For just a minute there, I was dreamin'. For just a minute, it was oh-so real. For just a minute, he was standing there With me.

A great sadness came upon me when I noticed the expression on the face of the driver. Nick seems so ... lost, like his world is no longer what he thought it was. So different from the Nick who had befriended me just months before.

He has been kind to me, and though I say that, I do not mean it in anyway that I have meant it in the past. Nick, unlike every other man I've known, never asked for anything and he never took anything. It was not his intention to make me feel needed, nor his ulterior motive to use me. He cared. He cared because he truly understood what I've been feeling all these years: alone and isolated, searching without realizing it.

Vampires love life. It comes with the territory. They love to live and to play and to hunt and to kill. They love anything which produces that adrenaline rush, that thing which makes them feel mortal again, though they would never admit to this. But Nick admits it. He admits to feeling this way, for many years, under the careful direction of his master LaCroix. I have felt this, too. Vachon loved me then because he believed I had become everything he desired me to be: strong, independent, vibrant.

But, as Nick well knows, the thrill wears off for some of us -- maybe all of us, eventually, given enough time, which is a thing few vampires lack. For Nick it took half his immortal life, for me just a few decades, but he had the advantage of loving the potential of life before he traded it for the gifts of immortality.

We had talked once about this. About why he gave his life to LaCroix. He told me his sadness was profound. He had seen much blood-shed, betrayal, and cruelty in his short career as a crusader. He knew that life held more but he could not find it. LaCroix offered to help him, promising more than he could ever dream of. "Be careful what you wish for," had been Nick's wry comment to me about this. "The grass isn't always greener," I'd replied.

We knew. We knew that, despite our different experiences, we felt the same things now, here, in Toronto. We had both made this our home, stayed longer here, or so it seemed, than anywhere else in the past. And things had changed for us here. Loved ones had left. Loved ones had died. Loved ones had moved on to other loves. And yet there were still those here who loved us, wanted us, needed us, cared about us. What more makes up a home?

So, it was difficult for him to tell me. He had almost left last fall. Events had changed too quickly in the mortal life he was trying to live -- far too fast for a man who has the languid luxury of forever -- so, of course, he thought of leaving. But it was that same mortal life, the same reasons that made this his home, which eventually kept him here.

Now it was my turn. Was it time for me to leave? I had to wonder. Would I be missed by the community, by Vachon who was now distracted by another? Was this my home like New Orleans had been? A place that I would always try to leave but would be pulled back to for reasons I could never fathom? Would it take some unholy event to finally break the cycle? I thought that when the epidemic hit. I could have easily stayed away, remained in Montreal with Bourbon, but the thought of the people I knew suffering pulled me home. But I was too late in coming, I thought -- so many had already died -- but Nick claimed I was just in time. He gave me the vaccine even before asking for my help in administering it to others. It was my choice, clearly, and I made it.

I have never been able to bear the suffering of those who love life, which made finding him so incredibly painful. I didn't know. No one, really, knew. But there Screed was, laid out so peacefully, wrapped in a blanket as if he were down for a long winter nap. Hope soared in me that he was merely sleeping, exhausted from the illness, but one touch to his brow told me otherwise.

I cried.

And the guilt welled up inside of me. Why did he have to die? Why couldn't it have been me? I would gladly have traded places with him, though the selfish motive behind that statement hurts in its own way.

We had never been friends these past hundred years. Vachon had brought me across, which meant that Screed was excluded from parts of both our lives, though neither of us had ever intended for him to feel that way. But I was Vachon's and that was clear to everyone. There was not the freedom to come and go as there was with Screed and Bourbon -- they were their own men. No, I was the dependent, and there was resentment, more at some times than others, because of it. I was the one who needed protection, guidance, reassurance and support. And I was the one who, simply by being there, made them feel uncomfortable in their pursuit of pretty, young barmaids.

But we did not hate each other. We just never found enough time to figure out how to become a family. Finally, it just got too much for Vachon: "We're not running as a crew anymore," he had announced one day. What he meant to say was, "I'm tired of dealing with this and I need to be alone."

Bourbon was gone in a shot, before Vachon could even pack his duffel. And it wasn't long after that Vachon got on a plane. I thought he was gone forever -- literally, after that bomb exploded on board. But he survived, and he came back to me just long enough to break my heart all over again by telling me he was still leaving. And why not? A thrilling, death-defying plunge to the earth inside a hunk of flaming metal -- what could Toronto hold after the adrenaline rush of that? Certainly not the prospect of watching me up on a pedestal earning free drinks by shaking my barely-clad figure night after night.

I can't say it thrilled me either. But what else was there to do? Where else was there to go? I suppose it was fate when Nick walked into the Raven. Tall, blond, concerned, with the weight of both the mortal and immortal worlds on his shoulders. Everything Vachon was not. A shining knight to Vachon's rebellious youth. But, even then, how could I have known how he would affect my life?

It was months later, after that poor woman, trapped by her own mind into hiding, hating, and killing, finally took her own life. Nick couldn't understand why I allowed her to jump and I couldn't understand why he wanted to stop her. But we both understand now.

I have always believed that death is an end -- an end to pain, an end to suffering, an end to the turmoil. But Vachon showed me that ends are finite and not what you hope them to be. Perhaps that is the real fear that has kept me from stepping into the dawn all these years. But Nick has his own beliefs. He told me of an experience he once had, long after coming across, about a doorway of light and a guide. Nick says he knows our souls will be judged, and only if we can atone now will death hold the release, peace, and redemption we seek.

But I'm not sure if I like this idea, that there is an after-life when all I have ever longed for is oblivion. To Nick this is the thing that makes life worth living again, the thing which tethers him to his goal of absolution. But he has had centuries to steel his will, hone his means of progress. For me it has been less than a month, and I know that I am weak, even more so because of the strength of the vampire within me. I am not ready.

Still, there's something in Nick's face that tells me he is sad only for himself. There is now an empty place in his life which he had not realized existed before it was filled: not the place of a lover, but of a kindred soul, for our relationship was a spiritual one.

His cheeks are dry as we drive along Yonge Street. He is not even in a hurry. Left down Granville, he pulls to a slow stop in front of the coroner's office. Taking a moment to adjust the wool blanket that covers my face and dangling limps, he's so careful when he lifts my body out of the trunk. I follow him up the stairs and try to hold to door open, but I can't. Still, he doesn't seem to mind. I think he must understand.

I want to go with him, inside, but I know that I can't. It's time. Absolution or no, it's time.

His last words -- "Damn you, Divia!" -- actually bring the memory of pain, though I know that is not his intent. And, with a unseen hand upon his shoulder, I let him know that I'll be okay. For the first time, I fought for my life and, though I lost, the effort must certainly count for something.

As I turn away there is another doorway, this one filled with light, like the portal I had turned away from in ignorance and fear before coming across. And now there is a guide. Nick said it had appeared to him as the source of his evil, as a vision of his master, LaCroix. So, I know what to expect and, this time, I readily approach the cloaked being.

But, I am surprised. I had not expected to be greeted by the image of my father.