My eternal gratitude to April for encouraging me, for her wonderful suggestions, and for using her amazing sentence diagramming skills to beta this story.

I'm also grateful to Queen Marcie for all the hand-holding, great info and keeping me on track.

Author's Notes:

A banyan, or dressing gown, was not like our modern bathrobe, but was a very respectable item of clothing; worn over the shirt and the breeches. The banyan could be worn when visitors inside one's home were met, but it was not acceptable to wear one while visiting other people's homes.

According to legend, vampires can not reflect in mirrors, possibly because they don't have souls. In my universe, they can. At any rate, I think vampires *do* have souls.

Slash Warning:
For those unfamiliar with the term, slash means a piece of fan fiction with homoerotic overtones.
This story contains graphic descriptions of guy-on-guy action; hints of S/M and discipline; and violence. Blood is spilled, murder is done. After all, these are vampires.

* * * * * * * *

A Little Night Music (c) 2003 by Mom-Ra

Nicholas stood in front of his mirror while his valet dressed him. He wished for perhaps the tenth time in as many minutes that LaCroix hadn't accepted the Countess' invitation. The thought of enduring yet another evening with that woman set his teeth on edge. At least she had stopped pretending to be a grief-stricken widow; everyone was well aware just how much she had detested her late husband. Dismissing the Countess from his thoughts, Nicholas cast a glance at the clothes that had been set out for him, and grimaced with distaste.

On his bed lay a lace-trimmed shirt and full-skirted, pale blue satin coat with massive pearl buttons. Matching breeches and a waistcoat of elaborate brocade completed the ensemble. The outfit might have been the absolute height of fashion, but he wasn't about to wear it. LaCroix must have taken leave of his senses if he thought otherwise. The costume Nicholas had selected was styled after a riding habit in rich, elegant fabrics, and quite somber in comparison to the one laid out for him. The coat and breeches were of midnight-blue velvet. The large formal cuffs of the coat had facings of dark grey moiré to match the waistcoat. The suit bore no other ornamentation, save for the carved jet buttons, and the lavish black embroidery around the buttonholes. The soft lawn shirt was trimmed with fine cutwork, rather than frothy lace.

Nicholas studied his reflection with satisfaction before letting his valet help him into his boots. The supple black leather hugged his leg to just below his knees. Much better, Nicholas thought, than those ridiculous little high-heeled slippers that gentlemen were supposed to wear to evening parties. He stood, and ran his fingers through his hair as his valet brought him a brush. "That will be all tonight," Nicholas told him. "Just put those away," he added with a nod toward the clothes on his bed. He picked up the hairbrush and a black velvet ribbon, then went downstairs.

LaCroix was sitting in his favorite chair by the fireplace. The old vampire looked up from his book when Nicholas came into the room. With an impatient gesture, he told his protégé to change his clothes. "You need to hurry, Nicholas. The Countess will be furious if we're late," LaCroix said irritably, and scowled at him. Despite his being clean and carefully dressed, Nicholas looked as though he'd just come from the stables. "I asked your man to lay out your things."

"I've already told him to put them away, LaCroix," Nicholas said carelessly. "I thought this would be more appropriate."

"Well, it isn't," LaCroix said with finality. "We're going to a musicale, not a hunt."

"Nevertheless, we *will* be hunting," Nicholas grinned. "At any rate, I'm going to ride Scheherazade-"

"You will do no such thing!" LaCroix interrupted. "Tell the groom to unsaddle her," he said crisply, and shut his book with a snap. "You will accompany Janette and me in the carriage." Before Nicholas could argue, Janette swept into the room. "Ah. Here she is," LaCroix beamed as he rose from his chair. "Our princess."

Janette's simple costume only served to magnify her extraordinary beauty. The messaline silk over gown and embroidered slippers were pale blue-grey: the same shade as her eyes. A chain of glittering sapphires set with diamonds encircled her graceful neck. She smiled prettily as Nicholas took her hands, and complimented her. "Everyone will notice you tonight. You'll be the only lady there without pearls about her throat," he said, tracing her necklace with a fingertip.

"And you will be the only gentleman there dressed for riding, if you don't hurry now, and change your clothes," she said in disapproving tones. "La, Nicolas! Vite! The carriage will be here any moment."

"He'll have to go dressed as he is, Janette," LaCroix said quietly, with an edge to his silky voice that told Nicholas to expect retribution for his disobedience. "He didn't care for the new clothes I gave him."

"At least he could do something with his hair," Janette complained, then turned back to Nicholas. "Really, mon amant, you look ..." But she couldn't finish the thought; for he was gazing down at her with that sweet, little-boy smile of his that never failed to melt her heart.

LaCroix could sense through the psychic link of the blood-bond that his children were growing hungrier and more aroused by the moment. It might be prudent, he decided, to interrupt their little tête à tête before they forgot themselves. He poured a small amount of bloodwine into a goblet and handed it to Janette. He led her to the ottoman beside the fireplace, then told Nicholas to fetch his brush. "Let's do something with that hair of yours," he said. "You're not fit to be seen."

LaCroix was only pretending to scold; he loved to brush Nicholas' hair, and was always happy to dress it for him.
Starting with the loose curls that tumbled halfway down his back, LaCroix gently worked out the tangles. Then, using his hand as well as the brush, he smoothed the wild mane until it was sleek and shiny. When he was satisfied with the results, he gathered Nicholas' hair back, and tied the black ribbon into a lover's knot at the nape of his neck. "That's better," he murmured. Nicholas quivered slightly as LaCroix's mouth brushed against his ear. At that moment, a servant entered the room to announce that the carriage was at the door.

* * * * * * * *

As they were being shown into the Countess' salon, LaCroix told his children that he'd already selected their companions
for the evening. He refused to give any hints as to who they might be. "Let's play a little game, shall we?" he smiled.
"And I'll give a special treat to the one with the first correct guess."

The large doors were thrown open, and as Nicholas had predicted, all eyes turned toward Janette, not only because of her unusual jewelry; she was easily the most beautiful woman in the room. LaCroix's close-cropped hair also garnered a bit of attention; none of it favorable, but he paid it no mind. He knew that no one would dare to remark
upon it.

They went to greet their hostess, but before any one of them could say a word, the Countess began to criticize Nicholas. "Really, Monsieur Chevalier! Never in all my life have I known anyone who would even *dream* of wearing boots to a musicale," she sighed. "I expect you'll come to my next soiree dressed in your banyan." Then she laughed, to show that she wasn't actually displeased, and introduced Janette, Nicholas and LaCroix to a few people. One of these was a very pretty young man, whose foppishness went far beyond the dictates of current fashion. His black hair had been tortured into elaborate corkscrew curls that hung well past his shoulders. Nicholas was of the opinion that the pastel greens and pinks of the young man's costume were more suited for a girl. He took note that the buttons of his embroidered waistcoat, and the large buckles on his shoes were encrusted with real diamonds, not paste.

"Mademoiselle du Charme," the Countess boomed. "May I present my very dear friend, Paul Foucault?"

Foucault pretended to make much of Janette, but all the while his eyes kept straying towards Nicholas. He all but licked his lips when the Countess presented him. Nicholas took an instant dislike to him; for all his silly banter, there was a menace behind his calculated simpering. The vampires took their leave of the Countess and her very dear friend as soon as politeness allowed, and went to mingle with her other guests. Janette was eager to play LaCroix's guessing game, so she asked Nicholas escort her over to a group of ladies. She would then be free to hunt while she wandered about the room with them. Nicholas made of bit of conversation with the giggling ladies, all the while wondering if LaCroix had intended any of these women for him; perhaps the sweet little doe-eyed one who gave him sideways, coquettish glances over the top of her fan.

* * * * * * * *

Chairs were being set out in rows; a signal that the music would soon begin, yet Nicholas had not been able to discover which of the Countess' guests was to be taken in his deadly embrace. "I give up," he said to LaCroix in an undertone.
"I'll forfeit the game to Janette."

"A bit late for that, mon ange. Janette has already won. Look." With a nod, LaCroix directed Nicholas' attention across the room. Janette was being escorted to a seat near the front of the room by a tall blonde man wearing an officer's uniform. Nicholas silently congratulated her, then looked expectantly at LaCroix.

"Well, Nicholas, have you had a chance to look over the program?" the old vampire smiled as he handed one to his protégé.
"You'll be playing with our new friend, Paul Foucault."

Nicholas scanned the program and sighed audibly. He and Foucault were to perform 'Eine Kline Nachtmusik' after the first intermission. "You seem disappointed," said LaCroix. "I thought you enjoyed that piece."

Nicholas had loved Mozart's newest composition when he'd first learned it. But after months of hearing it, and having to play it himself at nearly every musicale he went to, it was beginning to bore him. That, however, wasn't the cause of his sighing, and LaCroix knew it. "I thought it might be nice if you and Monsieur Foucault had a chance to get to know one another," he said smoothly. Nicholas understood the implications of his master's remark at once, but LaCroix silenced him before he could protest. "You will do as you're told, Nicholas. I have my reasons for wanting him out of the way."

"Could it be that it pains you to see the Countess making a fool of herself over him?" Nicholas teased.

"The Countess is a tiresome old bore," LaCroix said tartly. "But she is no fool. She understands perfectly that it is her position, and her wealth that men such as this Foucault find so attractive."

"The Countess will be upset if I deprive her of her pretty new swain."

"I doubt that," LaCroix returned, "She can replace him easily enough; there are plenty of beautiful young men who are eager to warm her bed."

"Why that one, LaCroix?" Nicholas asked, trying not to sound petulant. "Surely, he is of no consequence to us."

"Foucault has quite a talent for uncovering secrets. Oh, petty scandals for the most part: infidelity, buggery, that sort of thing. However," LaCroix laid a hand on his protégé's shoulder, and lowered his voice. "He's become curious about *us*, Nicholas. And we wouldn't want him to start prying into our affairs ... would we?"

* * * * * * * *

When the first part of the program was over and the assembly broke up into small groups, Nicholas went to find his intended victim; his initial reluctance to take him had been forgotten in his anticipation of the hunt. As for Foucault, he could not believe his good fortune; the very person he'd hoped to insinuate himself with had sought him out on his own.
Nicholas Chevalier and his so-called cousins were not what they appeared to be, and Foucault was certain they would pay handsomely for his silence should he be able to discover what sort of secrets they were hiding.

Nicholas was extremely attentive to Foucault during the intermission, and flirted subtly with him; after all, it would have been dangerous to be too overt. Standing just a bit closer than necessary to murmur into his ear; brushing his fingertips against his sleeve; these ploys were enough to convince Foucault that Nicholas was very interested in him.
The young man's beauty and frank sensuality made it quite easy for Nicholas to pretend to be enamored of him. Paul Foucault was an exquisite creature; pale and slender, with a lovely mouth and large, dark eyes fringed with thick lashes. Nicholas was about to suggest that they go out onto the veranda, when the Countess materialized and chastised him for monopolizing her guest of honor. Reluctantly, Foucault took his leave of Nicholas, and let the Countess lead him away.

"There's someone here I'd like you to meet, Paul. A fascinating woman ..." Her stentorian voice cut through the conversations that eddied around her as she and Foucault made their way through the room.

* * * * * * * *

The guests had resumed their seats and were respectfully silent as the Countess' guest of honor took his place at the piano-forte. Nicholas took a seat beside him and they began to play Mozart's new piece for four hands. Appreciative murmurs rippled through the room, for both men were very skilled players. Foucault took the opportunity to further communicate his desire to Nicholas by pressing his leg against him as they sat together on the bench. Nicholas returned the pressure, and smiled to himself when he heard the mortal's heartbeat speed up. As they played, Nicholas leaned close to him and whispered his plan for an assignation. Foucault was to take his leave of the Countess during the next intermission; perhaps he could plead a headache. Of course, the Countess would be unhappy about that, but Foucault was certain he could restore himself to her good graces. Nicholas would meet him in the rose garden as soon as he could.

* * * * * * * *

Foucault fairly gloated as he picked his way down the wide, dark path towards the Countess' garden. Seducing Chevalier had been ridiculously easy, and he could, no doubt, be just as easily maneuvered into a compromising position. The blackmailer felt a pleasant warmth steal through him as he thought of Nicholas; not only was he wealthy, but he was very nice-looking, and a good deal younger than his usual conquests. As he waited near the tall evergreen hedge surrounding the garden, he decided he would allow a few liberties; perhaps a kiss or two. He closed his eyes and imagined how Nicholas would take him in his arms, and hold him close-

He was startled enough to let out a small shriek when he felt a hand on his arm. His eyes flew open and he drew a deep, steadying breath, then scolded Nicholas for frightening him. "I didn't hear you approach," Foucault said. "You mustn't sneak up on people, Nicholas. It's very rude." Nicholas hid his irritation at the uninvited use of his given name, and let it pass without comment. With a laugh, the vampire apologized for frightening him, and offered his arm. They walked down the path a short way, talking quietly.

Foucault had dropped his giddy mannerisms, and Nicholas remarked upon on it.
"Oh, that," Foucault made a dismissive motion with his hand. "It amuses the ladies."

"I like you better this way," Nicholas said, and gave Foucault's arm a gentle squeeze. As they passed though an opening in the hedge, the cool evening air was suddenly heavy with the fragrance of roses.

A bit further down the path, they came upon a low bench beside a small ornamental fishpond, and Nicholas suggested that they sit for awhile. It had been his intention to take Foucault as soon as they'd reached the seclusion of the rose garden; to kill him quickly, and be done with him. But he had sensed LaCroix nearby, and knowing the voyeuristic delight his master derived from watching him feed, Nicholas decided to give him the pleasure of watching him stalk as well.

Nicholas sat close beside Foucault, and slipped an arm about his waist. "What pretty clothes you've got on," he said, teasing his other hand up over the embroidered waistcoat. He began to unfasten one of the little diamond buttons, but Foucault drew away with an exclamation of protest. His plan had not included being groped; he had only wanted to lead Chevalier on a bit. He would have much preferred to have wormed his way into his confidence, or at least have a few incriminating love-notes in his possession before allowing such intimacies. But the caresses were so nice, so slow and gentle that Foucault had difficulty keeping his mind on his scheme. With an effort, he restrained Nicholas' hands, and told him to stop. He lowered his eyes, and turned away, pretending to be embarrassed. Nicholas placed a hand under
Foucault's chin, and gently turned his quarry's face back towards him.

"Don't be like that," he said softly. He took Foucault's hand for a moment, then toyed with the ends of his lace cravat. "If you didn't want me to make love to you, you would not have come here."

Nicholas continued his exploration of the pretty clothes, and the warm, surprisingly firm body beneath them. When he unfastened a second button, Foucault insisted that he stop at once.

"Why?" Nicholas whispered. "No one can see us."

"You mustn't ... I don't care for it," Foucault stammered.

"I don't believe you," Nicholas returned. "I think you like it." He put one hand on Foucault's knee, and inched his fingers up his leg. "In fact, I think you like it very much." He brought his face very close to Foucault's; close enough to feel his breath on his skin, then waited to see if he would yield or push him away again.

The minutes spun out, and Nicholas willingly played the blackmailer's little game, rather than mesmerizing him or taking him by force. It amused him that such a slut would feign modesty, and insist on being wooed. Nicholas coaxed and flattered him until Foucault leaned towards him, and closed his eyes. Nicholas took him in his arms, and kissed him full on the mouth. As Foucault began to reciprocate, he broke off the kiss, and untied the cravat, then loosened the collar of the lace-trimmed shirt. But when Nicholas touched the bare skin of his throat, Foucault shivered and pushed him away.
"Please don't, Nicholas. Your hands are so cold."

"Warm them for me," Nicholas said, slipping his hands between Foucault's legs.

The vampire's hunger simmered just below his mortal facade, and he let it take him as he nuzzled Foucault's throat. Nicholas kissed his neck gently at first, then slid his needle-sharp fangs into him, and sucked hard enough to leave a passion mark. Foucault felt no pain at all; he arched his neck, and sighed with ecstasy. Nicholas drank just enough to give a bit of heat to his cold, undead body, then withdrew, and lapped at the small punctures he'd made until they stopped bleeding. Warmer now, Nicholas gave Foucault a long, lingering kiss while he unfastened another button, then let his hand brush against the satin-covered mound in his lap. Foucault demurred, pretending to dislike this bold advance, but the brief contact had sent a shock of pleasure through him.

By the time Nicholas had the waistcoat completely unbuttoned, Foucault had abandoned all pretense of resistance; he was gasping for breath, and his pale cheeks were flushed with excitement. Nicholas worked Foucault's shirt free, and slipped his hands underneath the delicate material. The well-defined muscles of the lightly furred body were a pleasant surprise; he'd been expecting Foucault to be flabby and hairless. Nicholas moved so that he was slightly behind him, and reached between his thighs to caress his growing erection. "I never would have imagined you had such a thing hidden under your petticoats," he murmured. Nicholas hadn't intended the remark as a compliment, but Foucault took it as such, and spread his legs slightly.

"Would you like to touch it?" he whispered. For an answer, Nicholas unfastened the front of Foucault's breeches and reached inside. He nuzzled Foucault's throat again, and made ready to feed. He thought it would feel nice to bring his victim to orgasm while drinking from him. Nicholas tightened his grip, and began stroking him with a steady rhythm, moving the loose skin over the firm, thick shaft.

LaCroix had moved in for a closer look, and was now standing next to Foucault. He took no pains to conceal himself, for the mortal would not see him unless he willed it. LaCroix was delighted with his protégé for providing such stimulating entertainment, and communicated this through their blood-bond. Nicholas smiled up at his mentor as a thought came to him; perhaps LaCroix might like to see something a bit more salacious before he made the kill. Nicholas gave Foucault another kiss that left him breathless, then knelt in front of him, and laid his head in his lap. Teasingly, he reached inside the satin breeches again. But, when he felt a tug on his hair ribbon, he pulled away, and grabbed Foucault's hand.
"No!" he growled. He didn't want this poisonous little animal pawing at him. Swallowing his annoyance, he looked up with a sly smile, and said, "Not yet, I mean."

The interruption had cooled Nicholas' ardor a bit, and he discovered Foucault had wilted somewhat, as well. Nicholas would have abandoned the seduction, and killed him then and there, but he had caught a glimpse of LaCroix's face. The old vampire's eyes glittered with exhilaration; his mouth was slightly open; Nicholas could see the gleam of his fangs. That alone was enough to rekindle his arousal, but he had felt LaCroix's fever as well, and shivered with empathetic pleasure.
He buried his face in Foucault's lap once more, and concentrating on the musky scent of warm skin, and the hot swell pressing against his cheek, he let himself drift off into a sensual haze. With a deft touch, Nicholas kissed and licked Foucault back into eager readiness. Parting his lips, he held the rigid shaft with the curve of his tongue as he took it into his mouth, inch by slow inch, and gave his entire attention to pleasuring himself with the stiff, warm prick in his mouth.

This was the last thing Foucault had expected; if anyone was going to wind up in such a position that night, he had assumed it would have been himself. He gazed with rapt attention while Nicholas sucked him, and had a passing wish for a bit more light. Although the slow, deliberate teasing was immensely pleasurable, Foucault lacked the finesse to be able to truly appreciate it. Like the glutton who stuffs his face quickly in order to fill his belly, rather than taking the time to explore the sensual delights of a delicious meal; Foucault only wanted his release. He grabbed and pulled at Nicholas, to get him to move faster, but Nicholas grasped his hands, and forced him to hold still.

When Nicholas thought that he'd sufficiently demonstrated the nuances of a nice, slow cocksucking, he pulled Foucault to his feet, then sat back on his heels. But he didn't care for the way Foucault banged against him, thrusting into his mouth so fast and deep that he nearly gagged. It disturbed his concentration, and spoiled the mood. Foucault obviously didn't know the first thing about fucking. Nicholas surmised that all this little whore had ever done to satisfy his elderly lovers, was to maintain an erection long enough to shove it home. Frustrated with Foucault's ineptness, Nicholas pulled away, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand.

"Oh, Nicholas," Foucault gasped. "I was about to spend."

"Yes," Nicholas whispered. "I know." He moved back onto the bench, and teased Foucault until he squirmed and whimpered, and begged Nicholas to finish him.

"I want something from you first," Nicholas said in a low, soothing voice.

"Yes! Anything!" Foucault sobbed. "Please hurry, Nicholas."

Nicholas pulled him onto his lap, and lifted the dark curls from his neck. He drew Foucault's head onto his shoulder, and ran his tongue over the great blue vein that pulsed under the pale skin of his throat. Summoning his change, Nicholas pressed the tips of his lengthening fangs against Foucault's neck, as he tightened his grip on the wet, twitching shaft in his hand. Blood seeping from the tiny wounds ignited his hunger, and he bit deep and hard. Foucault gave a little cry, and clutched at his arm. "Not so rough, cher," he said unsteadily.

Although Nicholas was tempted to drain the blackmailer all at once, he didn't want to weaken him too soon. He drank slowly, savoring the hot, rich blood; thick with the taste of lust and greed. Foucault's consciousness began to slip into his; the merging sensation grew stronger as Nicholas drank deeper. At last, he felt Foucault shuddering against him. A white-hot jolt flared through his mind, and a luscious tingle raced through his body while a warm, slippery wetness spurted through his fingers.

As if from a great distance, he heard Foucault ask him for a handkerchief. Abruptly, Nicholas grabbed a fistful of his hair, and wrenched his head back. "Oh! Stop!" Foucault cried in alarm. "Nicholas, you're hurting me."

"And what were you planning to do to me?" Nicholas snarled, and gave Foucault a bone-jarring shake. "You cared little for the pain and destruction you would bring down upon my house!"

Horrified, Foucault tried to scramble away from the sulfur-eyed demon with gore dripping from its mouth. His scream of terror was cut short as the monster fell on him, and ripped his throat open. Nicholas was glad he had thought to reveal himself; fear had given a deliciously bitter tang to the blood. All too soon it was over. Foucault was dying; the frantic beating of his heart grew weaker and slower, then stopped altogether. Nicholas slumped against the body in his arms, and let the rapture of feeding take him.

By degrees, he came back to himself and his surroundings. Panting slightly, he leaned back, and pushed the body away. It landed on the grass with a soft thud. Looking up, he saw LaCroix gliding towards him with a smile playing about his lips, and a faint golden glow in his eyes. "Did you enjoy that, Nicholas?" he purred.

"LaCroix," Nicholas sighed blissfully. "It was glorious." Although his hunger had been abated, his arousal still burned hot and fierce. He wanted LaCroix to take him. Closing his eyes, he arched his neck, inviting his master to share the experience through his blood.

LaCroix felt the faint stirring of his own hunger as he leaned over Nicholas; the scent of blood on his mouth was intoxicating. He dipped his forefinger into the crimson smear on the soft lips, and tasted it. The old vampire closed his eyes, and held his breath as the shadow of Foucault's life force melted onto his tongue. "Glorious indeed," he whispered, then took Nicholas in his arms. He was warm from the kill; LaCroix could feel the heat of his body through their clothes. He covered Nicholas' throat with quick, teasing kisses, then bit down as hard as he could. Warm blood surged into his mouth, and an otherworldly elixir filled his senses; the essence of the mortal distilled with Nicholas' unique flavor. Nicholas tried to get his fangs into LaCroix to complete the circle, but LaCroix restrained him with a firm hand. He took one last, loving sip before he pulled away. "Not yet, Nicholas," he said. "First, you need to take care of your little playmate." With a nod he indicated the body sprawled at their feet.

In his excitement, Nicholas had completely forgotten about it. Grinning sheepishly at LaCroix, he knelt beside the body, and snapped its neck. He straightened the clothes, carefully fastening each little button, then tied the cravat back into place. Suddenly he was seized by a delightfully wicked idea. Keeping his head down to hide his smile, he plucked one of the diamond buttons from the waistcoat. "Nicholas!" LaCroix gasped, pretending to be shocked, "What do you think you're doing?"

"Despoiling the body," Nicholas said, as he yanked off another button, then another. "Perhaps you'd like to have a little souvenir." He held out his hand to show his master the sparkling treasure.

"No thank you," LaCroix said lightly. "I don't care for diamonds. I find them rather ostentatious."

With a shrug Nicholas tucked the buttons into his pocket, then looked about for a place to hide the body. LaCroix watched him for a few moments; amused rather than annoyed that Nicholas hadn't noticed the obvious hiding place a scant few hundred yards from where they stood. "The lake, Nicholas," the old vampire finally sighed. "Throw the body into the lake."

Nicholas blinked at the lake as though he'd never seen it before, then threw back his head and laughed. Quickly, he hoisted the corpse to his shoulder, then sprang into the air. He went to the center of the small lake where he thought the water might be at its deepest. With extreme care so as not to make a splash, he laid the body on the dark, rippling surface of the lake, then joined LaCroix on the little quay by the bank.

"'His clothes spread wide," Nicholas said softly. "'And mermaid-like a while, they bore him up.'"

"Surely, you don't mean to compare that wretched boy to the fair Ophelia?" LaCroix asked, his voice crackling with amusement.

"Not at all," Nicholas said. "The verse came to me just then. I meant nothing by it." He took the stolen buttons from his pocket, then picked one out and tried to skip it on the water. As it sank, he said, "'There's rosemary, that's for remembrance. Pray you love, remember.'" He took another and flipped it into the water, quoting more of the verse.
"'And there is pansies, that's for thoughts.'"

LaCroix smiled approvingly, but wondered at this strange behavior; Nicholas was not usually so mean-spirited. As if in answer to his master's thoughts, Nicholas said quietly, "He got only what he deserved, LaCroix. I'll not mourn him, nor regret what I've done." With that, he tossed the remaining buttons into the lake and turned to go.

LaCroix caught him in a gentle embrace, anxiously searching his face for any hint of bitterness or remorse. The fits of melancholy that oftentimes plagued Nicholas had grown less of late, but LaCroix had little hope that the shadow had been vanquished entirely. He was immensely relieved, therefore, to see a wild playfulness shining in the depths of his eyes.
"Earlier this evening, you wanted to ride," LaCroix said. "Are you still interested?"

"It's growing late," Nicholas said. "I don't think there will be enough time before the sun..." His voice trailed off, then he laughed softly when the meaning of the words became clear. "And will I ride, or be ridden?"

"Whichever would please you most, mon ange."

"Then I shall consider well, before I make my choice,” Nicholas whispered. He ran his tongue over LaCroix's ear, then gave him a sharp bite, drawing a gasp of pain from him. Laughing, he ducked under LaCroix's arm, and scuttled out of reach.
"Impertinent rascal!" LaCroix growled. "You'll answer for that!"

"You'll have to catch me first," Nicholas taunted. He pulled the ribbon from his hair, and held it out to LaCroix, as he slowly backed away.

Although LaCroix's face was set in a fierce scowl, he was filled with a joy that he couldn't quite hide. Nothing gave him greater pleasure than to see Nicholas in high spirits. He advanced towards his grinning protégé, and reached for the narrow strip of black velvet that dangled from his hand. The instant LaCroix grasped the end of the ribbon, Nicholas turned and fled. He sprinted back up the path a short way, then turned sharply and leapt over the hedge. After a moment, LaCroix rose into the air to peer over the hedge. He could see a dark figure running over the wide, moonlit lawn.
Silently, he dropped down onto the grass and gave chase.

* * * * * * * *

Nicholas stood on the little balcony outside LaCroix's rooms, scanning the sky for any sign of him. He knew that he could have been overtaken at any time, but LaCroix had purposely stayed his speed just enough to let him get away. Nicholas peered down into the garden, then across the lawn, then up at the sky once more; LaCroix was nowhere to be seen. Closing his eyes, he searched for his master the way he'd been taught long ago. Evidently, the link between them had been closed, for Nicholas could feel no trace of him. With a final glance at the sky, he turned to go into the house, and nearly collided with LaCroix.

The old vampire couldn't help chuckling at his startled expression. Although Nicholas usually didn't take well to being made sport of, the elder's gentle laughter eventually coaxed a smile from him. He stood very still when LaCroix slipped an arm about his waist, and drew him into an embrace. Expecting a kiss, Nicholas closed his eyes and inclined his head slightly. He yelped in surprise when LaCroix gave his backside a hard swat. "That's for biting me," LaCroix said with mock severity. Then he opened the doors that led from the balcony to his rooms, and motioned for Nicholas to precede him.

Nicholas behaved as though he was reluctant to turn his back on LaCroix, but in truth, he hadn't minded the swat at all. Sometimes their love play turned rough, even violent and he knew well the delights that hovered on the edge between pleasure and pain. With mounting excitement, he went through the glass-paneled doors into the dark room. He nearly fell backwards when LaCroix grabbed his collar and tore his coat, waistcoat and shirt off his back with one hard yank. The jet buttons popped off, skittering every which way across the floor. Nicholas began to chide LaCroix for his over-eagerness, but the sound of ripping cloth gave him pause. Turning, he saw LaCroix methodically shredding his coat. Nicholas watched with growing dismay as his waistcoat and shirt were torn into little pieces as well. He had forgotten his master's earlier displeasure at his disobedience; it had seemed such a small infraction. Every instinct told him to flee, but he knew if he took so much as one step, his punishment would be far more severe.

There was nothing in LaCroix's manner to suggest that he felt anything other than mild amusement. Nicholas was thoroughly confused and more than a little frightened; never before had LaCroix stripped him prior to punishing him. It was all he could do to keep from cringing when LaCroix grabbed hold of his waistband and tore his breeches off, then ripped his drawers from him as well.

"I'm afraid those are no longer fit to be worn," said LaCroix, scattering the remains of Nicholas' clothes on the floor. The old vampire cocked his head, and looked him over with a thoughtful expression, as if he was trying to come to an important decision.
"I think ..." he said slowly. "I think you should keep your boots on for now." Then he motioned for Nicholas to go to the other side of the bed, and told him to wait. Nicholas heard LaCroix's footsteps moving about the room; from the corner of his eye he caught the soft glow of a candle being lit. The glow grew brighter as LaCroix lit more candles, and soon the room was filled with light and the scent of beeswax.

Although he felt exposed and vulnerable, and wanted very much to cover himself, Nicholas stood absolutely still with his arms at his side, and his eyes on the floor. He knew what was expected of him. Involuntarily, he looked up when he heard a harsh swishing sound. With a sickening lurch of fear, he saw LaCroix limbering his arm with a riding crop in hand. Nicholas dropped his gaze before he could be caught looking. The minutes crawled by until the waiting became nearly unbearable. If LaCroix was going to punish him, Nicholas wished he would hurry and get on with it. Finally, he could stand no more, and looked directly at LaCroix.

Undressed except for his drawers, LaCroix stood before a long dressing table, examining the various jars and bottles clustered on its polished surface. Nicholas dared to hope that he wasn't going to be whipped after all, but a nagging fear still gripped him. LaCroix turned to smile at him, then took up a Venetian glass decanter; a recent gift from
Nicholas. He poured a bit of oil from the decanter into a small porcelain bowl, then brought the bowl over to the little stand beside the bed.

LaCroix drew his arm back to give Nicholas a flick with the riding crop, but stopped abruptly; his once-playful consort was staring wretchedly at the floor. "Why, Nicholas. What on earth is wrong with you?" he asked gently. When he received no answer, he bent to look into Nicholas' eyes. "Tell me," he insisted.

"I thought you were going to beat me," Nicholas stammered.

"Beat you? Whatever for?" LaCroix was genuinely perplexed. Indicating the riding crop he said, "I only thought you might like to have a bit of encouragement." His eyes filled with concern when he realized what had caused his child's distress. "Nicholas, look at me," he said quietly. LaCroix framed his son's face with his hands, and compelled him to lift his head. "I would never beat you for so trivial an offense." Pushing an errant lock of hair out of Nicholas' face, he added, "However, I don't like to be disobeyed."

Nicholas bit his lip, and looked away. "I can't promise it won't happen again," he said miserably.

"I know," LaCroix crooned soothingly. He had to do something to change Nicholas' mood, before he worked himself into a deeper despondency. LaCroix kissed the tip of his nose and said, "You don't like being told what to do."

"I try to do as you ask, LaCroix. But ... it's hard for me."

"It will be, Nicholas," LaCroix whispered, pulling him close. "Very hard indeed."

Nicholas shivered a little, for LaCroix's skin felt icy to his touch. His anxiety vanished entirely as he began to feel the sweet, slow burn of his change spreading through his body. He ran his tongue over his eyeteeth while they lengthened into fangs, then reached to unfasten the front LaCroix's undergarment. It slipped down, but snagged on his erection, and hung there like a coat on a peg. Laughing, Nicholas helped LaCroix out of his drawers, and tossed them over his shoulder.

LaCroix stepped back to admire him. Every detail of his astonishingly beautiful creation had been etched into his mind, yet he never grew tired of looking at him. His eyes traveled from the finely muscled chest, to the taut abdomen, to the smooth, ivory-colored phallus jutting from its nest of dark golden curls. LaCroix paused, and licked his lips at that tempting sight. Nicholas felt the heat of his master's gaze; felt the surety and comfort of being loved blending perfectly with the carnal delight of being an object of lust. He stepped closer, and with shaking fingers reached to touch his master, but LaCroix caught his hand.

"You did well tonight," he murmured, giving his wrist a gentle nip. "Did you like being watched?"

"Yes," Nicholas said breathlessly. "It made it more exciting somehow." Then he asked a question of his own, even though he knew what the answer would be. "Did you like watching me?"

"You know I did," LaCroix answered, then leaned close, and whispered in his ear. "You like having a cock in your mouth, don't you?"

"You know I do."

"So do I," said LaCroix, dropping to his knees.

Cool, moist lips brushed against his hot skin, and Nicholas let out his breath with a groan. He looked expectantly at LaCroix, who made a show of wetting his lips. He opened his mouth, but as Nicholas moved towards him, he turned his head aside. LaCroix leaned his cheek against his belly, and looked up at him with a teasing smile. His tongue darted out, and Nicholas drew in a sharp breath at the cold, quick touch. LaCroix opened his mouth again; Nicholas could feel his breath on his wet skin. He pressed his fingertips into the back of LaCroix's head to urge him closer, but he wouldn't budge.

"Say please, Nicholas."

"Please."

"Please, what?" LaCroix prompted. After all their years together, Nicholas was still so bashful that he had difficulty expressing his desires. It amused LaCroix to make him be explicit. "What do you want, Nicholas?" he asked.

"Please ..." Nicholas closed his eyes, and whispered, "Please suck me, LaCroix."

LaCroix obliged him at once, slowly laving the velvety skin of the hard shaft with his tongue, then took it into his mouth, and sucked very gently. Nicholas' deeply sensual nature enabled him to fully appreciate LaCroix's subtle applications; his master was an expert at nice, slow cocksucking.

Grasping Nicholas' calves, LaCroix slid his hands up over the soft leather boots, up along the backs of his thighs, and cupped his palms against the curve of his buttocks. He let Nicholas fuck his mouth until he felt him swelling with the hot, heavy fullness that signaled he was about to come, then eased back, and covered him with slow kisses as he got to his feet.

"Let me do that to you," Nicholas said fervently.

"I think you've had enough cocksucking for one night," LaCroix said, reaching for the bowl on the bedside stand. He watched Nicholas carefully to gauge his reaction, and when he smiled, LaCroix poured a bit of the oil into his hand. Nicholas moaned quietly as he closed his oily fingers around LaCroix's cock; the thought of that cold hard thing inside his body made him ache with wanting.

Solemnly, Nicholas lowered himself to his knees, looking at LaCroix over his shoulder when he felt the touch of the riding crop against the back of his thigh. LaCroix trailed the end of the little whip up along his spine, and gave him a playful tap on the top of his head. With a grin, Nicholas snatched the riding crop from him, and tossed it onto the bed. "You won't need that."

"Then you'll be tame and willing beneath me?" LaCroix asked, arching an eyebrow.

"Willing? Yes," Nicholas said in a voice suddenly thick with emotion.
"But not tame. Never tame."

LaCroix knelt behind him, and set the little bowl on the floor. "Try not to tip that over, Nicholas," he said mildly. Then he thought better of it, and moved it further away. He dipped his fingers into the oil, and liberally coated his prick, being sure to cover the broad head well, then slipped it between Nicholas' thighs. Nicholas pressed his knees together, and tensed his muscles, trapping LaCroix for a moment. Then LaCroix reached around Nicholas' waist, and tightened his slick fingers on him. Nicholas planted his hands on the floor, and rocked back and forth, sliding through the circle of LaCroix's fingers again and again. The chill of LaCroix's flesh no longer made him shiver with cold; now he trembled with desire. Gasping for breath, he put his head down, and spread his legs; inviting his sire to enter him.
LaCroix coated himself with more oil, then slowly, very gently began to slide the tip of his finger into Nicholas.

"No," Nicholas shook his head, and pushed LaCroix's hand away. Wondering how he possibly could have misread the signs, LaCroix said, "I'm sorry, Nicholas. I thought you wanted a fuck."

"I do," Nicholas gasped. "But I don't need ... I'm ready."

"Then let's get you nice and slippery, shall we?" said LaCroix, reaching for the oil.

LaCroix dropped a kiss between his shoulder blades, and helped him to his feet, then tumbled backwards onto the bed, and patted his thighs. "Get on," he said, not a lover's request, nor a master's demand, but a simple directive. Nicholas clambered up beside him, and straddled his waist. With a smile, LaCroix handed him the riding crop, and asked, "Wouldn't it be nice if you had your spurs on?"

"I could fetch them," Nicholas said hoarsely. "It wouldn't take but a moment."

"Let's save that for next time," LaCroix said, then lowered his voice. "Only ... think of it, Nicholas."

Nicholas did think of it. The heels of his boots dug into him with a sweet little hint of pain. He imagined the sharper bite of the metal rowels, and shuddered with delight. Nicholas captured LaCroix's mouth in a fierce kiss before getting to his knees. Gritting his teeth, he bore down, slowly spitting himself until he came to rest on LaCroix's thighs. The riding crop, forgotten for the moment, was still clenched in his fist. At first, Nicholas moved slowly, cautiously, raising and lowering himself by degrees. But as he relaxed, he increased his pace, and rode LaCroix light and quick.

They strained together until the hunger burned along their nerves again. Pulling Nicholas roughly to his chest, LaCroix pushed his head to one side to expose his jugular, then struck with all his strength. This time, he allowed Nicholas to feed from him as well, to experience the totality of vampiric consummation. The sensuality of drinking his master's blood filled Nicholas entirely, and calmed his hunger. No longer in the thrall of blood lust, he wanted only to prolong the luxurious anticipation. But when he tasted his own blood in LaCroix's, the gore-drenched coupling quickly overwhelmed his senses. He moved against LaCroix with renewed violence, drinking deeper, more greedily, until, as a sphere of liquid will lose its surface tension with one more drop, the exquisite knot of tension broke all at once. LaCroix felt the echo of the breaking through their blood-bond, and let it wash over him. When Nicholas finally collapsed on top of him, spent and shivering, LaCroix rolled him over onto his back.

Completely sated, Nicholas gazed up at him, and whispered, "That was so good, Lucien."
A flutter of tenderness touched LaCroix's heart, for Nicholas rarely called him by his first name, even during moments of passion. LaCroix combed his fingers through Nicholas' damp hair while he watched the glow fade from the young vampire's heavy-lidded eyes. Moving gently against him, LaCroix leaned down to lick the rivulets of blood from his throat. When Nicholas felt LaCroix's tongue rasping against his neck, he cried out, and arched his back; he was ready again.

It never failed to amaze LaCroix how responsive Nicholas was. With a soft growl, LaCroix sunk his fangs into him once more. He shoved his hands underneath his warm, pliant body, and lifted him slightly, then slammed against him with swift, savage lunges. Nicholas hooked his legs around him, and dug the heels of his boots into him. The pain was negligible, but LaCroix let himself imagine that Nicholas wore spurs, and that each kick drew blood. It brought his pleasure to unbearable peaks with shocking suddenness.

Breathing heavily, LaCroix rolled off of Nicholas, then reached over to cup his chin, and drew his thumb across his lips; his special gesture of affection. Only then did he notice that Nicholas still held the riding crop in his hand. With a bemused smile, LaCroix took the whip from him, and tossed it in the general direction of the bedside table. He heard it clatter to the floor. Sleepily, he asked Nicholas if he would be so good as to pick it up before he put out the candles.

"And take those boots off," he added. Nicholas snuffed out the candles, then sat on the edge of the bed, and tugged at one boot, then the other. He flopped back onto the pillows. "I can't get them off," he muttered. "They're stuck."

"Don't be ridiculous," LaCroix sighed, but helped him take off his boots. Nicholas peeled off his stockings, then dove under the blankets. Wide awake, and feeling playful again, he pinched and poked and tickled LaCroix, until he was told to lie still, or sleep in his own room. Nicholas settled down at once.

LaCroix was starting to drift off to sleep when he heard Nicholas ask, "What is Janette's prize to be?"

"Prize?" LaCroix echoed, stifling a yawn.

Nicholas rose up on one elbow. "You said you'd give a special treat to whichever of us won your game."

"Oh, yes. So I did."

"You haven't got anything for her," Nicholas said accusingly.

"I haven't got anything ... yet," LaCroix said, rather sharply. "I wanted to see which of you would win." In a gentler tone, he continued. "What do you think she'd like?"

"She might like *this*," Nicholas said, sliding his hand over LaCroix's sticky loins to give him a gentle squeeze.

"Oh, Nicholas," LaCroix laughed. "She can have *that* anytime. I was thinking of something a bit more tangible. A keepsake, if you will."

"Something she could hold on to."

"Exactly. Something she could hold on to," LaCroix repeated musingly, then slow smile spread across his face. "Nicholas, you've given me a marvelous idea."

***

Janette raised her eyes to LaCroix's face, and took the proffered box with obvious pleasure. She adored receiving presents. "What is this?" she smiled.

"I promised you a special treat," he said. "At the Countess' party."

"Oh, yes. Now I remember."

Janette's eyes flew open when she lifted the lid. Her special treat had been wrought with skill in life-like detail. Uttering an exclamation of delight she touched the smooth, hard object, lovingly drawing her fingertips over it before closing the box.
"Why, LaCroix," she said huskily. "I hardly know what to say."

"I believe 'Thank you' is customary," LaCroix replied with a lecherous smile.

<FIN>