Tomorrow, however, things would be quite different; easily ten times the normal number of patrons would fill the intimately dark space. And they wouldn't just be the Goths and vampyre-wannabes as was typical of the weekends. No, tomorrow they would be their friends, their co-workers, the so-called normal people who wore ties to work, ate power bars for lunch, and hit the gym three-to-five times a week. Tomorrow, they'd allow themselves the indulgence — the once-yearly acceptable sin — of becoming someone edgy, naughty, seemingly not-boring for one thrill-seeking evening.

LaCroix would easily be able to pick out these Halloween pretenders. He would smell the double espresso café mocha lattes still on their breath, he would see the bulge in their trousers their ever-present cell phones or pagers would make. For some reason the women would have an easier time playing dress up — a game society now allowed them to play openly as adults. The secretaries would leave their buns and glasses at home, tussling their hair, wearing shades of make-up their mothers would never approve of, and dancing in short skirts, low necklines until the music made them giddy.

And they would all feel safe and secure, despite their surroundings, because they only believed in the Goths and the vampyre-wannabes, knowing them to be mostly harmless. It was Halloween. People dressed up, pretended. None of it was real. How could it be? The undead walking among us, vampires sucking blood from spellbound wenches: these were the things of fiction, tales spun in the days before science, technology, and Microsoft ruled the world.

LaCroix raised his glass to his lips as he continued to gaze from beside the bar out into his club. The faint smell of poetry tickled his nose and he smiled, wondering if the blood donor had been male or female. He took a taste, rolling the velvety liquid over his tongue. Male, he decided, and young — less than three decades before his end. Such a waste of good potential, LaCroix thought as he raised his glass for another swallow.

Just then, one of his bartenders appeared before him, waiting to be acknowledged. LaCroix gave a slight nod and the woman informed him, "We are low on white wine."

LaCroix arched his brows in surprise. It was impossible. The deliveries came every two weeks and extra bottles should have been ordered to arrive with the last shipment. Normally, it wouldn't have mattered — the typical patron of the Raven wouldn't even consider ordering white wine, but tomorrow, on Halloween, with the downtown business-men and business-women making a foray just far enough into this world to enter the edgy nightclub, they would still want the familiar — their name-brand beers and their white wines.

Brianna still stood before LaCroix, waiting to be told what to do, but what could be done at so late a date?

"I'll take care of it," he finally said, just to get rid of her. He then wondered if Janette had ever run into such difficulties while managing this club. Perhaps she had better contacts in the community, he posed silently to himself. She was always the more social one, striving to carve out her niche, to know those both above and below her, thus enabling her to take advantage of either should an occasion ever arise.

LaCroix had made no efforts to cultivate her old contacts, nor to make new. He was the eldest vampire in the community, which should command both respect and obedience. There, his problem was solved, he decided. A phone call would take care of everything.

He walked casually through the black door just behind the bar, into the manager's office — his office. From the desk he removed a burgundy-red address-book filigreed with gold scroll-work. Janette had left it behind after signing the bar over to him. Except to satisfy his curiosity when he'd first found it, he hadn't had a reason to open it.

He opened it now. Leafing through the pages, he was glad Janette had thought to make notations beside each of the names listed. "Tailor (bartending jackets)," "cleaners (table linens only)," "restaurant supplies (non-food)," and, finally, "spirits and beverages."

LaCroix reached for the receiver of the phone on the desk, then dialed the number written in Janette's calligraphic script. A few rings later, a man answered the phone.

"... This is Lucien LaCroix, owner of the Raven in downtown Toronto. ... Yes, that is correct. I am in need of three cases of Chardonnay, two cases of Chablis and one of Pinot Blanc. ...What? No, I cannot wait two weeks for delivery! I must have the wine tomorrow afternoon. ... Do NOT take that tone with me, young man. Do you know to whom you are speaking? ... Hello? ... Hello!"

With tight, white lips, LaCroix slammed the phone down into its cradle. He then scooped up his wine glass, the urge to smash it against the far wall threatening to tear through the thin veil of will power that masked his rage.

Two deep breaths later, and a much needed, steadying beat of his heart, he downed the thick contents of his glass. He finally sat down behind the desk and leafed through Janette's phone book once again, eventually finding the name of an alternate vintner. He took another deep breath, assuring the calm of both his mind and voice.

He dialed the number.

The phone rang an impossible number of times. LaCroix looked through the burgundy-bound address-book once more, but discovered nothing else of interest to him at the moment. Just as he began to wonder why no one had yet answered or why no annoying machine had taken up the task, a breathless "Hello?" touched his ear.

"Yes, this is M'sieur Lucian LaCroix. ... Yes, the Nightcrawler — so, you have heard of me? ... I am pleased. Perhaps you did not know that I am also owner of a nightclub in downtown Toronto, the Raven. ... ... Yes, an enchanting lady; Mademoiselle du Charme is a very good friend of mine. When she relocated out of town, she left her establishment to me and said to contact you personally should I have any special vintage needs. ... Yes, I appreciate that." LaCroix continued to layer on the platitudes, intent on getting the wines he required at any cost, even such a personal one.

"... Tomorrow," he finally informed the man on the other end of the phone line of the urgency. "... No, it must be tomorrow! ... There is no possible way?" he asked, feeling the need to be done with these inanities and cursing his present lack of eye-contact with the man, which would have made bending his mind a surety. No one refused LaCroix when vis-à-vis. No one.

"... Well, what if someone were to come to you? Say, tonight?" Mohammad and the mountain — these mortal things should mean nothing to a vampire older than all but the pyramids. He would not allow them to stand in his way. "Excellent. You can expect someone by 10 pm. ... No, thank you."

LaCroix hung up the phone quickly, feeling an adverse reaction to the final words he had just spoken building in the back of his throat. He raised his glass to wash the taste away, but found the crystal goblet empty. He let out a disgusted sigh, before rising from his chair and returning to the Raven proper.

At the bar, he handed the empty vessel to Brianna, the same bartender who had informed him of their low inventory and he had to remind himself not to blame the messenger. Then, he had to remind himself why. The woman returned with his full glass before he had thought of a reason.

She met his eyes only briefly before turning away, leaving him alone with his deliciously pleasant thoughts of beatings and blood-lettings.

A droll tone met his ears: "Should I ask?"

LaCroix looked up from his reverie to see the Spaniard lounging against the bar, a goblet of blood resting idly in his pale hand. The elder vampire arched one of his eyebrows. "Ask?" LaCroix had no idea to what the irreverent cur was referring.

"You're smiling. Why?" Vachon smiled back at him, like he already knew the answer, like LaCroix's mind was no great mystery to him. Like Napoleon was just another soldier, D.W. Griffiths just another producer.

LaCroix straightened, but did not answer the question, feeling it rhetorical, no matter how the younger vampire had intended it. He sipped from his newly filled glass, and then watched as Vachon mimicked his motions. The cuss was smiling at him again. Leaning there on the bar like a cat biding its time, waiting for someone to conveniently spill a little milk.

Impatient with whatever game was being played at his expense, LaCroix finally asked, "Is there something you want?"

"Nothing within your power to give me." And there was that mocking again, that tone, that damnable smile.

LaCroix narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together for a brief moment. "Don't you have something to do?"

Vachon shook his head, no. "Sort of the point, isn't it? Eternity: so much time, so little to do." Vachon took a slow, languid sip from his glass, and then ran his tongue out over his lips, whisking away the dark, liquid sheen. "Actually, I was just waiting for Urs. You know, she works entirely too hard for the paltry amount you pay her."

"She is given ample funds for her expenses," he responded, almost indignant. Why play slum lord to Janette's precious strays when he could do it so much more satisfactorily with mortals? "She has a secure roof over her head; enough blood to satisfy her needs. What more could a fledgling ask for?"

"Well, she's not fledgling, but I'd be willing to harzard a guess: A night off once in a while."

"I have not heard her complain," LaCroix told Vachon plainly, stepping behind the bar, intending to end this inane conversation.

"Well, no, she's Urs; she wouldn't complain, would she? But that doesn't make you right," Vachon reminded the ancient vampire, for some reason testing his patience tonight.

LaCroix wondered yet again what Vachon knew, what was behind this display of smug confidence.

"She is welcome to go live with you and the carouche in the sewers, if she'd prefer. She's not a prisoner here. No one is forcing her to do anything," he pointed out to the Spaniard, as he placed his nearly empty glass into the dirty dish bin behind the bar. He turned then and strode away. This parlay had gone on far too long and was now over.

But, when he reached the other end of the bar, he stopped. He still needed someone to play delivery boy, to fetch the crates of wine he'd ordered from the vintner in New York. And, it would have to be a vampire — there would be border patrolmen to deal with on the return trip, and he had no intention of paying duty on wines that should have been stocked in the cellar weeks ago. And, while there were any number of vampires at his disposal, they all had their regular duties to perform; he really could not spare a single one.

With a quick intake of breath, LaCroix turned around and headed back to where Vachon still stood, now with his back completely to the bar, his arms crooked and his elbows resting on the edge as he casually took in the room before him.

"I have something for you to do," LaCroix intoned. It was not a question; he didn't feel the need for it to be.

"No, thanks," Vachon replied without even turning to look at him.

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said, no. I'm not interested." The glass of blood came back up to Vachon's lips and he drank, still so damn slowly, probably knowing how much it irritated LaCroix.

After a few moments of silence between them — Vachon drinking and LaCroix waiting for him to stop doing so — the elder vampire finally spoke, "Fine. I will pay  you." Vachon continued to sip slowly from his glass. "...Fifty dollars," he offered.

This caught Vachon's attention. He pulled the goblet away from his lips, turned, and set it on the bar. Then he raised his eyes to LaCroix's, looking at the older vampire out from under a tangle of brown bangs.

"Fifty dollars? Canadian  dollars? This 'something' isn't worth very much to you, is it?" Vachon let out a disgusted little puff of air, as he picked up his glass again. He turned his back to the bar once more and resumed his idle survey of the club.

This young pup was trying his patience, but thoughts of what the morning's sun would do to Vachon's leather-clad form did not alleviate LaCroix's problem. He had to get that wine, before sunrise. After, he'd have time for more pleasurable indulgences.

"One hundred," he raised the offer, but Vachon did not answer. "Two hundred." Silence again. Would it cause too much of a ruckus if he were to grab the Spaniard by his unkempt locks and toss him across the room? "Five. Hundred. Dollars." That was his last offer, and to his relief, it got a reaction out of Vachon.

He turned around again, this time standing at his full height and meeting LaCroix's determined gaze with his own. "That's more like it," Vachon said. But then he flashed those straight, white teeth again in that mocking grin. "But I'm still not interested."

"What? I just offered you five hundred dollars. You're not in the least bit curious what the job is?"

Vachon shook his head, as he silently mouthed the word "No."

"Then why did you even bother to turn around?" LaCroix asked. The fighting spirit which had won him a thousand battles over the centuries was not enough to keep him going under these incomprehensible circumstances.

"Because — for that price — I know someone who might be interested." Vachon did not smile this time, but neither did he look away. His fathomlessly brown eyes held LaCroix's blue ones, daring his elder to look away first.

"Whom?" LaCroix asked, not breaking the stare.

But at this Vachon shrugged and turned away again. "Come to think of it, I don't think he's your man after all."

"Whom is it?" LaCroix insisted.

And, after another sip of blood, Vachon finally gave him the name: "Screed."

"Fine," LaCroix said, not seeing the problem and this had Vachon facing him again.

"You're telling me that you won't allow Screed inside your classy joint, but you're willing to employ him doing whatever dirty work you have in mind?"

Now it was LaCroix's turn to smile — he was going for smug, and hoped his classic, aquiline features could pull off the look. Vachon didn't laugh, so maybe he'd been successful. "Who better than a carouche to do someone's dirty work?" he asked, still smugly grinning.

Vachon shrugged again. "I'll go ask him." He then swallowed the contents of the half-full glass in one quick gulp — surprising LaCroix with his speed. Then, without another word, he made his way through the sparse Monday night crowd and out the front door.

LaCroix nodded at the retreating form, then moved off toward his sound booth at the back of the club to read over his notes for the evening broadcast while he waited for Vachon to return with the carouche. And he had no doubt the Spaniard would do just that.

The two had their heads close together and, as LaCroix neared, he could just begin to make out what Vachon was whispering: "—five hundred. Don't let him go back on it."

Screed straightened then, tapping the side of his nose twice before pointing his index finger at Vachon and nodding. "Oi 'ears ya, mate."

LaCroix skipped the usual greetings, not feeling the need for even the briefest of formalities with the carouche. "The job I have for you is this—" but he was promptly interrupted.

"'Old 'h'up there, La-foie-gras. We gots ta talk h'about tha most h'important bit first, no' last. Roight h'up front, tha's 'ow Oi loike h'it. None h'a this 'ere backdoor bammy-jam."

LaCroix looked over at Vachon, hoping for a translation, but Vachon was busy watching the Raven's patrons again and LaCroix doubted he'd even heard what the carouche had attempted to say. But, luckily, Screed continued on, performing his own brand of translation.

"Geld'a. Contantee. Arg'nt compt'nt. Din-h'ero. Moo-lah. Cash."

LaCroix stifled a sign, then nodded. "As agreed, you'll be paid five hundred dollars when you return."

"H'agreed?" Screed protested. "'Oo h'agreed? Oi did no' h'agree ta h'a pile h'a such malarkey! H'eight  'undred," he countered.

"FIVE hundred. Non-negotiable."

"Fine," Screed shrugged. "Not loike Oi needs tha money 'er na-fin'. Catch ya lay-ta, V-man." He turned then and began to leave, but LaCroix stopped him, realizing too late that the carouche did indeed have the upper hand.

"Wait. Six. I'll make it six  hundred."

Screed paused just at the edge of the dance floor.

"You'll receive half now and half when you return," LaCroix grudgingly conceded just a bit more.

Screed turned around then and walked back to the bar. "Oi'm returned. Make h'it h'ALL now. H'eight 'undred."

"Half. And six."

"Roighty 'o. Oi'll just be seein' meself h'out then, will Oi?"

"Seven."

Screed just shook his head as he reached out to pinch one of the patrons on the behind.

"Eight!" LaCroix changed his mind quickly, just to stop the lowly creature from causing a scene inside the club.

"Tha's more loike h'it," the carouche said, rubbing his hands together greedily. "Make 'em twenties. Unmarked, iffen ya don' mind. H'all h'eight 'undy h'of h'it."

It was getting late and LaCroix was more than tired of arguing. All this hassle over six cases of white wine to satisfy the once-a-year yuppie clientele. It simply wasn't worth it. He turned and nodded his head once to a male bartender, who disappeared for a moment, before returning with a small bag.

The bartender held the bag out to LaCroix, who motioned for him to give it directly to Screed, but the carouche refused to take it.

Instead, he tapped his finger four times across the countertop. "Ya kin count 'em h'out h'and lay 'em h'in lil' piles o' ten bills h'each." Now it was Screed's turn to smile and piss the hell out of LaCroix. "H'an' no slight h'a 'and, mindja. Oi'll be watchin' careful loike."

LaCroix took the bag from the bartender, dismissed him, and then counted out the contents, "Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, one-hundred. Twenty, forty, sixty, eighty, two-hundred...."

The bills ended up in eight piles containing five bills each. If the carouche wanted his money doled out in some other fashion, he'd have to take care of it himself. But Screed seemed happy enough with the forty bills. He grabbed the now-empty canvas bag off the counter, and then chuckled happily to himself as he stuffed the cash clumsily inside before drawing the string closed and shoving the wad down his pants.

"Roight then. What's yer plan, Gen'ral Specific?" he finally asked.

"There are six cases of wine earmarked for the Raven, waiting for you to pick them up at the Valois Vineyard—"

"Val-woosie? Oi h'ain't goin' cross tha deep blooie ta tha land h'a fried froggies fer you!"

LaCroix glared over at Vachon again. This time, the Spaniard spoke, though it wasn't without that infuriating smile. "France," he simply supplied.

"No, the Valois Vineyard is in the United States, in western New York, right near Lake Seneca. Here, I've written it all down—" LaCroix was about to hand the carouche the slip of paper when something suddenly occurred to him. "You can read, can't you?"

"H'a course Oi kin read. Wot ya take me fer? H'illegitimate? H'and, iffen h'one were ta judge by h'a bloke's squeakin' 'abits, Oi'd lay h'odds Oi could quizzie h'out some-fin more complexioned than the loikes h'a you."

LaCroix looked over at Vachon again, imploring silently for another translation. "Said he reads better than you do."

"Hmph," LaCroix muttered under his breath, but then handed over the paper with the directions to the vineyard.

Screed glanced at the blank back of the paper, before turning it over and glancing at the writing on the front. "Roight then, Oi'm h'off. Lay-ta V-man. LaQueasy." Screed moved off quickly through the crowd and, upon reaching the open door, he instantly disappeared from sight.

LaCroix sighed, a little more audibly than he intended. He hoped Vachon hadn't heard him. Just then the female bartender from earlier walked by and he stopped her. "Brianna, the shipment of white wine will be here before dawn. Please have someone available to accept delivery and get it stored away."

"Yes, sir," she said smartly, smiled cordially, and then walked away. At least there was someone capable of giving him the respect he was due. This thought caused him to glance over at the annoyingly irreverent Spaniard.

The impertinent sod was smiling again, grinning from ear to ear. "What. Is. It?" the former Roman General demanded in his most commanding and intimidating voice.

Vachon shook his head, flashing his smile from side to side. "You're not getting your wine before dawn. Not this dawn, anyway."

"If that carouche fails to follow my instructions I will have him flayed and then staked in the sun!" he raged, though his voice was barely above a low, throaty growl.

"Oh, he's going to follow your instructions — to the letter — he's rather literal that way. The thing is, you didn't say a word about WHEN  you wanted the wine delivered."

"I most certainly did!" LaCroix insisted, but Vachon just kept smiling.

"Nope. I was standing right here. Heard every word. Would you like me to recite it all back to you? 'The job I have for you is this,'  you began, but then Screed interrupted—"

"Never mind. Just— never mind. So, do you have any idea when  I might receive my wine?" he asked, still hopeful it would be before closing on Halloween night.

"Well, my guess is, Screed's probably on his way to Atlantic City right now—"

"Atlantic City?!"

"Or maybe Vegas. He's got eight hundred dollars burning a hole in his britches. There's only one thing Screed does when he get a hold of that much money: gambles. If he plays cards or craps, he'll be down to nothing in about two days, but if he hits the slots, he might not run through it all for a week or so."

A week? A WEEK! A sudden pain burst across the side of the elder vampire's head. Was white wine really worth a ruptured blood vessel? LaCroix turned away then, heading back to the solitude of his sound booth.