Eventually, LaCroix raised his strong, pale hand just briefly and a moment later the waiter was before him, refilling his nearly empty brandy snifter, then warming the bowl and contents ever so slightly over the small flame of the one candle gracing the white-linen covered table. The waiter set the glass back down in front of his customer, then hastened his return to his inconspicuous place behind the bar.

The vampire, ancient in his years which stretched well beyond the millennial mark, still appeared a healthy forty-three — young for such a lauded Roman general during the reign of Emperor Vespasian and far too young to have died.

Gracefully lifting the glass to his lips, he took a small mouthful of the warmed blood and was momentarily reminded of a girl only shortly past her maidenhood, still fresh with youthful joy and aglow with the passions of first love. But memories of Nicholas and Janette slowly began to intrude, growing stronger with each successive sip. He'd come to France to forget them. To put their pedestrian notions of love and marriage from his mind.

Let them have Rome. Let them have Italy.

He needed them not. He needed none of it. He needed no one.

With one swift and elegant flick of his wrist, the nearly full brandy snifter smashed against the far wall, just beneath the incessantly ticking clock. The waiter and the owner did not move, they did not dare, but LaCroix paid them no mind as he pushed himself up from the table and strode purposefully out of the bistro. Behind him, he heard the scurrying of feet and the brushing up of shattered glass from the stone floor.

His feet carried him along the cobblestones to the road that ran along the quay, his dark cape — the height of Italian fashion of the day, though rather out of place in this small, French fishing-village — billowing about him like the shadows that feathered over his beatless heart. He had no destination, no chosen path this night. He only knew that he could no longer merely sit, awaiting the next assault by unbidden memories.

In the distance a bell clanged aboard a ship in the port, signaling one o'clock, though time was the least of his concerns. Time was the one thing of which he had an infinite supply. And it was the one thing, perhaps, that had never been an overly precious commodity to him.

Oh, certainly, he'd wanted his fair share. Certainly, he didn't mind taking more than was his due. He was a Roman general, after all; it was his privilege, it was his right, like having the best wines, the best foods, the best women at his disposal.

But what good was any of it when there was no one to enjoy it with?

He'd had a woman once — Seline — beautiful, intelligent, a great business woman and an even better lover. He could not have chosen a better mother to bear him a son to continue his line, but instead she had bore him a daughter to continue hers. Divia: the embodiment of all their strongest traits and all their strongest faults. The outcome should have been clear to his quick mind, but he'd been blinded by both his pride and his love for her.

He'd wandered for years after, alone, afraid in a way war and impending death had never prepared him. But, eventually, he could stand the isolation no longer. And, then, he'd found her, a woman as worthy as Seline had been. He'd taken her, against her will, because a general forever loves a fight, a challenge, a contest of spirits as well as arms. She claimed first-blood, but, in the end, he claimed all of hers in a frantic gorging that left him giddy and lustful.

Once sated, and content for the first time in centuries, LaCroix had rested, sleeping the sleep of the dead. When he awoke, a wooden spear was imbedded in the ground next to his head and his bed was empty. His new fledgling lover was gone.

As he wandered the lands in search of her, he came upon much death and destruction, which ended only when he'd found a pile of ashes — her ashes — and then he knew.

It had been his fault, his misjudgment.

He continued on down the avenue, beside the harbor, idly staring at the tethered boats that bobbed empty on the moon-stained waters. That had been his life — rather, his unlife, for so many years after.

But the time spent had not been wasted. No. As any good general knows, the victory is in the planning as well as the execution. One must prepare one's self before one can prepare one's troops.

A vampire, LaCroix had come to realize, was little more than a man himself. And a man was little more than an animal that had learned first emotion and then reason with which to curb that emotion. All were driven by instinct, motivated by the need to sustain life, their life, at the cost of all else. But it was the man who learned to trust his instincts while not allowing himself to be led by them who attained greatness — a greatness he himself had known as a commanding general in the Roman Army.

Yet, as a vampire, he had merely followed. First Divia, then in her absence his instincts, never truly appreciating — understanding — the gift he had been given. But that soon changed. He was his own master now and, in honing his vampiric abilities, he would become his own Caesar. Never will there live a greater, more powerful vampire, he'd vowed above the ashes of his first fledgling.

And so it had come to pass, as the centuries rolled away like the pastoral hills of his Roman homeland, that his mastery of his powers grew and his reliance solely upon instinct faded. He knew instinct would fail him in the end — as it continued to fail those around him — and he had no intention of following them to their fate.

LaCroix heard the beating of the heart, heard the gentle swooshing of the blood through veins before he looked up to find the source. A young man strolled alone along the waterfront; his gait reminded LaCroix of Nicholas, as did his figure and carriage. The hair was of a different shade and he doubted the eyes held the same brilliance, but otherwise....

As he neared, LaCroix could hear the young man's heart begin to race and he noticed his hand close tight around the hilt of the dagger sheathed at his belt.

"Good evening, sir," the young man said, his voice not quite as steady as it might be.

LaCroix merely inclined his head in return as they passed by one another. Behind him, he now heard the young man's heart begin to slow, to return to its normal, steady rhythm. LaCroix imagined his hand slipping from the dagger to his side as he let out the breath he'd been holding. The danger had been imaginary, he was telling himself. Just another gentleman, like himself, caught out late without a carriage ride home. LaCroix could imagine the small smile creeping over his lips, a silent laugh at himself for such folly.

It was then that LaCroix struck, turning and snatching the young man more swiftly than a hawk does a hapless field mouse. As his one hand snaked around the young man's waist, LaCroix's other crossed his chest, pinning the man to him as he cupped his chin to pull aside the youthful face, exposing the tender flesh of the neck.

He then took a moment to sniff the heady scent of his prey, to inhale the fear that rose from him like steam. LaCroix's lips barely parted into a smile as he heard the heart racing, so much faster than before — a rabbit caught in a snare, a fly tangled in a web. It was a thrilling sensation, one of which he never tired.

LaCroix drew in a calming breath. No need to rush things, no need to be hasty in these matters, not when one has the luxury of both time and privacy in which to savor moments such as these. He glanced about, but his ears already told him no living thing was nearby, no prying eyes would witness what was to come.

He then returned his attention to the young man in his arms. He bent his head low, close to the man's neck, and then he drew his tongue across the warm flesh, warmer now from the panic flooding both his young mind and body.

"Have you done anything amazing with your life?" LaCroix asked him out of curiosity.

"Please," the young man managed to mumble, LaCroix's strong grip on his chin preventing much else. "I—"

"You? Yes? You've spent your days doing ... what? Paying court to ladies? Trading bawdy tales with your friends? Drinking? Carousing? What?"

"I-I am a gentleman. I ha-have money—"

"Ah, and that makes your life worthy how?" LaCroix used the tip of his tongue to trace the outline of his victim's ear.

"I— Please—"

"And so articulate, too. My my, you are quite the catch, aren't you?" A small shiver raced down LaCroix's spine as he felt his fangs descend into position. He'd been wrong again or, rather, his instincts had been; this one was nothing like Nicholas, even at his most frivolous, his convert had never been this vapid.

For a moment there, he'd hoped to start anew, but with thoughts of Nicholas still filling his head — and thoughts of Janette as well — he knew it was too soon. He would not make that mistake a second time. Nicholas had been, or so he'd thought, everything he'd been seeking in a pupil — quick, agile, but disillusioned by the world and unsure of his place in it. He was the right temperament and in the right state of mind the night Janette had found him. An heir, at last, to carry on his blood line.

But it was not to be. Though quite where things had gone wrong, LaCroix did not know. And before he tried again, he vowed to deduce the reasons. Was it an inherent flaw in Nicholas's character? Or were his own teachings lacking somehow?

A battle had been lost, he admitted now, for the first time, even if Nicholas was unaware of it, safe in the arms of his precious Janette. But one loss did not always cost one the war, the old general knew.

"Please..." the young man quivered in LaCroix's strong arms, reminding the vampire again of his prey.

Hmm, pity, he thought. He might have forgotten this one all together, might have just let him go, but not now. With a quick, silent intake of air, LaCroix opened his mouth wide, and then sank his fangs deep into the mortal's flesh.

The blood was tantalizing, fresh and warm, though it, like the young man himself, held little character. Long moments later, it was gone as was the man's life and just as quickly forgotten.

As LaCroix swiftly twisted the young man's neck, breaking it, he heard the wheels of a carriage clattering over the cobblestones, quickly approaching. He walked the few feet to edge of the quay, and then turned just enough to allow the spent body to slip effortlessly into the wine-dark water below.

A moment later, the carriage appeared around the corner. LaCroix turned to be on his way, only to be stopped by a familiar voice calling to him.

Pausing, he faced the carriage as the door swung wide when the driver pulled the two horses to a stop. Out stepped a well-dressed man, who immediately turned back to the carriage to help the other occupant descend.

LaCroix moved closer as the pair gathered themselves together, smoothing wrinkles and righting hats. Then they looked up and smiled.

"Chere," the woman greeted him with a kiss on the cheek, which he returned.

"LaCroix," the man said, bowing his head slightly.

"We have been traveling many miles to find you," the woman began in flawlessly current French. "We did not think we would arrive in time."

"But there are still several hours before dawn," the man added.

"Come, let us celebrate," Janette said, taking his one arm as Nicholas took his other.

"Yes, let us," LaCroix agreed. For there will be other nights, many other nights in which I shall contemplate our futures.