon, however, never did realize it was there until he stepped into it. The graceful predator fell straight down, grabbing at the railing — and the sign attached to it — in an effort to stop his descent, but even he had not been able to react quickly enough to prevent himself from landing hard on his butt.

Tracy laughed loud to see the king of the food chain, the ultimate hunter, on the ground with his legs splayed out before him. As soon as she caught her breath, Tracy, unable to resist, said, "Guess this means I won't be seeing you in any of those National Geographic nature films, huh?"

But Vachon did not react to her teasing. He simply sat on the floor, staring at his hands, seemingly stunned by what had happened. Suddenly worried, Tracy rushed to his side. "Vachon? Are you okay?"

The vampire looked up at her with the most pained expression in his large, dark eyes. He held out his right hand to her and Tracy noticed a large wooden splinter protruding from his palm. Glancing quickly around, she deduced that only the sign attached to the metal railing was made of wood, and the sliver must have broken off when he had grabbed at it while falling.

"Sit still, okay? Let me go find a first aid kit. There must be one around here—-"

"No," he insisted, grabbing her with his other hand as she tried to stand up to leave. "Pull it out."

"But, it's going to bleed all over the place if I do that, and I don't have anything to dress it with."

"Just pull it out," his voice was barely calm, but very insistent.

Tracy hesitated for only a moment before kneeling between his legs again. She took a deep breath before grasping his wrist with one hand and the base of the sliver with the other. "Okay. Now, hold still." Tracy removed the sliver of wood cleanly with one swift pull. Then she watched, stunned, as the rivulet of blood on his palm was reabsorbed into his skin and the jagged hole caused by the splinter closed over leaving a small scar which faded into non-existence right before her eyes. "Oh my gawd!"

Vachon let out a ragged breath. "Pretty cool, huh?"

"Does that happen every time?" Tracy was still holding Vachon's hand in hers, still staring, amazed, at the newly-healed skin.

"Yup. Though wounds made by wood take a bit longer."

"Longer?" Tracy's eyes were wide when she finally looked up into his face. She was relieved that his eyes were calm again, smiling. "That took, like, forty or fifty seconds, tops."

"Yeah, and it hurt like hell, too."

"Well, it was a pretty big splinter." Tracy held up the two-inch long shard of wood, the lower half of which was coated in a thin veneer of blood. "Did I get it all out?"

Vachon nodded. "It wouldn't have healed if you hadn't." He took the fragment from her and shoved it deeply into the solid of the planting bed. "Thanks." He smiled at her, and Tracy returned it, still kneeling between his splayed legs, still holding his hand in hers. "Ah, help me up?"

Tracy blushed. "Oh. Sorry." She released his previously injured hand as she stood. He then held out his other hand to her and she grasped it, pulling him to his feet. Now standing, just inches apart, Vachon rubbed Tracy's arm with his free hand. "Thank you. I really hate splinters." He moved his hand up to her shoulder, then to her jaw, caressing the skin there.

She stared deeply into his eyes which shone like polished rosewood under the bright lights. This time Tracy did not tense as Vachon leaned closer....

"Is everything okay?" One of the greenhouse curators finally appeared. "We heard a noise. Did something happen?"

"No," Vachon said, and Tracy noticed a slight annoyance in his tone which she would have shared had she not felt like a teenager caught on the front porch after curfew. "No, we're fine," Vachon continued. "But I'm afraid I broke your pot." He pointed to the terra cotta pot which lay in several pieces on the ground.

"I'm very sorry, sir," the earnest employee said as she rushed over to pick up the clay fragments. "Are you sure no one was injured?"

"Positive," Vachon replied over his shoulder as he took Tracy's arm and led her off into another wing of the Palm House. They stopped to look at some tropical bromeliads; some had large red-tinged leaves which resembled huge flower petals, and one had a small pineapple fruit stemming from the center of a rosette of thick, dark foliage.

Tracy found herself staring at Vachon again, though he did not seem to notice. It was indeed odd to see him out during the daytime — even though the fog was still thick outside the greenhouse, the lights inside were the brightest she had ever seen him in. Tracy knew his eyes and his hair were dark, but she had never noticed the fine details before. Vachon's hair was really a dark brown with the slightest cast of red to it. His lashed were thick, and his eyes had not the tiniest hint of hazel to them. And his skin looked even paler, though there was a faint golden cast to it, and she imagined that he must have tanned quite nicely when he was alive.

Alive. She hated when she allowed herself to forget he was different. Vachon just seemed so normal sometimes. Yet lurking beneath the surface was a heart that did not beat and blood that did not flow. Tracy wondered for a moment what it must be like to be a vampire: to have to kill in order to survive; to be leery of mortals finding out what you are; never being able to go out into the sunshine. She thought the latter would be what she would miss the most — it was what she hated about working nights. "Vachon? What do you miss most about not being mortal?"

"Sex."

"Ah, sex? Are you telling me that vampires can't have ... sex? That you've gone for over four hundred years without it?" Tracy found this very difficult to believe, especially about someone like Vachon.

"Not exactly. Vampires can have sex with each other. But sex with a mortal — though better than any sex I ever had when I was one — is a one-shot deal ... for the mortal. Biting is part of the act — it's not complete for the vampire without the ingestion of blood."

"But ... can't you just, you know, stop before you drain your, um, partner?" Tracy could not quite believe that she was even having this conversation.

"Well, yeah ... but why? I mean, it would be like, for you, stopping every time before you climaxed. You'd get pretty frustrated pretty fast. Abstinence would start looking real good, except for us that would mean starvation as well. Not much of a choice."

Vachon reached over and touched Tracy's hair. "I guess what I miss most is being able to do it again with the same woman." He ran his fingers over her pale, silken strands; she loved it when he played with her hair. "To touch the same warm skin." He stroked the back of his hand against her cheek and Tracy felt herself blush. "To taste the sweetness of her lips." Vachon drew his thumb across her trembling lower lip. "To hear her sighs whispered in my ear." Vachon moved his hand down Tracy's neck, causing the breath to catch in her throat. "To know that she wants more as much as I do." He moved his other hand to Tracy's waist, encircling her with his arm, and she allowed Vachon to draw her closer.

Vachon's voice was like a far-away lullaby, caressing her mind. His touch sent waves of pleasant sensations across her body. And Tracy wanted more as much as he did. She wanted to feel his lips against her own.

Tracy put her arms around Vachon as he kissed her. She could feel his sinewy muscles beneath the trench-coat stretched taut across his shoulders. His lips against her own were cold for only a moment. He tasted slightly of salt and ... something else, oddly familiar ... yet not. She felt the scratch of his stubble against her chin as their kiss became deeper. Vachon's arms around her seemed to fully support her weight and Tracy was no longer aware of the ground beneath her feet, as if it had simply fallen away along with time itself. She felt his cool hand in her hair, brushing against her ear. And, pressed against him, she felt his heart beat once in his chest, then stillness — a reminder that this was all they could have. Tracy felt as if her own heart would stop beating then; that this moment, this eternity, would end and this creature — this frustrating, annoying, wonderful man — would be lost to her, or rather she to him.

Tracy's head began to swim and she realized that she had forgotten to breath. But she did not care, not until she felt herself slipping away from him. She tightened her grip around his thin waist but it did not help. Tracy could barely feel his body against hers, and his kiss was like a distant memory still fading.

Then suddenly her lungs filled with air. And her head stopped swirling. Tracy breathed deeply again before opening her eyes, now unsure if any of it had been real. But it had been. Vachon was standing there before her, looking at her with those eyes as deep as the rainforest — his arm still encircled her waist, his hand was still in her hair. Yet it was over. And this was all there was. Tracy wished there could be more. "Do you ever wish you were still mortal?" she asked, so quietly she was not even certain she had actually spoken.

"Yeah," Vachon breathed, the faintest of smiles on his lips. "Right about now."

This made Tracy smile as well, as a faint blush crept over her cheeks.

"Unfortunately, if I were still mortal, I'd be long dead. And I'd never have seen all the amazing things of this world." He caressed Tracy's cheek again, and the coolness of his hand felt wonderfully pleasant against her warm skin. "Do you," Vachon began hesitantly, "... ever wish you were a vampire?"

Yeah, right about now, Tracy thought to herself as she smiled at him again. Then she turned away and wandered off into an area displaying a vast variety of orchids. "Do you like what you are, Vachon?"

"... Usually," he replied as he followed after her. "I mean, what's not to like? I get to live forever with very little effort on my part. That's some deal."

"But you can't have a job and you have to live in that condemned church or in the sewer like Screed. You like that?"

"I don't have to live that way, Trace. It's my choice." Tracy raised her eyebrows at him, never expecting him to say he liked living in filth and poverty. "Actually, it was a matter of necessity what with the Inca hot on my tail for all those years. I couldn't afford to get too settled in, to be tied down by possessions."

"But you could have those things now. Couldn't you get a job, rent an apartment?"

"I could. But you're assuming that I'm planning to stay here."

"Aren't you? I mean, I thought ... now that the Inca isn't chasing you...."

"This is the longest that I've ever stayed anywhere, Trace. And I like it well enough" — Vachon gently caresses Tracy's arm — "but I'm used to traveling, moving on. Nothing quite like the excitement of a new town." Vachon's eyes gleamed and a smile flitted across his lips, but then he became serious again. "Being what I am means that I have to leave eventually — people start to notice when they get old and you don't, and that's dangerous — for me and for the rest of my kind."

"So, one day, you're just gonna leave? Just like that?"

Vachon nodded. "Maybe."

Tracy walked away again, looking at another display of orchids, though not really seeing any of the exotic shapes or beautiful colors. Vachon came up beside her, putting his arm across her shoulders. "I'll say good-bye, if I can. Okay, Tracy?" But she did not answer him.

Vachon reached over and gently pulled one of the stems of a Brassavola orchid nearer. "Here, smell this. What does it smell like to you?"

"It's sweet, almost like, ah, pears?"

Vachon nodded slightly. He caressed the large, creamy-white, lower petal with his fingers. "It's native to South America. Grows like a weed in the jungles there — high up in the canopy, attached to the bark of the trees."

"It's a parasite, like mistletoe?"

"No. It lives off the moisture in the air." Vachon pointed to the thick, dry looking roots which hung over the sides of the clay pot. "These are air roots, and they don't invade the tree like mistletoe does. The plant merely clings to the bark for support."

Tracy leaned over and smelled the pink bloom on a Phalaenopsis orchid, but then straightened up, disappointed with the odorless flowers. Vachon bent over, inhaling deeply. "Can't you smell anything?" — Tracy shook her head, no. "It's citrus ... ummm, like kumquats. I suppose you can't see these darker stripes either." Vachon pointed to what appeared to be uniformly pink petals. "Insects can see them better than I can. They're guides," he explained as he moved his finger towards the center of the flower, "telling the bug where to land so it gets its nectar while the flower gets pollinated."

"Do these grow up in the trees as well?"

"No. They need soil. You find them on the ground in really moist areas. Can't help but step on some of them, they're so prolific — at least they used to be. I haven't been down there in a long time, and things change after a while. Things always change."

Tracy looked over at Vachon, knowing that he had just told her something very important, but she wasn't sure what it was; all she knew was that it had nothing to do with South American weeds. She looked away to stare at the pink orchids which reminded her of cartoon butterflies. Vachon leaned in and gently kissed her hair, lingering perhaps a bit longer than he should have.

Tracy glanced back at Vachon again, but he had wandered off to look at some other plants. She found him not far down the aisle, gazing at some ferns arranged around a small, trickling stone-fountain. As she caught up to him, they heard an announcement over the P.A. system — the Palm House was closing for the day. Without a word, Vachon took Tracy's arm and they walked slowly back to the entrance, pausing for only a few moments to look at a tall banana plant in bloom with purplish-red flower buds and dark-green, immature fruits. Tracy had never seen one in flower before; never realized that the fruits grew up with the stem at the bottom, instead of hanging down; never wondered how they survived without seeds to reproduce themselves.

Once outside, Tracy took a deep breath of the cool air. A gentle breeze had picked up, and it felt refreshing against her warm cheeks. As they wandered down the path back towards the entrance of the gardens, Tracy took a moment to look around. The fog had lifted slightly, no longer obscuring the trees and bushes planted on each side of the avenue. As they came around a bend in the path and cleared a stand of lilac bushes, Tracy noticed a thin strip of blue sky peeking out just above the horizon to the west.

"I bet there's going to be a beautiful sunset tonight," Tracy said, thoughtlessly happy about the prospect. Then she realized what she had just said. "Oh my gawd!"

Vachon realized it in the same instant. "We have to go, Trace. Now!" He grabbed her arm and pulled her along as he quickened his pace. She tried to keep up without stumbling. Within a few moments they were outside the gardens. The crossed Jarvis Street without waiting for the light. It was only a few minutes more until they reached the parking lot and Tracy's car.

The pair quickly settled in, Vachon fastening his seat belt without being asked and Tracy not even bothering to check. She handed the man in the kiosk a ten dollar bill and did not wait for the change. Once on Yonge Street, she took a deep breath as she glanced over at Vachon. "Are we gonna be okay?"

"Yeah. We'll be fine," he said calmly as he reached over and rubbed her arm. "As long as you don't decide to obey the speed limit, or make any unscheduled stops along the way."

She smiled and relaxed into her seat. "Well, I could use some milk — it'll only take me a few minutes to run into the market. You can wait in the car." Her smile got wider as she began to laugh to herself.

Vachon grinned back at her. "Just drive."

"All right, all right. Your place or mine?"

The original printing of this story can be found in the 1997 publication "Conquistador" by Fenris House. This author gratefully acknowledges the incredible beta-reading talents of Amy Rambow.