Humanitas
by Mojave Dragonfly

Second story in the Seven Deadly Sins series

Humanitas—Kindness, one of the seven holy virtues

The door opened at Vicki's knock, and there stood Fitzroy regarding them levelly. He was dressed in a simple black shirt and trousers, the lack of other finery or accessories making him look very young. But the pain behind his semi-hostile gaze was ancient. This won't go well, Mike thought.

"Is this an official visit?" Fitzroy asked Mike.

Vicki said nothing, but shifted her weight, letting Mike answer. "No," Mike said firmly.

No one said anything further. Fitzroy waited, his suspicious expression unchanged.

Finally Vicki asked, "Can we come in?"

Fitzroy looked at her, his expression not softening. It was a long few seconds before he released the door, letting it drift open, and withdrew a step. Mike followed Vicki in.

Mike took in the penthouse apartment again, with its huge windows overlooking the city, the modern but sparse furniture, and the expensive floor coverings and artwork. The effect was like a museum, where open spaces are used to lend significance to the pieces. Fitzroy stood in one open space, belonging in this gallery. He could have been a sculpture of wronged innocence. Mike gave himself an inward shake. Wronged Fitzroy certainly was, but Mike refused to believe him a complete innocent.

Their host said nothing, not even offering them a seat. Mike took one anyway; he was still too light-headed from blood loss to stand for long without wavering. Fitzroy regarded him a little too keenly as he sat.

Vicki licked her lips and began. "Henry, I know we're probably the last people you want to see right now, but we have to talk." She swallowed, watching his reaction. "We have some things you need to know, and there are still some things Mike wants to know, and—I have to know you're all right."

Mike tensed as Fitzroy fixed him with a glare. "I am not all right. We are not all right. And Celucci doesn't have a right to know anything about me," he said and turned away, toward the windows.

"Henry," Vicki squared her shoulders. "We saw Delphine."

Fitzroy whirled back around, wide-eyed. He looked like a completely different man; hope and apprehension mixed with keen interest. Suspicion momentarily abandoned. "What?" he gasped. "Delphine?"

"I'm sorry, she's dead," Vicki blurted out before any more hope could show on Fitzroy's face. Mike watched as Fitzroy struggled to swallow that information, his gaze still fixed on Vicki's face. He managed to push the hope away, leaving only the dread

"What happened?" he asked, sounding as wretched as had any of the dozens of parents/spouses/lovers Mike had had to inform of a loved one's death.

"We were looking for you, following Mendoza's trail and we found her in chains in a church basement."

Henry winced and nodded slightly, still gazing intently at Vicki. Clearly this information didn't surprise him. "Dead?" he asked, softly.

"No, she was alive." Vicki admitted. Fitzroy's mobile features changed again, into something like shock. "We, um," Vicki looked down. Fitzroy moved away from the window, to stand about a meter in front of her. "He had abandoned her and she was starving and I couldn't see how to get her free from the chains, so I fed her some of my blood..." Vicki spoke in a rush. Fitzroy blinked. "The windows were covered up but he had some mechanical device that suddenly uncovered them and it was daylight."

This, Fitzroy had not expected. His mouth dropped open in horror. Mike shivered a little, too, remembering the horrible burning death he'd seen the woman endure. "No," Fitzroy cried, a cry of anguish. His hands flew up to cover his face but he ripped them down again into fists, his features contorted in grief. "Delphine!"

"I'm sorry," Vicki said, recoiling.

Fitzroy staggered two steps toward Mike like he'd just taken a dagger in the chest. He stopped at the glass coffee table that stood between them, and raising one fist and crying, "I killed him too quick," he brought his fist down at an alarming rate and shattered the table.

Mike leaped from his chair, but then nearly fell over at the sudden activity and had to grip the back of the chair for support. When his vision cleared, he saw Fitzroy collapsed on a long armless couch, Vicki approaching him cautiously. Abruptly Fitzroy sat up and whirled toward her, reached out for her hands and pulled her into a seated position beside him. In one hand he held her left, bandaged hand. She looked startled, but not alarmed. "This is where you fed her?" Fitzroy asked.

Vicki nodded, eyes owlish behind her glasses. Fitzroy looked down at her bandage, then slowly bent his head to her palm, eyes closed. Vicki tensed, but allowed the action, her gaze flicking to Mike. Fitzroy pressed his mouth against the bandage, but Mike couldn't see that he did anything further. He realized with a start that the man wasn't feeding; it was a kiss. When he raised his head from her palm, he pressed her hand against his heart, his eyes still closed, like some Harlequin lover or soap opera melodrama—thing. Or, Mike thought uncertainly, like a Tudor prince? Hell, who knew.

Fitzroy returned Vicki's hand to her solemnly and stood looking out his windows again.

"This is what you came to tell me?" he asked in a tired tone of voice.

"Well, yes, mostly. I guess," Vicki said. Mike might ordinarily have enjoyed seeing Vicki squirm, but he knew what was coming next.

"I still have some questions," Mike said quietly, braced for the storm.

Fitzroy's turn was slow and menacing. "Questions," he yelled, pacing toward Mike, but stopped by a pool of shattered glass. "It was your questions that started this. You have no right." His voice shook with anger. "How dare you. And after what you did. You betrayed me. You turned me over to that lunatic. You put that thing in my heart." Here Fitzroy's hand went to his chest as if the pain were still there. "He starved me, he bled me, he cut me, he burned me with a blowtorch." Mike saw Vicki gasp. "He turned me into..." Fitzroy's voice caught and he stopped, took a shuddering breath, and finished through clenched teeth. "I don't owe you any explanations."

Mike took his own deep breath, wishing he didn't feel so weak as he signed his death warrant. "But I have to have them anyway," he said.

There was a long moment of silence as Fitzroy stared at him through narrowed eyes. "What?" he asked finally, as if he were truly uncomprehending.

Mike explained, knowing full well it would be meaningless to the man. "I have to know you are not a threat to the citizens of this city. Please just explain things to me."

Mike saw Vicki cast her eyes heavenward. When he'd gotten his own thoughts together enough to explain it to her, she'd called him a host of synonyms for "moron," but she'd understood. She was still a cop at heart.

Still looking bemused, like a king who can't quite believe his servant has defied him, Fitzroy said, "I thought this wasn't an official visit."

Mike gripped the back of the chair harder. "If it were, I'd be arresting you for the murder I know you did commit."

"Except there's no body," Vicki put in.

"Except there's no body," Mike agreed. "I was hoping you could explain that, too. Look," he hated that his voice shook, but he pressed on, "I know how impossible it would be for the justice system to deal with you. I have no illusions there. And I can see how things are not so cut and dried for you. But this is...about me. I can't..." Mike faltered before the intensity of the vampire's gaze, but pulled himself together. "Whatever happens, I can't go on like everything's normal. I have to have some reassurance that you won't...kill. Because of who I am, of what I do."

"Or else what?" Fitzroy asked.

"I don't know," Mike looked down, his heart pounding and his vision graying. He levered himself around to the front of the chair and sank heavily into it. "But whatever I try will have due process. I will never trust someone like Mendoza again. I can't believe I gave you to him. I can't believe what he did to you." The memory of Delphine burning came again. "No one deserves that," he almost whispered.

"Due process?" Fitzroy asked, almost sounding amused.

Mike shrugged. "You may have to kill me," he said, looking at the shattered glass.

"Mike," Vicki breathed.

"Or you could do me a kindness and explain to me why I shouldn't be concerned about you. The extent to which you are a danger and aren't. You don't owe it to me. But I have to ask. I have to."

Fitzroy shook his head. "I am not explaining anything to you. You're as crazy as Javier." He gave Vicki an accusing glare.

"This isn't an ambush, Henry. It's not an unreasonable request," she said.

"It isn't?" he sneered. "You want me to explain to you how I am not the monster you saw me become." Fitzroy ran a shaking hand over his face. "What he turned me into...I could have killed you. I could have killed Celucci. So now you want a confession, too? I did kill Mendoza. You want to know what happened to his body? It turned to the dust it should have been for centuries. Marie...I made her like me, a Godless, damned monster." Fitzroy's rant took on a hysterical edge. Mike didn't know who Marie was, but if Fitzroy was pulling in other tragedies, other deaths, this started to sound a lot like something Mike was well familiar with—trauma. How many survivors of atrocities had Mike and his fellow police officers had to gentle and ease until the counselors could arrive? What therapy was available for Fitzroy?

"Wait," Vicki cried, in command voice. "Wait a minute. Is that what you think I saw?" She stood and positioned herself between the two men, facing Fitzroy. "You think I saw a monster?"

Fitzroy quieted, watching her uneasily.

"You—you begged Mendoza to let me go. He had me there to feed you, and you begged him to let me go. You confessed to things—I don't understand what things, but you wouldn't confess them until he threatened me. Then you did whatever harm to yourself you wouldn't let him do to you. For me. When you were starving. That's what I saw. You could have killed me, but you wouldn't have. You know how I know? Because you didn't kill Mike when you could have. Yeah, I know I was yelling at you to stop, but there wasn't a damn thing I could have done to stop you. You stopped you." Vicki had tears running down her face, but her voice was strong and angry.

Fitzroy gazed at her, enthralled.

"You think I saw a monster?" Now her voice did catch, in amazement, on the final word. "That is not what I saw. I saw you hanging on to humanity with every bit of strength you had. Under the most horrible conditions. And Marie?" Fitzroy started, slightly. "You know what I heard in that story? You know what she said to Javier and what he did to her because you went back. She wasn't your lover or even your friend. She was your jailer. You were in the hands of the God damned Spanish Inquisition and you went back after getting free. For her. Good God, where does that come from? It doesn't come from any monster."

She paused for a breath. "You told me, when we were hunting the Wendigo, you told me that you weren't human. But I don't believe you. I've never seen anyone fight so hard for their humanity. It was the bravest thing I've ever seen and I am not letting you throw it away." She sniffed, hard, and wiped an eye with the back of her hand. "Now calm down and tell Mike what he needs to know. Tell us the truth, even if it's ugly. I don't think we'll be surprised by it."

Mike watched, also enthralled. He had never heard Vicki say anything like this, and knew it had to have cost her a lot to do it. Fitzroy and Vicki stood an arms length apart, not very different in height, staring hard at each other. The next logical thing was for them to fall into each other's arms. With an odd detachment, Mike waited for it to happen.

It didn't. With only slightly faster than normal speed, Fitzroy left the room. Vicki gulped and turned toward Mike, fishing in her purse. "I so need a Kleenex," she said.

Mike dug in his pants pocket and produced his handkerchief. He held it out.

"Thanks," Vicki said.

"Jesus, Vic."

Vicki shook her head as she blew her nose. "Don't, Mike. And if you ever bring this up again, I'll kill you myself."

"Right."

Fitzroy was gone a long time. Vicki fidgeted, but Mike was content to just sit and see what happened. Funny how blood loss seemed to make him complacent. But it also gave him hot and cold flashes, moments of fuzzy vision and tingling in his fingers. Occasionally his heart rate or breathing would suddenly increase. Even sitting down he was growing uncomfortable. Finally he leaned forward and put his head on his knees.

"Mike?" Vicki asked.

"M'okay," he said. "Just want a little more blood in the head area."

When Vicki didn't say anything and Mike heard a slight noise he looked up. Damn, Fitzroy had to pick that moment to come back in the room. He stood gazing at Mike, holding in one hand—a whisk broom? Mike sat up. Fitzroy knelt down where the coffee table had been and swept stray glass shards onto the silk oriental rug where most of the pieces already were. Then he gathered the sides of the rug.

"Is the rug ruined?" Vicki asked.

"It has to go anyway," Fitzroy said. "It's red." He lifted the carpet easily and left the room again.

Red? Mike and Vicki looked at each other. Vicki shrugged.

Mike took some deep breaths, hoping to keep what blood he had well oxygenated. He glanced around again. Most of the place was done in black and white with occasional red accents. Perhaps Fitzroy had plans to redecorate. His fuzzy thoughts went to his one niece, the artist, and how funny she could be about color. Then, with some surprise, he reflected that Fitzroy was an artist too, of a sort.

Fitzroy came back with a folding table—not like Mike's camping card table—a beautiful wooden creation with clean Scandinavian lines that opened not only into a X beneath the surface, but with a decorative rail that lowered all the way around. When Vicki gave him an is-this-necessary look, Fitzroy said, "You'll want somewhere to put your crime scene photographs." He gave Mike's small case a pointed look. "I should get us all some water, too," he said vaguely, but sat in a chair a little distance from the table.

Mike placed his case on the table, uncertainly. Vicki asked, "Do you have anything besides water?"

"No," Fitzroy said. "Vicki...would you get it?" He made the request solemnly, like he was asking her to take on a dangerous quest. "The glasses are to the left of the sink."

Surprised, Vicki assented and left for the kitchen.

"Okay," Mike said, and he opened his case. He laid out the collection of cold cases he had that looked like a vampire could have been responsible. They were from different times, except for the four women from 1944. Delphine's photo was one of them.

Vicki returned with three glasses of water and sat back down on the couch.

Mike carefully took a very different tack than he had with Fitzroy before. "Look, I don't know if you had anything to do with these murders, or know anything about them. And I don't know what I'd do about it if you did, but I still need to know. What can you tell me about these people?"

Fitzroy sat in shadow, too far from the table to see the photos. His hair seemed to cover his eyes, though Mike couldn't really tell. Vicki moved a floor lamp over to the table and switched it on. Fitzroy's place did not have a lot of light, and Vicki needed it.

"Tell me, Celucci," Fitzroy said from the shadows, "what good does any of this serve? Why do you need this from me?"

Mike smoothed a bent photo corner. "They—in most cases, even their families are gone now, so there's no one..." Now his ears were ringing. "But they were people. And they lost their lives. They deserve—someone ought to know what happened to them." He looked over at Fitzroy. "They deserve to not be cold cases in a file." His voice carried, even to his own ears, surprising conviction. "I'm not...planning anything." He looked down. "Even if you did kill them. I just have to know."

There was silence in the room.

"You want me to confess," Fitzroy said. "Just like Mendoza did." He sounded distracted again, and Mike heard the unmistakable sound of trauma. He wondered if Vicki heard it.

"Mendoza was a sick lunatic. His idea of confession was perverted. I don't want anything if it isn't true, and even the truth—I'm not trying to hurt you." He waved a hand at the photos. "I'm just trying to redeem them."

"What does confessing accomplish?" Fitzroy muttered. Mike was still trying to figure out why Mike had chosen to use the word "redeem" so he answered automatically, "Confession restores relationship."

Vicki snapped her head around to look at him, and Fitzroy too fixed him in his gaze, his eyes clearly visible now. Mike had only been repeating something his catechism teacher used to say, though she'd meant it as restoring relationship with God.

Apparently he'd said something profound.

"You first," Fitzroy said. "Let's hear your confession."

So Mike took a deep breath and started with the night he'd learned Fitzroy was a real, er, live vampire. How panicked he'd been to think that his former partner, besides being marked by a demon was now in the thrall of another evil being. He faltered on the phrase, but Fitzroy didn't flinch. How he'd collected Fitzroy's fingerprints—he ignored Vicki's shocked glare—and had run him through police databases. How he'd questioned Fitzroy's doorman and read everything he could find on the internet. How he'd even read Bram Stoker's Dracula.

The snort that came from Fitzroy's direction reassured Mike somewhat. It was unnerving not to be able to judge the man's reactions to his tale. "That man was a hack," Fitzroy said.

"Maybe, but I had no way of knowing what was true."

"Mike," cried Vicki, "I told you everything I knew. You could have asked me."

"I did ask you. I asked you how you knew you could trust him. How you knew he was safe to be with, but you never asked him the right questions."

"And what questions are those, Detective?" Fitzroy's voice was utterly chilling, and Mike was duly chilled. His head was pounding, and now he thought some nausea was setting in. He rubbed his temples.

"You're not well," Fitzroy said. "We should do this another time."

"Oh, no," said both Vicki and Mike, at the same time.

Fitzroy almost smiled. "Was I too obvious?"

Mike finished his water, hoping to settle his stomach. "Actually, this brings me to Mendoza," Mike said, dreading this part. His heart pounded harder. "He told me that you had to feed and kill every night to stay alive." Mike made himself look straight at the vampire. "Is that true?"

Fitzroy's mouth tightened and Mike thought he might refuse to answer. "Really, Detective," he said, "You work in homicide. You of all people would notice if there were that many unexplained deaths with extreme blood loss. In a hundred years you've only managed to find these." Fitzroy indicated the photos on the table.

"I take it that's a no?"

"Mendoza was just feeding your fears," Fitzroy said. Then, at Mike's deadpan, "It's a no."

"He said that since you had tasted Vicki's blood, she would die. Is that true?"

Fitzroy gave Vicki a startled glance, then stood swiftly and strode to his windows. "No," he said. "Everyone dies, but not because of me. That man...perverted everything. Everything good."

"Okay, so you don't murder people every night. Good to know. But you have killed."

Fitzroy said nothing, his back rigid.

"What about assault? Do you...attack people for their blood?" Might as well wade right into this.

Still with his back to them, Fitzroy said, "Despite our recent...encounter, Detective, no. Not— no." He sounded unhappy. Bad memories, maybe. Mike could relate.

Mike didn't have to be a whiz at interrogation to know he was not telling everything. His training presented him with at least three avenues to press the witness on, and he didn't pursue any of them. He was going to take Fitzroy at his word. Besides, he already knew Fitzroy's feeding was bound up with sex, and he guessed it was probably consensual, or there'd be a huge spike in the number of reported rapes over time, too. Some things he really didn't want to know.

Mike leaned back in his chair. Exhaustion was making him feel reckless. "That covers murder and assault. I'll keep the 'can you turn into a bat' questions for later. I know you pay your taxes, 'cause I checked, and I also know you contribute to the Policeman's Protection Society annual fundraising ball."

Vicki gave Mike an amused look.

Fitzroy turned slowly back from the windows and took a few steps toward them. "I contributed once, and now I'm on their mailing list for all eternity."

"And Toronto's finest thanks you. Now," Mike gestured at the photos. "What about them?"

Fitzroy knelt on the floor by the table, close to Vicki. He reached first for Delphine's photo. "I wonder how long he lived off of her," he said softly. Vicki reached out with her bandaged hand and laid it on his forearm.

"Henry, why is she dead in this photo?" she asked.

Fitzroy looked at her, searching her face. Then he put the photo down and sifted slowly through the other pictures. He pulled the three other photos of women killed in 1944 to him. Mike had researched why four women killed with bite marks and drained of blood hadn't created a "vampire" scare in the press at the time, and had concluded that in 1944 the only news anyone cared about was of the war. Delphine Guillaume's murder had never even made the papers.

"I killed her," he said, still softly. "I loved her and she wanted me to turn her. I refused. I knew it wasn't what she thought it was, but I didn't let her see the ..." He looked up at both of them, hesitantly. "I never wanted anyone to see that." He looked at her photo again. "So I just refused."

"But then she got sick. They had no treatment for her. Her life—the things she loved to do—were horribly curtailed and it would all end soon. She...I...Well, the short version is that I gave in."

Mike and Vicki watched him as he stared at Delphine's photo.

"We did it at her apartment. I had to drain her completely of blood while she drank some of mine. It takes time. It isn't that easy to drain someone's blood completely." His voice got even softer. "We did it with ceremony, and love and hope. Hope on her part. I knew it meant we couldn't be together much longer, but I was going to lose her anyway. As she lay dead in my arms, with only my blood to sustain her through the change, Mendoza kicked down her door."

"Mendoza," cried Vicki. "He was hunting you then?"

"I didn't know it. I had no idea. Of course I attacked him, but even then he had some magic that immobilized me. He must have been using it on vampires all through the centuries."

"That sun thing?" Mike asked.

Fitzroy put his hand on his chest in an unconscious gesture. Mike winced inwardly. "No," his voice wavered. "Whatever this was, it didn't work that well. I couldn't stop him as he...put a wooden stake through Delphine's heart," Mike heard Vicki's swift intake of breath, "but I managed to move enough to go over the balcony before he got to me. I fell seven stories."

"Wow."

Mike had a sudden urge to reach for his notebook. This was the kind of tale he would normally check against the recorded facts, back at the station. For one thing, he was quite sure Delphine Guillaume's body had not been found with a wooden stake in it.

"The spell wore off with time and distance, but it was nearly dawn when I could go back. The police were there. I couldn't get to her and I had to get under cover."

"Henry," Vicki said, "You've known all this time that Mendoza was out there, somehow immortal and hunting you?"

Fitzroy looked at her, uncertain and wanting to be understood. "I wasn't sure it was him. It didn't make sense. I knew he wasn't a vampire, and even though he smelled like the same man, I couldn't quite believe it. I was in shock. And he wasn't what was important. I had to get to Delphine."

"But he'd put a stake in her heart," Mike said without thinking.

"I know," Fitzroy said, and dropped his head to his chest. "But it's not..." He looked up at Mike, his features set. "If you're planning to write a manual about vampires, Celucci, here's some information for you." He dropped Delphine's photo and stood. "A wooden stake through the heart will kill me." He looked uncomfortably at Vicki and then at something behind Mike's head. "But not for any magical reason. For the same reason it will kill you. I heal fast, that's all. But I have to be somewhat alive to heal. Shred my heart," his hand went to his chest again, and he looked back at Vicki, "and I die. That thing you put on me..." he closed his eyes, "went—in—my heart. Every time it beat I bled. I can't tell you how much that hurt."

Now Mike closed his eyes. He desperately wished he were somewhere else, but he'd known it might come to this when he agreed to bring Vicki here. He heard Vicki stand up and when he looked, she was standing once again just beyond arm's reach from Fitzroy, who looked at her as if his heart still pained him. Maybe it did. Vicki, as Mike well knew, was anything but touchy-feely, and normally Fitzroy seemed to interact with people—women—very sensually. But he kept his distance, and Vicki's own nature had her paralyzed. "Henry," she said gently, "what about Delphine?"

Fitzroy nodded and dropped his hand from his chest. "There is one special time, one state, when you can recover from almost anything," he told her. "Delphine was in a very pure state." He sighed and looked at the floor. "Pure evil, Mendoza would say, and maybe he's right, but I've never seen it that way. How can life itself be evil?"

Vicki shook her head. "Go on."

"She had no life of her own, only the...virtue of my blood sustaining her. Under those conditions—she was no more dead when the stake went in her heart than she had been from blood loss. All she needed was for the stake to be removed and the strength of my blood would heal her heart, cure her illness and restore her own life. Someone took the stake out. Now that I know what he wanted, I suppose it was Mendoza. I had escaped so maybe he hoped to use her when she returned to life. Oh, God!" Fitzroy's composure collapsed and he covered his face. "I left her there!"

"You didn't know, and what choice did you have? You couldn't fight him. C'mon, sit down." Vicki took the chair he'd been sitting in and hefted it, moving it right up to the table, into the circle of light. She touched him gingerly on an elbow to urge him into the chair, and he went willingly, but pulling slightly ahead of her touch. Vicki reseated herself on the couch.

When Fitzroy didn't say anything, Vicki did. "You don't think Delphine has been with Mendoza since 1944, do you?" she asked.

He shook his head. "No, I found her." He took a deep breath. "I was desperate to find her. I tried the morgue and she had been there. They took her there while it was still night, so I knew she'd lived and risen. I was certain when I learned someone had killed a morgue worker."

Mike frowned at his photographs. He didn't remember any...

"Not like that," Fitzroy said. "Just, killed."

"I had to find her. Vicki, I have two natures, human and vampire. The humanity you say I fought so hard to keep," he faltered and looked almost embarrassed, "is completely overwhelmed at first. No one has any hope of reawakening it on their own. That's the job of the vampire who makes you. If I couldn't find her, she would kill and kill and kill until someone killed her. I had nothing to go on. She didn't go home, and it was a crime scene, anyway. Plus that lunatic was out there hunting us both. I've never been so..."

No one said anything.

Fitzroy reached for the photos. "Marcie, Rose and Amanda," he named the three photos. "Her friends. She went for the easy kills, the people she had access to. Her vampire nature didn't have the ability to function in any normal human way. After Rose I realized what she was doing. I still had a key to her apartment so I got her address book..." He waved a hand in a futile gesture and tossed the photos back on the table. "It doesn't matter what I did, I wasn't fast enough." He looked mournfully at Vicki. "I could have really used a detective's help."

"I'm sorry," Vicki murmured.

"I think she called them and asked them to dinner," Fitzroy said, this time to Mike, whose eyes widened in appreciation of the irony. "And they're just the people she fed on. There were other deaths. You have other unsolved cases that were her, like the morgue worker. I'm sorry I don't remember his name."

"Jesus," Mike said.

"So there you have it, Detective," Fitzroy said, all defiance gone from his tone. "I didn't kill those women, but I am responsible for their deaths."

"You stopped her," Vicki said softly.

"She stopped herself," Fitzroy said, stealing a glance at her, "like you said. But I had to show her how. I almost saved Amanda. Almost." He sighed. "When she was human again and saw what she had done, she hated me. Hated what I was, what I'd done to her. She called me every evil name that Mendoza did and it hurt so much more coming from her. We couldn't both stay in Toronto, and I was by far the more powerful, so she left and I never heard from her again."

"I would say Mendoza was responsible for their deaths, not you," Mike said.

If he tried to apply the rules of law to the situation, he'd be inclined to judge that Fitzroy had been guilty of criminal negligence by creating a vampire—though some lawyer would have to first prove that the existence of vampires was an inherent threat to public safety, and that Fitzroy knew that, but that shouldn't be too hard to do—but it was Mendoza's actions, illegal actions, that had resulted in the women's deaths; even if it wasn't his intent, like getting people killed when you only meant to rob the convenience store. No, Mike's law-steeped mind had no trouble categorizing relative guilt and laying almost all of it on Mendoza.

Vicki nodded.

Mike couldn't read Fitzroy's expression as he gazed at Mike, but it wasn't hostile. That was an improvement.

"And these others?" he asked.

"No idea," Fitzroy said, still watching Mike.

Mike decided to quit while he was ahead. He gathered up the photos and returned them to his case. "That's all I needed," he said. "Vicki?"

Vicki frowned, started to say something, then stopped, watching Fitzroy. Fitzroy had gathered up the water glasses and turned toward the kitchen, but then stopped, staring at nothing. Vicki threw Mike a wait-I've-noticed-something-interesting look.

Fitzroy turned back to the folding table and set the glasses back down.

"Henry," she asked, and he focused on her again, "why won't you go in the kitchen?"

"I can go in the kitchen," he protested, just a bit too much.

"But why won't you? What's in the kitchen?"

"There's nothing in the kitchen. What do you mean?" He sounded indignant, not puzzled. Mike realized what Vicki had seen.

"So take the glasses in there."

"I'll clear up later." The man positively fidgeted.

Vicki stood, "Tell me."

For a long moment, Fitzroy said nothing, staring at her, then glancing at Mike, then looking all around the room. Both Mike and Vicki regarded him levelly.

"What is it?" Vicki urged.

"I know it's senseless," he said, "but there are kitchen knives on the counter and whenever I see them..."

Mike's heart sank. Whenever you see them, you remember what it felt like to be cut and stabbed while terrified and helpless. God, he hated himself.

Vicki nodded. "Uh huh," she said.

"I didn't know you were a mind reader," Fitzroy said, with a hint of a smile.

"I'm not," Vicki said, "this is something I actually have experience with." Vicki moved fractionally closer to him. "What do you say I go hide your knives?"

Fitzroy gave her a surprised stare. "Hide them? Oh, okay. You'd do that?"

"Of course." She put a hand on his shoulder. "You're really not used to having help, are you?" She didn't let him answer. "It's only a band-aid, I know, but at least you can go in your own kitchen." She strode away.

With the two of them alone, Mike couldn't bear to look at Fitzroy, but had to when he said, "Celucci."

"Yeah?"

"Thank you for coming after me." He said it like he was forcing himself to.

"I had to," Mike said, and winced at how that sounded. Like Vicki made him or something.

Vicki was back, brushing her hands against each other like she'd finished dirty work. "All clear." She gestured at the water glasses. "Care to try it out?"

Fitzroy collected the glasses again and left.

"Mike," Vicki said. "I'm going to stay if he'll let me. You go on home."

"Vic, are you sure? You're not af—" Oh no, he shouldn't have said that.

Anger flared in her eyes, enough to tell him that yes, she was, and no, she wasn't going to accept it. Mike had his own little flashback to the fanged, ravenous, wounded creature that lunged at him and sank his teeth into his neck.

"I would be," he told her.

"Well, I'm not."

"You're not what?" Fitzroy asked from behind her.

Vicki whirled. "I'm not leaving. Can I stay?"

From Fitzroy's expression, she might have been offering a drowning man a rope. He managed to nod.

Vicki took his hand. "Good. Then maybe we can talk about the color red."

Fitzroy tensed. Direct hit. Boy, Vicki was good, Mike thought. He hadn't even spotted that one.

There was a whole lot of trauma floating around, Mike reflected, and they were all going to have to help each other through it. But right now, he was the third wheel. He stood and slipped out the door, leaving the image of Vicki holding Fitzroy's hand burned in his brain.

Well, that could have gone worse.

The End.

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