The Tides of Change

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Chapter One
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Lacroix frowned down at the bloodwine he held, the deep red liquid catching the flashing nightclub lights. He'd felt . . . off all night. If he didn't know better, he'd would be willing to lay blame for this feeling on being watched -- that's what it felt like. He shook off the feeling, or rather he attempted to. His mind told him, quite rightly he assured himself, that it was simply an after affect of actually *being* watched. Divia had watched him long before she'd made her presence so keenly felt -- and he'd repeatedly felt that unnerving presence hovering just beyond the range of full perception, unable to tell mohan han the simple fact of presence. His cold heart, on the other hand, told him something entirely different.

//Let go your mortal bonds, General.//

//Let go your mortal bonds, Nicholas.//

As Divia had told him, he had told Nicholas. Their mortal lives must be forgotten, must, of necessity, be relegated to the past where they belonged.

Unfortunately, one piece of *his* mortality, of his 'mortal bonds', had followed him into the darkness. His daughter, Divia, his eternal master. Well, not so eternal after all. She was dead, truly dead, and it was by his design, if not his actual hand.

His hand trembled briefly as he remembered the first time he'd tried to destroy her, -- had thought he *had* -- the th sth surface of the bloodwine shattering into tiny ripples as it reflected his involuntary movement. Setting the glass down abruptly, he signalled Miklos, the bartender, to take it away. Even as . . . unnerved as he currently was, he wo't f't forget that cardinal rule -- don't give the mortal patrons even the slightest chance of picking up the wrong glass.

He sighed, finally giving in to the seemingly inevitable trip down memory lane.

She had been the sole bright spot in his mortal existence, the one thing in life he truly cherished -- other than power, of course. From the moment she'd saved his life the night Mt. Vesuvius blew, things between them had changed. She became the one with power, he the follower, learning at her hand -- though she hadn't been a vampire much longer than him at that point.

She'd been less than a year old, vampirically speaking, when she'd brought him across, and to this day, he didn't know how she'd done it -- though he was grateful beyond mere words that she had. Perhaps it had been the last of *her* mortal bonds, her mortal ties to him that let her succeed so soon in her new life. Perhaps, on that night so full of terror, with its fleeing servants and noblemen alike, she had simply gorged herself before coming to him.

He didn't know. He hadn't asked, then -- hadn't known enough *tok --k -- and he certainly no longer had that option. It was something that would forever remain a mystery.

As grateful as he had been -- and still was -- he would have given her almost anything she'd wanted. He would have done most anything she'd asked. He had, in fact, followed her requests and demands many times. Unfortunately, she began to want the one thing he couldn't, wouldn't, give her.

He shuddered. Now, nearly 2,000 years later, the idea still repulsed him. It was the single mortal moral he taken with him into the darkness. Barely 13 years old when she been brought across, she had been his mortal daughter, his vampiric mother and companion, but she had wanted more. She had wanted it all. She had wanted to be his lover.

He couldn't do it. The thought of it horrified him then, even more than now, so far removed from the incident. He had protested. She hadn't wanted to take no for an answer. She wasn't willing to.

So, he had killed her. He'd cut off her head, and placed her in the same tomb as *her* master -- the master *she'd* destroyed for trying to control her. He'd sealed her in with the strongest religion symbol of their time and left her there. For nearly two millenia he'd considered her dead.

Lacroix let out a humorless chuckle as he tried to turn his attention to the patrons of his nightclub. The irony of the entire situation did not escape him. Divia had killed mas master because he had wanted to control her utterly, control and shape her development in his image.

He had killed *her* for the very same reason -- her rebirth notwithstanding -- and now she was truly dead.

Nicholas had attempted -- very nearly succeeding -- to kill *him* for the very same thing. He wondered, if one day, Nicholas would face the situation.

He frowned briefly. Despite all the admonishments he'd given Nicholas over the centuries about wishful thinking, regret, remorse, and all like emotions, he couldn't help but wonder now. How would things be different if he'd found another way to deal with the demands he wouldn't obey. If he hadn't tried to kill her, what would life be like now?

Would she have grown to accept the limitations he placed on their relationship? Would she have *still* been the angry, denied child he had so recently confronted? Would they have been able to live in harmony or would he have eventually run -- as Nicholas had?

Rising abruptly, suddenly angry at the turn his thoughts had taken, he headed for the back door of The Raven without a single word to anyone. It was bad enough that recent events had led him down a path he considered foolish -- memory lane, indeed! Wishing things were different was a fools paradise, one that lead vampires to their destruction. But, now, he was beginning to compare himself to Nicholas, *NICHOLAS*.

He shuddered.

As much as he loved his son -- some would say obsessed with, he knew -- the thought of being like him made him slightly nauseated.

The moment the heavy door closed behind him, Lacroix took the barest of moments to check around him for mortal presence before lifting into the air at vampiric speeds. Flight had always felt curiously freeing to him, and that held true now. Pushing himself to the limits of his abilities, allowed him to lay his thoughts, temporarily, to rest.

Flying without really thinking about where he was going, Lacroix found himself landing on the roof of his son's abode before he realized where he was. He frowned, almost taking off again immediately. He wasn't entirely certain he wanted to face Nicholas tonight. Though there seemed to be a growing accord between them since the night of Divia's death, a fact he relished, he wasn't sure he could maintain his own temper enough tonight to foster the tentative nature of their . . . truce.

It took so little to set Nicholas off. Of course, he supposed the same could be said of him.

No, he thought, tonight was not the night. He, strangely enough, wasn't in the mood for an argument. He was about to leave when a voice stopped him.

"Lacroix, what are you--" Nicholas cut himself off abruptly. "Would you like to come in," he asked instead.

"Yes, I would . . . like that," Lacroix replied urbanely, before his common sense could assert itself. As much as he knew this probably would end the same way most of their meetings did, he was in the mood for company. If they ended up arguing again, so be it. That was good, too.

Nicholas spun around and headed for the door, ignoring the skylight which was the entrance Lacroix usually preferred. In the interests of civility, he decided, for once, to play along. He followed sedately behind his son.

As they disappeared inside the old building, neither of them saw the silent figure step out of the shadows.

She narrowed her eyes thoughtfully. Earlier, she had been certain her prey had sensed her. He had been so . . . uneasy. She had gotten just a little too close, she knew, but he was such a fascinating creature, and she could see why Divia had been obsessed with him. He radiated so much power, but at the same time gave off such and air of . . . loneliness. He was, much as she suspected he would coldly deny it, a wounded soul.

She suspected he would deny even having a soul, but she knew better. She had met the soulless ones, and Lacroix and his like were not them. It was tempting to delay the contingency vengeance that Divia had wished for, just long enough to take the measure of the man beneath the vampire, to see if she could actually *reach* that man.

She sighed. No, that would not be the thing. She was new to the vengeance fold, and as such was on a sort of probation. She didn't want to do anything to mess up her new station in life. It was so much better than where she'd been before. It was a new thing -- the probation -- thanks, in part, she had heard, to one Anyanka.

The story was whispered between the older demons, so she had heard bits and pieces, but they always seemed to clam up when the younger converts appeared. Consequently, she didn't know the whole story. She wanted to, however; and hoped that this . . . unusual assignment just might get her noticed.

How often were even vengeance demons called to wish vampires into different dimensions? Not 'realities' mind you; that happened quite frequently. One, 'I wish so and so had never. . . .' or 'I wish he turned the other way that day.' and you had an entirely new reality, one in which neither vengeance demon, nor wisher, could prejudge just what would be different.

She grinned. She *would* wait, however; the outcome of the meeting between father and son -- whichever way the wind blew -- would make this final vengeance so much sweeter.

If their final words were harsh, or in their final moments together they came to blows it would weigh heavily on 'the judged'. If, on the other hand, this meeting furthered their flagging relationship, all the better. Lucien Lacroix would regret the eternal loss ever so much more.

Yes, she would wait. She would wait until he readied himself for a day's slumber. She would wait until The Raven was cold and silent, and *he* all alone. It was then, and only then, she would act.

She settled herself down to wait, her thoughts turning back to the day she had heard the heartbreaking soul-cry of the child vampire. She had responded immediately. She could do nothing else. Of course, at first, she hadn't realized she was dealing with a vampire. She'd never met this sort before.


```

"Hello," she called out, the young child in front of her seething with a powerful mix of rage and despair.

The blonde girl whirled around, much faster than she expected to be possible.

Her eyes widened as she took in the sharp fangs that distended from beneath her upper lip, the bright, golden color of her other-worldly eyes. Before she could say another word, the vampire leapt forward, twirled her around, and sank those razor sharp fangs into the side of her neck.

She hadn't gotten out so much as a scream before the child as quickly leapt away.

"What *are* you?" she asked curiously, her eyes losing the gold, her fangs receding until the vengeance demon could no longer see them.

"I am a demon," she replied simply, "a demon who grants wishes."

"Really?" the girl replied, intrigue lighting her eyes.

She nodded. "The rage of your pain burst through the dimensional walls. I came to you in answer."

```

It was there the 'fun' had begun. She had not *liked* Divia, had, in fact, thought the brat nothing but a self-centered she-cat that probably deserved everything she'd gotten. But it wasn't her place to decide that. And while Divia was all that, and more, the child vampire had learned her lessons well.

She wanted to take her own vengeance, but knew, there was always the possibility of failure. She had made a wish, a strange wish, a wish that wouldn't be enacted unless she died before she could complete her own brand of vengeance.


TBC