The Tides of Change

**********
Chapter Four
**********

Lacroix faded back into the shadows, absently dropping the mortal's body as he watched the boy. Lacroix was confused, and he didn't like it. Confusion was something he didn't often feel. After surviving for nearly 2 millenia, not much surprised him, let alone confused him.

The boy, Xander, had seemed to have potential. He had a certain . . . spark, a certain . . . daring in the face of danger that drew Lacroix like a moth to a flame. It was a foolhardy bravery that didn't deny the danger, but rather embraced it, danced with it, courted its anger even as he taunted it, daring it to do its worst. The boy had done just that with him.

He'd fought, struggled valiantly, but when he'd realized there was no escape, he hadn't wilted, he hadn't given up; he'd changed tactics, taunting his killer to do his worst. The words 'I'll see you in hell,' flitted through Lacroix' thoughts, and he chuckled. He could see the boy throwing those very words at him.

And the *loyalty*; as he'd drank from the boy, Lacroix had nearly drowned in the heady feeling of it. The mere thought of it all turned toward him was beyond intoxicating. It was glorious.

That wasn't what confused him. What did, was the fact that, despite the boys undeniable charms, he was quite obviously delusional. His blood was filled with impossible images, preposterous memories. Fighting demons, indeed, Lacroix thought with disappointed disdain -- though he did have to admit, the boy's imagination was *wild*, the sheer variety of opponents his insane mind invented was truly impressive.

But even more than that, what *really* had him unsure of how to proceed was how cleared headed the boy was. Frightened, insane, and about to die, the boy's thoughts had been pure and focused, his only concerns about what his friends would think and feel.

**Such utter loyalty!**

That deserved respect, praise, reward. **And what better reward than eternal life,** Lacroix thought. sighsighed. Unfortunately, crazies did *not* make good vampires. They had no sense of restraint -- no sense for even the need for it, really -- which always led them to discovery sooner, rather than later.

Shaking his head, Lacroix pulled out a small knife, one he kept on himself at nearly all times. It payed to be extra careful in these modern times of high tech forensics. Kneeling down, he brought the knife slashing across the dark haired mortal's throat, neatly slicing through the marks his fangs had left.

Not knowing tareaarea, nor the good places to hide a body -- permanently -- Lacroix sliced twice more, making absolutely certain no trace remained of how she'd *really* lost her life's blood.

**No sense giving a good coroner something to be suspicious of,** he thought as he jerked the body up and unceremoniously dropped it into the alley's dumpster. It would be just a matter of time before the body was found, he knew, but without anything remotely 'vampire' about the kill remaining, he didn't really care. This wasn't his home to need e coe concerned with local mortal's rising fear.

Fastidiously double checking to make sure he hadn't stained his clothing with her, or the boy's, blood -- or anything *else* that he might have brushed up against in this distasteful alley, Lacroix strode toward The Bronze. It was time to make some phone calls.

**

Beyond livid, Lacroix whipped into the alley, barely taking the time to make sure he was completely alone before lifting into the air. Once there, he pressed himself as fast as his abilities let him. He seethed. Not a single one of his phone calls had produced results. The numbers themselves hadn't even been *valid*!

Oh, he corrected snidely, one had; Aristotle's number had actually rung through -- to an *Italian* pizzeria. The irony was completely lost on the irate vampire. All he could see was that he was, indeed, completely alone, completely cut off -- *just* as *SHE* had predicted. The call to Aristotle had been a last resort, made after everything else he'd tried had failed miserably.

Even his credit cards hadn't registered as real.

Less than an hour's worth of flying saw Lacroix through the worst of his rage, leaving him exhausted, and filled to the brim with the bitter taste of fear, something *else* he hadn't truly felt in more centuries than he cared to recall.

Letting himself drift to the ground, he was hyper aware of the dangers of pushing himself past exhaustion -- as he hadn't been aware in almost a full century. He berated himself for having let himself become accustomed to the conveniences of modern day living, for becoming used to being able to pick up a phone, and be assured of a steady supply of quality blood he didn't have to hunt for.

It wasn't that he couldn't hunt; he'd already proved that. It was that it no longer appealed to him as a way to live on a nightly basis. He'd grown accustomed to going hunting when the mood struck, to being able to back off the hunt if circumstances warranted it -- without worrying about going hungry. He *liked* not having to hunt when he was tired, or otherwise distracted. It was one of the best advantages of having survived long enough to put up with irritations of dealing with the bad parts of improving technology.

With a heart-felt sigh, he shook himself out of his thoughts, and took stock of his surroundings. He wasn't overly pleased with what he saw. The neighborhothouthough it had obviously begun life as home to the rich, was now rundown and unkempt. There wasn't a soul in sight, or range of his senses.

He looked up as he neared the corner, reading at a glance the street names. Crawford and 14th. Arbitrarily picking a direction, he set off down Crawford, knowing he had to find shelter before daybreak, and that he had less than an hour left to do so. If worse came to worst, he could always bury himself beneath the dirt and leaves, but it most *certainly* wouldn't be his preferred method of passing the day.

Several blocks of traveling the slow, *mortal* way, had Lacroix frowning, his irritation growing, once again outpacing that nagging sense of fear he couldn't quite shake. He didn't have time to wander aimlessly, or he really *would* be burying himself for the day. He heartily wished he dared expend his remaining reserves in flight. Unfortunately, until he figured out where, exactly, he was, he didn't dare exhaust himself. He had absolutely no clue as to the . . . etiquette that would be required of him here, nor how often he could safely hunt -- and yes, he definitely realized he wasn't in 'Kansas' anymore. More than that, however; he didn't. He didn't even know if bottled blood was available on a regular basis.

Cautiously approaching the rundown mansion, Lacroix listened closely, but heard no sounds of inhabitants -- legal or otherwise -- nor could he see any signs of them. It took him only a matter of a few more minutes to discern that the mansion was, indeed, abandoned. The large, broken front window that was only partially boarded up, and the fall leaves and debris scattered across the floor, were dead giveaways.

He entered with a sense of relief. It wasn't up to his usual standards, but it could be made so. The place, while so obviously neglected, was in reasonable shape, and what damage was present, would not be too difficult to have repaired -- assuming he could access, or barring that rebuild, his funds.

Having secured himself a reasonably safe shelter for the day, Lacroix began to relax -- not completely by any means, but enough that his thoughts began to stray. The images he'd seen through Xander's blood began replaying through his mind, and he was no longer so certain that the young man *was* insane.

*She* had claimed to be a demon, and had certainly looked the part. He shuddered. Now, he was . . . *somewhere*, where nothing was as it should be. What was one more step to believing that, perhaps, demons really did exist, and that Xander had fought them?

Lacroix shook his head, wishing, now, that he'd followed the boy, but, no matter, it should not really be all that difficult to find him again. This town, strange as it was, did not appear to be very large. That settled, he felt slightly better about his current circumstances, and went in search of a windowless room in which to spend the day. Come nightfall, he had much to do. He just hoped the boy had made it home okay.

On the other side of town, Xander stumbled into his apartment, closing the door behind him with exaggerated care. More certain than ever that someone had spiked his drink, he blinked, trying to bring the fuzzy shapes around him into focus. He giggled as he swayed, lightheaded and woozy. **No pun intended!** He shook himself, regretting it instantly as the room spun dangerously around him.

"Okay, damn it! Hold STILL!" Closing his eyes, he leaned heavily against the door, hoping maybe his weight would make the room stop *moving*.

After several long moments, Xander dared open his eyes again. He was immediately thankful that *finally* the room was behaving itself, and was as unmoving as it was supposed to be. Carefully pushing himself off the door, he locked it, and, one slow step at a time, crossed to his room. He didn't even bother undressing as he fell into bed. He would worry about getting clean when he woke up. Right now he just wanted to slee---


TBC