He hadn't answered her repeated calls, and he'd called in sick to work. Natalie knew something was wrong, and the sight of him sitting forlornly on the couch, several empty bottles of blood on the table in front of him, did nothing to reassure her as she let herself into his loft.

"Nick?" she called softly, moving forward into the room.

He ignored her, taking another long swallow from the bottle clutched in his hand instead.

"Nick," she called again, daring to step into the small circle of furniture in the center of the large room. "What happened?"

He turned his head slightly in her direction then, and she felt some part of her shatter at the sight of his cold and dead eyes. Shaking his head almost imperceptibly he whispered, "Not now, Natalie."

She bit her lip, hesitating momentarily. Nick looked so lost and so sad, so removed. So alien, another part of her mind whispered. Maybe she should leave him be, wait until he pulled himself out of this depression ... .

"What happened?" She was almost startled to hear her own voice, echoing through the loft, jarringly loud compared to his soft whisper. Another step forward.

He rose in a blur and was standing directly in front of her before she even knew what had happened. His hand shot out and curled tightly around her wrist. "Leave!" he said, his voice low and deadly. "Leave now!"

Stunned, she stared at him for several long seconds while he glared at her. Only the painful tightening of his fingers on her arm made her look away, and he suddenly released her, thrust her roughly away from him, and shot across the room to stand near the stairs.

"Get out," he ordered.

Anger flared through her then, focusing into a tight, hot ball in her chest. "Fine!" she spat, backing away and heading toward the door. "Fine! By all means sit around feeling sorry for yourself!" She'd snapped. She'd reached her limit with his selfishness, with his self-absorption and his inconsideration. "I don't care anymore!" That was only partially true, but as she nearly ran toward the door she tried to convince herself that it was the absolute truth. It wasn't working, and at the elevator door she hesitated, turning slightly, to catch a brief glimpse of him, standing on the steps, a wounded expression on his face.

As soon as he caught her eye, though, all trace of emotion evaporated. He seemed just as remote as before. But she'd seen it! And that gave her some faint hope, the courage to try one last time, to let him know she wasn't abandoning him, however much it might seem so at this moment. And however much he might deserve it, another voice inside her reminded her.

When she turned, he began moving up the steps to the second level. "Just tell me one thing!" Natalie called out, her voice hard. When he didn't pause she added, "Just tell me what happened to Trilling!"

That stopped him. She pressed her advantage.

"Schanke said he got away."

Nick looked at her, and for a moment she couldn't read his expression at all. Then he said coldly, "That's what happened. Trilling escaped."

From across the room she looked intently into his eyes and knew he was lying. Nick was deliberately lying to her. And she suddenly felt sick.

"He's dead, isn't he?" she asked before she could stop herself. He was glaring at her. She could feel the weight of his stare, the weight of his anger all the way from across the room, and it suddenly became too much to bear. "It was an accident," she whispered desperately. "There was nothing you could do." She looked up at him, imploring him to reassure her.

Maybe even imploring him to lie to her again.

"I let it happen," he said instead.

"I see," Natalie said faintly. She was overcome with a sense of vertigo, a sense of unreality. All her assurances, all her certainties had suddenly tilted off their axes and were careening wildly. She felt disoriented. Looking back up at Nick she tried to steady herself, use him as a focal point despite the fact that he . . .

She couldn't finish the thought, so she pushed it back away from her, gave herself some distance. "Did it work?" she asked, her voice faltering. "The legend, I mean?"

"No," he answered quickly.

"Where's Serena?" she asked numbly.

He hesitated at the question, glancing toward the windows, his face creasing in some old anguish. "She's gone."

She suddenly felt that if she didn't sit down she would collapse. Without thinking, she moved wearily over to the piano and collapsed onto the bench, leaning heavily on one arm and staring at the floor. Her mind was whirling, she couldn't think. But there was one more question she had to ask, one more thing she needed to know. Then she could rest.

"Nick, do you still want to be mortal?" She didn't look up to see if he had any reaction to the question, shock or outrage or sadness. She just sat there holding her breath waiting for him to answer.

And he took his time, too. "I don't know," he said finally.

She released the air she'd been holding in her lungs slowly, deliberately. "I need a yes or no, here, Nick. I need to know." She looked at him then. He'd shifted his position, was standing with his face toward the windows, leaning against the railing. He looked very distracted.

"You were wrong about me, Natalie. I am evil. I'll never be anything but evil. A killer." When she was silent, he turned to look at her, a bitter smile on his lips. "No protest? No reassurance? Then I see that I've finally convinced you."

"You've convinced yourself," she countered, although in her heart she knew he was right.

He didn't respond to that right away, but looked back toward the windows. "Have you given up on me, Natalie?"

"You've given up on yourself."

"I did that a long time ago," he replied. "But have you given up on me?"

There was nothing to do but tell him the truth. She owed him that much. "I don't know," she said. "Part of me did, just a moment ago. But I can't give up hope, not completely."

He looked sharply at her then, his eyes almost burning. "Then you're a fool," he said softly.

The anger was back again, and it gave her some strength. She wanted to strike him with her fists until all her rage and sadness was gone, until he saw what he was doing, to her, to himself. She wanted to throw her arms around him and hold him tightly until he saw how much she loved him, how much he had hurt her, not just here, during this conversation, but over the last several months as she'd been forced to sit by and watch helplessly as he slipped back into the darkness from which he'd come. She wanted to burst into tears, collapse onto the floor and beg him to reconsider, to keep fighting, keep believing, to reassure her that she hadn't, couldn't have been so wrong about him.

Instead, she blinked back the tears that were threatening to spill over and run down her cheeks. Rising to her feet she looked up at him, desperately willing the tightness in her chest and throat to abate enough to allow her to speak. "I'm sorry," she finally managed to whisper. And she was. She was more sorry about this moment than she had ever been about anything in her life, except for Richard and the blood he had spilled because she couldn't let him go. "Maybe I am a fool," she continued. "I was certainly wrong about you, wasn't I? I guess that qualifies me." She was shaking now, the tears getting closer and closer to the surface. "I can sure pick 'em, can't I?" she added bitterly.

Nick didn't say anything but turned and trudged slowly up the steps. At the top he paused and looked down at her, leaning against the railing. "It's better this way, Natalie," he said. "You were wrong about me."

"But do you still want to be mortal?" She knew she sounded desperate, and she didn't care. "Or is it that you don't think you have the strength to try anymore?"

"Does it really matter,?" he asked. "It boils down to the same thing."

"You're wrong!," she protested.

"I'm right, and we both know it! This has all been a waste of time. I'll never be mortal. LaCroix was right!" The last was said with such utter defeat, such surrender to his fate that for a moment she could think of nothing to say, nothing to change his mind.

But when he turned and headed for the bedroom she played her last hand. "You owe me better!" she said harshly.

He didn't even pause or look at her. "I owe you nothing," he replied before disappearing from her view.

The End