-- An alternative ending to "Dark Knight."Depressing. Never been posted, though it does appear in Susan Garrett's "Daydreams and Knightmares." Written sometime in 1993 or 1994 I think. This is the first FK story I ever finished.
"Is this someone I should meet?" LaCroix asked, gazing up at Alyce, distracted.
Nick chose that moment to act, pushing himself up off the floor and launching himself at LaCroix, slamming into him with as much force as he could muster, sending them both to the across the room and onto the floor. He was dimly aware of two things: the faint clatter of the jade cup as it slipped from LaCroix's grasp and the clacking of Alyce's heels against the metal walkway as she ran from the slaughterhouse. But then there wasn't time to think. LaCroix was on his feet first and he seized Nick by the front of his shirt, hauling him up and slamming his knee into Nick's stomach as Nick made a feeble grab for LaCroix's neck. He gasped for breath, nearly doubling over, but before he could recover himself, LaCroix swung him around and threw him into a nearby wall. Stunned, Nick slid to the floor, unable to move.
As if from a great distance he heard LaCroix approach him, heard him speaking to him, but it wasn't until he felt something metal touch his hand, flinging it off of his chest where it had fallen, did he begin to understand what LaCroix was saying. "There are four ways to kill a vampire," LaCroix said. "Fire, the sun, a stake through the heart. All these will work my friend. And one more." LaCroix raised his hand abruptly over his head, the metal meat cleaver gleaming and said "Decapitation!" As his arm dropped sharply Nick sat up, eyes gold and fangs bared. Without conscious thought he lashed out with his foot, catching LaCroix square in the abdomen before he could deal out the lethal blow.
The next thing Nick was aware of was a sickening thud. He looked up in the direction LaCroix had been flung and saw his former master hanging limply from a rack, his body pierced by several large metal spikes. Numbly, Nick struggled to his feet. Staggering forward he stood in front of LaCroix and looked up at his body, feeling dazed, unable to think, to comprehend. In confusion he watched the meat cleaver slip from LaCroix's grasp and fall to the floor with a clang. Nick reached up and gingerly touched the metal spike that protruded from LaCroix's chest, then slowly lowered his hand, staring at it in wonder. LaCroix did not breath, did not move. He simply hung there like a puppet whose strings had been abruptly cut.
The cup. Nick blinked rapidly, then whirled as he remembered the sound of it clattering across the floor, but he had lost track of it during their struggle. Moving back into the center of the room he carefully searched the gloom until he spotted it. It had rolled into a corner and was now tucked between two large barrels. Miraculously, it was still whole, complete.
Nick's hands shook as he slowly reached down and gently picked the cup up, hefting it in his hand. He glanced back over his shoulder at LaCroix, then looked down at the cup, closing his fingers around it. He breathed a long sigh of relief that ended in a small shaky sob, then he turned and strode out of the slaughterhouse, moving past LaCroix with one last glance up at him, his heart torn between regret that this couldn't have ended differently, and joy that he had the other cup, that he was so close to finding his cure.
Still clutching the jade cup in his right hand, Nick ran out into the early morning sunlight. Instinctively he threw up his arm to shield his face as his skin began to smoke, but he lowered it almost immediately as the jade cup slipped from his fingers. It was only his vampire reflexes that allowed him to catch the cup before it fell to the concrete, before it shattered into a thousand pieces. The irony of that was not lost on him, but he'd come too far to lose this opportunity now.
But the lethal sun was burning his face and hands. Nick carefully tightened his grip on the cup and ground his teeth against the pain. Stumbling in the direction he remembered his caddie being, Nick threw up his free arm to block the direct sunlight from his face. He didn't see the boxes and garbage cans that were in his path until he fell over them, yet somehow managed to hold the cup aloft and out of harm's way.
His vision was severely blurred and distorted but he could just make out the green of his car a few feet to his left and so he made his way desperately toward it, leaning with relief against the hood. Feeling his way long the length of the car, he made his way to the trunk which he hastily popped open. Curling his hand protectively around the cup and clutching it to his chest, he rolled into the trunk, hastily blocking out the deadly rays by slamming the hood down over him.
In the quiet darkness he laid there breathing heavily for several long moments. His skin still smoked and burned. It had been many hours since he'd last fed so the wounds were slow to heal, but he could feel it starting. Cautiously he opened his fingers and looked at the cup in awe. It was still intact.
And it was his.
After all this time he had finally succeeded. He had beaten LaCroix. Not . . . not killed him, Nick realized as he closed his eyes, allowing his mind to cautiously touch his connection with LaCroix. It was faint, but it was still there. LaCroix was weakened but not dead.
Nick opened his eyes, pulling back quickly from his connection to LaCroix, and stared down at the cup in his hands. As he looked down at the cup, Nick was suddenly lost in memories of Altun Kanal, how his desperate excavation for the cup and his quest to understand the ceremony had again been thwarted by LaCroix. He remembered the workers huddling around the fires, talking about the curse, the vampire that was plaguing them. They had been terribly frightened, and Nick had found it increasingly difficult to keep them working, to keep them busy unearthing artifacts and the stone tablets that would tell him how to use the cups once he found them. Then, one evening they'd found the foreman dead, drained of blood and with a broken neck like the others, and the workers had fled. He'd heard LaCroix's laughter echoing over one of the nearby hills as he'd stood amidst the chaos of the abandoned dig and campsite, again alone and with nothing to show for all his efforts.
But not this time, Nick realized. He'd have to perform the ceremony quickly, before LaCroix could regain his strength and attempt to stop him. He had blood in his loft, as well as the other cup. He could do it tonight, then be well on his way by dawn. As a mortal.
Suddenly Nick grinned, lifting his other hand to gently trace the marking on the cup with his finger. Once LaCroix had forced him to give up that particular search he hadn't had the heart for anything associated with Altun Kanal, leaving the translation of the Mayan tablets to colleagues at Oxford. And LaCroix's activities at the sight ensured that the Enforcers would not tolerate a vampire's activities in those parts, no matter how careful and concealed, for decades to come. So he'd turned his attention to another possible cure he'd heard about during his travels, a cure said to be contained in a book of cures called the Abarat. But now he was closer than he'd ever been before. Nothing, not even LaCroix would be able to stop him now, he thought as he again cradled the cup against his chest. Leaning his head back, he closed his eyes and took several deep breaths. It was time to sleep now, to rest. By this time tomorrow, he would be mortal again.
* * * * *
Nick started out of a sound sleep, instinctively sitting up and slamming his head hard on something metal. He looked around him in confusion, trying to remember just why he was in this cramped dark space. Then he heard a familiar voice. As the car bounced up and down again, Nick heard Schanke rambling on about the summer of 1976. That and the smooth feel of the jade cup in his hand helped him to remember.
Vaguely he remembered the lurch of his car when a tow truck had come and taken the car in. Nick remembered parking it illegally the night before and there hadn't been time to move it this morning. By now it must be sometime in the early afternoon, he realized. They'd probably figured out whose car this was and sent someone down to fetch it. That it was Schanke irritated him, especially when he heard Schanke call into dispatch saying he was going to "tool around" in his car. But there was little he could do about it without having to answer a lot of uncomfortable questions.
Then with a grin he realized that answers to a lot of those questions would, in all likelihood, be unnecessary tomorrow, and he nearly laughed in joy. Double checking to make sure the cup was still safe, Nick rested his head against his arm again, and prepared to simply wait out the rest of the afternoon until it became dark enough for him to venture out. So happy was he that he decided that he didn't even mind that Schanke was driving his car around town.
Well, almost.
* * * * *
Clapping his hands tightly over his ears, the cup lying next to him momentarily forgotten, Nick growled "God, Schanke! I'm gonna kill you!" He felt the caddie accelerate as they began to move down an incline. Nick licked his lips nervously, then his body was slammed to the side as the car swerved sharply. Several horns blared, but before Nick could gather his wits, he was flung to the other side of the trunk as Schanke tried to maneuver out of the way of another oncoming vehicle.
It was then that he remembered the cup. Frantically he searched the space around him for the cup, but before he could locate it, he was again flung backwards as the car sideswiped a fire hydrant. Nick was dimly aware of a green blur moving toward him as he pushed himself up onto his elbow, but before he had time to react, something hard and solid smacked him square between the eyes. Tears of pain gathered in his eyes, but he hastily wiped them away with his sleeve, his only concern for the cup.
He found it sitting pretty much where it had been before the brakes had failed, for he was certain that's what had happened. The cup was resting next to him, to his left. Snatching it up, he hastily ran his fingers over it checking for chips or cracks. Although the spot where it had impacted with his face throbbed and his eyes still watered he used his vampire sight to detect any flaws. After carefully examining the cup for several long moments he breathed a sigh of relief and hugged it to his chest.
The car had finally rolled to a halt, and Nick heard Schanke walking around the car again and again, moaning. He wanted nothing more than to get out and strangle his partner. Luckily for Schanke the sun was still up. Instead he gingerly raised his hand to his face, wincing when his fingers contacted a large bump forming between his eyes. It was probably turning purple, too, he realized. Between that and the burns which were only half healed he knew he'd probably make a pretty scary sight if he were to emerge from the trunk now. Hopefully, though, they'd be mostly gone in a few hours when the sun went down.
For now there was little he could do except lay there and wait. For the second time in the same day he heard the familiar roar of a tow truck, felt his car lurch then begin moving as it was attached and hauled away. And the driver had used some pretty colorful language when he'd seen the damage which had only caused the lump between Nick's eyes to throb even more than it did already.
* * * * *
Still clutching the cup, Nick cautiously opened the hood of the trunk, then slipped out, dropping lightly to the ground. He fought down a momentary wave of dizziness, then reached up and slammed the trunk closed. He was standing in a cluttered garage, the sounds of drilling and welding, of engines filled the space nearby although there were only a few people around. OUt of the corner of his eye he caught sight of dents and scratches marring the surface of his car, then he heard Schanke muttering to himself.
Holding onto his anger and keeping himself tightly controlled Nick slowly surveyed the damage to his Cadillac with Schanke who looked pale and only a slightly lighter shade of green than the car. Crouching down, however, he carefully fingered the sabotaged break line, then rose unsteady to his feet and walked forward a few steps. He was suddenly overcome with such a wave of dizziness that he lowered his head and leaned against the Caddie for support. Suddenly Schanke was there, clutching his shoulder, asking him if he was all right. Wearily, Nick lifted his head and nodded, pushing himself upright and trying not to get nauseous at Schanke's offer of souvlaki.
Schanke wrapped a supportive arm around him and began leading him from the garage, babbling about the case and what he had tried to discover at the hospital. Nick only half paid attention until he felt Schanke take the cup from his grip.
"What's this?" he asked, turning it over in his hands as Nick attempted to snatch it back. Schanke laughed. "It looks like Myra's first attempt at ceramics. Thank god she got out of that phase. Do you have any idea what it's like to eat gauspacho(sp?) soup out of a lopsided bowl with a big nose on it?" As he spoke, Schanke carelessly waved the cup around, despite Nick's protests, then held it up and peered into it, making a face. "Have you been drinking tomato juice out of this or what? That's nasty."
In exasperation Nick snatched the cup from him and stuffed it into his coat pocket. "Schanke," he said, "I want you to go to the hospital. Find out if anyone's . . . I don't know, had something bad happen recently. some kind of tragedy that might have sent them over the edge."
"What?" Schanke asked. "Nick, haven't you been listening to a word I've been saying? I just got done telling you I was just there. They won't talk to us. Not without a warrant."
"We don't need a warrant," Nick said. "All the victims were blood donors."
"How do you know that?"
"Dr. Kipper told me."
"Ah, so that's where he was," Schanke said, nodding his head. "What are you going to do?"
"I've got something I need to take care of, " Nick said, moving hastily away from Schanke. "I'll check in with you later, OK?" Without a backward glance he strode quickly toward the door, ignoring Schanke's protests. Once he was sure he was out of sight he pushed the cup more firmly into his pocket, securely zipping it. Then, using sheer determination and willpower despite his semi- weakened state, he took to the air and headed for his loft as quickly as he could.
* * * * *
His loft was deserted, he could sense that from the air above it, and he alighted softly near the door that led to the lift. The flight here had seemed like the longest one of his life, and he was certain he was going to drop the cup out of his pocket at any second. In fact, he'd been so nervous he'd even considered landing and taking a cab back to his loft, but decided that he simply couldn't wait. And besides, the way cabbies drove, both he and the cup might just be safer in the air.
But now he was home. Pulling the cup out of his pocket he was again reassured that it was in one piece. Walking into the loft he immediately sought out the other one which was still sitting on the table he'd left it on the night before. He held the two cups, one in each hand, looking from one to the other, hardly daring to believe that he was this close to crossing that final threshold.
Smiling to himself and holding the two precious containers carefully he walked into his kitchen and set them both on the counter. During the excavation he'd gotten a pretty good idea of the ceremony. One had to pass the blood back and forth between the two cups, then drink it. Well, he had plenty of blood, he thought as he turned and opened the refrigerator. Then he stopped. If this did indeed work, this might be the very last time he'd be opening his refrigerator to take out the blood he'd need to survive. The thought overwhelmed him for a minute as he stood there staring at the green bottles. Then he reached in and slowly took out one that was only half full, raising it to his mouth and pulling out the cork with his teeth.
The smell of the blood momentarily overwhelmed him and reminded him of how long it had been since he had fed, how hungry he was. But Nick pushed aside the hunger and again approached the two cups. All he'd have to do is pour blood into one, pass the blood back and forth between the two cups, then drink it.
And he'd be mortal again.
Carefully, Nick tilted the bottle over one of the cups and poured about half of it into the jade cup. Setting the bottle aside, Nick took a deep breath, then reached out and took both cups in his hands. He looked down into the one holding the blood, then swirled it gently, gazing into its depths as if he could somehow see his future in it, his mortal future. Then setting his jaw he carefully poured the blood from the cup into the other. He allowed it to sit in the second container for a moment or two before just as carefully pouring it back into the first one. Setting the now empty cup onto the counter he raised the one filled with blood to his lips.
Again he hesitated, and he wasn't quite sure why he was suddenly so filled with fear. If this worked he would have the thing he most desired, the thing for which he'd spent the last century searching. He would regain his mortality and re- enter the world of the living, he would feel the sunlight on his face, he would be able to love a woman without fear or guilt. Other less appealing thoughts crowded his mind, thoughts of sickness, of death, of dying. The faces of all the people Nick had known throughout his long life, ravaged by age, by disease, expiring sick and alone rose up before his eyes. And as he looked upon them, seeing first the faces of his family and peers, then other faces through different ages, different times, briefly, just briefly, he wished he'd never found the cups. Or better yet, never agreed to LaCroix's offer in the first place, never known immortality, never cheated death. Nick blinked and swallowed hard, the horrible, twisting visions fading until there was just himself standing in his kitchen.
Quickly, before any more doubts or misgivings could stay his hand again, he tilted his head back and drained the cup in one quick swallow.
His hands trembled as he lowered the cup, and he stood there for a long time with his eyes closed, expecting a great bolt of lightening, some profound change that would mark his death as a vampire and his rebirth as a living, breathing man.
He waited, but there was no sudden metamorphosis, no transformation. At least none that he could sense. He was still oblivious to ambient temperature although he knew that by mortal standards his loft was considered cold His heart was still, then gave a single beat as he stood there expectantly, then fell silent again. When he opened his eyes he still saw all the details of the world, its flaws and perfections with a vampires eyes.
He was not changed. He was not mortal.
The cups had failed him.
For a moment Nick stood there and was filled with a disappointment and an anguish so profound he nearly lost all strength in his limbs. The ritual had not given him back his mortality as promised. It had only served to stoke the fire of his hunger. Angrily he stalked to the refrigerator and yanked out a full bottle of blood, pausing only long enough to pull the cork out with his teeth before tilting it to his lips and drinking greedily. He did not stop until the bottle was empty, then he dropped it to the floor, ignoring the sound of shattering glass as he reached in and took out another one.
He finished the second bottle, and was halfway through a third when a thought occurred to him, renewed his hope. Lowering the bottle he sat it on the counter and took a step back from it, almost in disgust before turning to the cups again. "Cow blood," he muttered to himself. It suddenly occurred to him that the ritual might require human blood. That had to be why it hadn't worked, Nick thought to himself. That had to be it. Although he subsisted on an exclusive diet of cow blood Nick knew that vampires drew the most strength and nourishment from human blood. It enhanced their strength and their body's ability to heal itself quickly and efficiently. That was why he always kept a supply of human blood on hand in his freezer, for emergencies. In fact, he had to constantly remind himself to replace them once they expired--stale blood was decidedly unpleasant, especially if one was using it to aid in healing. Fortunately, this batch was only a few weeks old.
It could serve another, more important purpose, now.
He knelt down, mindful of the broken glass, and opened his freezer. Reaching in, he pulled out one back and tore off the top. He pulled a coffee mug out of his cupboard and dumped the frozen contents into it, then used the microwave to thaw it. He hardly ever used the microwave, preferring to punish himself and make the blood even more unpalatable by simply drinking it cold, straight out of the refrigerator.
As before, he carefully poured the steaming blood from the coffee mug into one of the jade cups, and again poured the blood back and forth. As he raised it to his lips he made an effort to keep thoughts of failure at bay. He didn't know what he'd do if this failed as well, he couldn't think about it. So he drank instead, trying not to notice how the warm blood, unaccustomed to it as he was, burned his lips and mouth. His recent feeding caused that to heal instantaneously and he drank until the cup was empty.
And again he waited.
Nothing.
Nick wanted to strike out in frustration, in anger. This was no cure, he thought to himself in disgust. This had to be nothing more than the ranting of a primitive race, a society that had allowed itself to be governed by mythology, by empty truths and empty rituals. A race that deserved to be extinct, Nick thought bitterly as he placed the cup back on the counter. He silently cursed the Mayans and their priests, silently condemned the archaeologists who had excavated the site. They had robbed him of his hope, all of them.
He wanted to break the cups, throw them against the wall and shatter them into a thousand pieces. He even picked one up and drew his arm back, ready to let it fly. But something stopped him, some reverence for the past that he still held onto despite his disappointment. No, he wouldn't destroy the cups. He'd keep one, as a reminder to himself a lesson in disappointment, in failure. The other he would return to Alyce, for the museum's collection . . .
The thought of the museum curator caused him to pause and he stared back down at the cups, hope flaring however briefly in his chest. Alyce might be the key; she had researched the Mayans, had studied the site, the artifacts in more depth than he. She might know more of the ritual, some vital piece that he was leaving out. She might be able to explain to him why it had failed.
Struggling to keep his renewed hope in check for he did not think he could handle a third disappointment this evening, he walked over to the phone, still holding one of the jade cups. The indicator was blinking --he had several messages. He decided that they could wait until later, that they could not possibly be as important as this, and dialed Alyce's office number from memory. It rang several times, then an answering machine picked up. Nick tried desperately to keep the disappointment over not reaching her out of his voice.
"Alyce, it's Nick Knight. I need to speak with you immediately. It's vitally important." Before he hung up, he left his home phone number, hoping that she would call back, that she hadn't been permanently scared off last night by what she had witnessed in the slaughterhouse but afraid that that was exactly what had happened. If she didn't call him back in a few minutes, then he would go to the museum and look for her.
The door to stairwell suddenly opened and Nick stared in horror as LaCroix entered the room, a satisfied smirk on his face. He wore all black and he had a large book tucked under one arm. He looked none the worse for wear despite what had happened to him last night.
"Steal spikes can't kill a vampire, Nick," he said softly, walking toward him. "But you already knew that, didn't you," he said, almost conversationally. "Ah, yes," LaCroix said, indicating the cup Nick held in his hand with a slight nod of his head. "The cups." Then he looked questioningly at Nick, his face wearing an expression of mock puzzlement. "And here I thought you would have rushed home to . . . cure yourself," he said, his tone and look turning ugly at the words. "Or," he continued, then paused and looked at Nick who stood silent, "is it that you've already tried it? What? It didn't work? Is that why you just tried to call Alyce?"
"Leave her out of this," Nick managed to growl at LaCroix, taking a step forward.
LaCroix chuckled and turned his back on Nick. He walked into the living room. "Actually, I've just come from a nice little . . . academic discussion with Doctor Hunter. It was very enlightening. She confirmed some of my own findings on a certain matter," LaCroix said, taking the book out from under his arm and offering it to Nick. "She wanted you to have this," he said before Nick could move, and his eyes held a look of warning. "Take it. It contains some information on the ceremony you're so desperate to perform."
Nick looked warily at LaCroix and the offered book. "You killed her," he stated, flatly.
LaCroix shook his head. "Not at all," he said. "In fact, I've granted her fondest wish, the same wish I granted for you, just as I am doing again, Nicholas." LaCroix opened the book and leafed through several pages before finding the one he was interested in and pausing. "I *want* you to have this," he said. "I *want* you to perform the ceremony."
Nick stared at him incredulously, his mind barely able to comprehend what LaCroix was saying to him, still fearful that this was a trick, a trap of some sort. But he couldn't stop himself from asking, hopefully, "You're going to let me go?"
In response, LaCroix held the book out to him again and looked at him expectantly. Nick hesitated for only a moment more, then reached out and took the open book from LaCroix's outstretched hand. With one last wary look at LaCroix Nick glanced down at the page LaCroix had turned to and began to read. As he did so, LaCroix began pacing around the room. "It's a very interesting ceremony," he said. "And once you read that it will become obvious to you why you're earlier attempts failed. You see," he said, moving over to the fireplace and fingering the carvings there, his tone professorial, "you were going about it all wrong. Oh, you had the right idea. You do have to pass the blood from one cup to the other. The key is in the blood you put into the cup. It can't be just any old blood. It has to be obtained in a very specific way."
As LaCroix spoke, Nick quickly scanned the page, and as he read the description of the ceremony LaCroix's words began to make sense. Nick closed the book in horror and slowly looked up at LaCroix as he began to laugh. "You see, Nicholas, you must rip the heart from your human *sacrifice* and while it's still beating, squeeze the blood from it into one of the cups. *Then* you pass the blood back and forth between them." He paused and smiled at Nick, his eyes gleaming. "It's all spelled out in that volume. Page 143 I believe," LaCroix added, then stopped and shook his head as Nick reached down and picked up the cup he had carried with him from the kitchen.
"You see, Nicholas," LaCroix said, taking another step toward him. "This cure might very well work. But your own foolishness, your own ridiculous high ideals, your refusal to be what you are will keep you trapped in this life you claim to hate so much. Oh, yes, by all means, cling to your cumbersome morality and all the misery and guilt is causes you," LaCroix sneered. "The cure for what ails *you* Nicholas, isn't in the promised mortality that these cups offer. It will come in the realization that the price isn't too high, that a mortal life isn't worth worrying about, worth agonizing over." He paused and glared intently at Nick, before continuing, his voice soft, soothing. "When you get to that point, Nicholas, you'll be cured. You'll be cured. You won't want to be mortal. You'll be one of us again."
He contemplated Nick carefully, then added, "But either way, I win. Again." He stood next to Nick looking down at the cup for a moment, then began chuckling to himself. Then he turned and left the loft.
As LaCroix departed, the echo of his laughter was drowned out by another sound, Nick's whispered, "Never . . . ," and then the shattering of the jade cup as it slipped from his fingers and fell to the floor.