KIND SOUL

A Forever Knight Novel
by Susan M. Garrett

CHAPTER 8
        
        Natalie burrowed her head under the pillow, one hand over 
either end to hold it in place.  God, what was that banging!  Who in 
the hell was making that kind of noise in the middle of the night?
        Day.  Middle of the <day>.
        The correction was almost automatic by now.  She sought 
refuge from the light that shone in through her open window, half-
afraid to look at the clock and find out just how late in the day it was.  
Sometimes it seemed like she'd just gotten to sleep and then she was 
up and at work again, elbow deep in bowels, fishing around for a 
bullet.
        Another loud bang made her sigh, then she sniffed, catching the 
scent of garlic.  It wasn't just a scent, really more of a stench--like her 
refrigerator had smelled when she'd taken that escargot home from a 
party, had forgotten about it, and then spilled it on the way to the 
trash.  Wrinkling her nose, Natalie grabbed the blankets around her, 
wondering why she hadn't thought to close the window and which of 
her neighbors was thoughtless enough to be cooking on such a 
breezy--
        When she moved, the scent grew stronger, almost choking her 
in the confined space underneath the pillow.  And that's when she 
realized that she was the one who smelled like garlic.
        And why.
        Natalie scrambled to her knees, the blankets and pillow being 
airborne for brief seconds and scattering this way and that.  
Breathing heavily, she looked around the room, then grabbed the 
wooden spoon--the edge of it was peeking out from beneath a 
pillow--and held it to her chest.
        She was fine.  The room looked fine.
        Rising hesitantly from the bed, spoon still clutched in her hand, 
Natalie picked up the pillows absently, then followed with the 
blankets, tossing everything onto the bed.  Sidney had to be here 
somewhere.  His bowl was here.  His litterbox was here.  And the 
door had been locked.
        Hadn't it?
        A lump in her throat, Natalie walked toward the door, still 
clutching the wooden spoon with both hands.  When she turned the 
knob, it resisted the movement--locked.  She unlocked it carefully, 
opened it a crack, and peered into the darkened living room.
        The door was wedged open from beneath her hand as Sidney 
flew into the room, a gray and white blur.  Shooting past her, he went 
directly to the bed, jumped up on it, and burrowed underneath the 
covers.
        For a moment, she simply stared at him.  Then Natalie walked 
toward the bed.  "Sidney?  Sidney, honey?"  Bending down, she 
peered into the small cavern the blankets had formed and saw two 
gold-green eyes staring back at her.  He meowed softly, a sound that 
meant he was feeling neglected or scared or both.
        Natalie reached into the protective nest he'd created for himself 
and caught hold of him, dropping the wooden spoon and lifting him 
into her arms.  She stroked him gently, scratched him beneath the 
chin just the way he liked, and brushed her lips lightly across the top 
of his head.  "It's all right, I'm here.  Don't be scared."
        "I'm afraid that's my fault."
        Natalie froze at the sound of Dorian's voice, then turned her 
head to see him, her arms tightening reflexively around Sidney.  He 
stood in the doorway, well back from the wan light that crept into the 
room when the breeze billowed her curtains and blinds.  She couldn't 
see much more than a silhouette.
        "He cried to get out," explained Dorian, his voice apologetic.  "I 
was afraid he'd wake you.  And when he <did> get out--I think we 
agreed to ignore one another.  But I dropped something and it 
frightened him."
        "You unlocked the door."  She tried to keep the fear out of her 
voice, tried to keep the tone even.
        "Yes, I did.  I'm sorry.  As I said, I thought he might wake you.  
Perhaps I'd better--perhaps you want to get cleaned up.  I've done the 
best I could with the bathroom, it's almost usable again."
        There was a forced lightness to his tone.  "I'll be out in a 
minute," she managed, her teeth clenching in anger as much as fear.
        "Yes.  I'll . . . yes."  Reaching into the room, Dorian grasped the 
doorknob.  She saw his hand and part of a shirtsleeve--where did he 
get a shirt?--before the door closed.
        Natalie let out a breath she hadn't known she was holding, then 
dropped Sidney back to the bed and sat down on it herself, her knees 
giving way.  Sidney sidled up to her bare leg and rubbed against it, 
then sneezed.  She stroked her hand down the flat of his head and 
along his back, watching his ears flatten and his eyes narrow into 
slits.  "It's all right, Sidney," she said softly.  "We're fine.  Nothing 
happened."
        The cat's eyes glowed up at her.  Then he sneezed and ducked 
back under the covers.
        "Guess I could stand to be cleaned up at that," she answered, 
taking a sniff and wrinkling her nose.  Natalie rose from the bed and 
found her bathrobe in the closet.  After slipping into it and tying it 
quite securely, she fixed a pile of clean clothing for herself--jeans 
and a T-shirt, underwear and socks.  Her sneakers were somewhere 
in the apartment, she'd have to find out how usable they'd be or if she 
should toss them into the basement washers with her sweats and 
everything else, put the cycle on high, pour in a half gallon of heavy 
duty detergent and hope for the best.
        But hard as she tried, she couldn't find the sweats she'd crawled 
out of last night.  Then she remembered that Dorian had opened the 
door, to let out Sidney.
        Dorian <couldn't> be doing the wash.  He--no, it was just too 
stupid an idea to even consider!  On the whole and through varied 
experience, she'd discovered that men didn't do those sorts of things 
voluntarily.  And her time with Nick had so far led her to believe that 
vampires just didn't <do> laundry--period.
        The thought made her smile.  And it gave her more than a little 
self-assurance as she crossed the bedroom, opened the door, and 
walked out into the apartment.
        The first thing she noticed was that the pile of blankets and dirty 
towels was gone.  The blankets she'd hung over the windows to keep 
out the daylight were working well--Dorian had turned on a few of 
the lamps.  Putting a book he'd been reading down on her coffee 
table, beside one of her coffee mugs, he rose from a chair located a 
good distance from the window.  "Good afternoon."
        "Is it?"  Natalie managed a lop-sided smile, hugging the clean 
clothes close to her.  She kept her eyes on him and the furniture 
between them, although the smell of garlic alone should have driven 
him away.  "How are you feeling?"
        "Weak.  But it'll pass.  And you?"
        "Exhausted," she admitted.  "And wishing like hell that you 
guys were sensitive to something other than garlic.  Like . . . bananas 
or something."
        Dorian raised a hand to his mouth, but was unable to hide his 
smile.  "That's a thought I'd rather not deal with on an empty 
stomach.  Speaking of which, I've made coffee for you."
        It was her turn to feel queasy, remembering the last time Dorian 
had made coffee--the thick, black goop was so strong it had been 
undrinkable.  But Natalie forced a smile and said, "I think I'd better 
take my shower first."
        He seated himself and picked up the book again.  But as Natalie 
turned and headed past the kitchen and into the bathroom, she felt his 
eyes on her, following her.  Once inside the bathroom, she dropped 
her fresh clothing on the vanity, then looked around.
        Dorian had done a sterling job--the only smell of garlic came 
from her.  Fresh towels hung from the rack and there wasn't a speck 
of blood or dirt anywhere.  She was stunned for a moment; she never 
would have expected something like this from him.  He'd been 
utterly helpless and hopeless at household tasks the last time she'd 
seen him.  And now . . . the change was both unexpected and 
unbelievable.  If he could manage this, she could almost imagine him 
doing something as mundane as wash.
        But that didn't make him any less dangerous . . . . 
        Natalie locked the bathroom door, then unknotted the sash on 
her bathrobe.  The mirror caught her eye and she paused, staring at 
herself with a sigh.  There were smears of dried blood on her face 
and her hair was a mass of snarls and tangles.  Shaking her head 
didn't help--the garlic smell seemed to rise around her like a cloud.
        That's when she decided that enough was enough.  The robe fell 
to the floor, then she pulled the nightgown over her head and let that 
go as well.  Leaning forward, she turned on the water, letting it run 
for a few seconds to get up to speed, then her panties followed the 
rest of her clothing to the floor and she stepped into the shower.
        Her building, like most older buildings, had a hot water 
problem, but she'd discovered one of the few advantages to working 
night shifts was that her mid-afternoon shower was seldom 
interrupted by a lack of hot water or a toilet being flushed in a 
neighboring apartment.  There were advantages to just about 
everything; it all depended on how you looked at it.
        But, as she doused her hair with water and then spread the 
shampoo through it, lathering it up, she couldn't think of any 
advantages to the current situation.  She'd taken care of Dorian 
because he'd needed help and couldn't find it anywhere else.  Fine.  
Her conscience was clear on that.  From here on in it would get 
tricky.
        Turning her back to the shower head, Natalie washed the first 
set of suds from her hair, barely pausing before she lathered up 
again.  She stared at the tile in the shower, watched the trails of the 
soapsuds as they slid down the wall, and tried to see some sense in 
them.
        The Enforcers were after Dorian.  They knew he was in 
Toronto.  They'd beaten him up.
        So why was Dorian here?  How had the Enforcers found him?  
And why had they assaulted him, then released him?
        There were too many questions to which she didn't have 
answers.  She had a feeling that asking Dorian wouldn't get her 
anywhere--he'd just put on that 'vampire things that mortals aren't 
meant to know' superiority and that would be that.  Their arrogant 
pig-headedness never ceased to amaze her.  In fact, there were times 
she'd thought Nick would rather die than admit that he was wrong 
about something or just didn't know an answer to her question . . . .
        Nick.  If this was a 'vampire' thing, then she'd ask Nick to help 
Dorian.  They weren't friends, but they weren't quite enemies.  
Although when Dorian had said--however lightly--that he might not 
honor his promise to release her from the bond, Nick had been all but 
ready to--
        Closing her eyes, Natalie leaned her hands against the wall of 
the shower and let the water cascade over her hair and down her 
back.  There was no way she'd be able to explain this to Nick, no 
way she'd be able to explain it quickly enough for him to digest the 
bottom line before he over-reacted.  At the very least, he'd go after 
Dorian.  And at the worst . . . .
        Natalie opened her eyes, then stepped out of the force of the 
water and began to wring out her hair.  She never wanted to go 
through a scene like they'd had the last time.  She knew he trusted 
her implicitly, more so now than before.  But Nick always walked 
that edge, was always so afraid of betrayal, of rejection, that he 
tended to explode at the merest hint that his trust might have been 
misplaced.  She remembered the look on his face, the doubt as he'd 
confronted her in the abattoir, accused her of taking Dorian's side 
against him.
        Dorian had rescued her with a lie, telling Nick that he'd 
blackmailed her into helping him.  Of course Nick had believed 
Dorian; he'd <wanted> to believe Dorian.  He'd wanted to be right in 
having trusted her.
        And it had been a lie.  She'd helped Dorian not because he'd 
threatened Nick, but because Dorian had needed help.  And because 
she'd doubted Nick.  And because . . . .
        Natalie turned off the shower, her thoughts drumming louder 
than the force of the water against the wall.  She hadn't told Nick 
about Dorian's lie for a number of reasons.  He'd been so happy when 
Dorian had confirmed that at least one of their kind <had> gone back 
across and returned to the mortal world and a mortal life.  It was 
ironic that Nick trusted Dorian's words because he believed Dorian 
never lied.  And he hadn't.
        Until then.  For her.
        Then there was the lie itself.  It had been so important at the 
time, seemed less so now, but who knew how Nick would take it?  
Add that small lie to the fact that she'd given Dorian shelter, treated 
him for his injuries even thought it placed her in grave danger . . . .
        There was no way she was going to tell Nick.
        Which meant there'd be no help for Dorian, other than mortal 
assistance.
        Which meant . . . her.
        Natalie had toweled down and dressed, letting her hair dry of its 
own accord, prepared for the static frizz as it took on a life of its own 
later.  What did she care, really?  At work she spent half of her time 
in scrubs, anyway.
        She looked into the mirror, suddenly realizing that she fully 
planned to go into work this evening.  Yes, she was tired, but no 
more tired than if she'd added a few hours to her shift.  Her headache 
was gone and she felt fine.  If she didn't show up for work, Nick 
would check on her, especially after having seen what she looked 
like last night.  If she'd looked even <half> as badly as she'd felt, she 
wouldn't blame him for calling or even dropping by her apartment.
        Shaking her head, Natalie decided that might not be such a good 
idea.  Better to let this go for another night, see what the situation 
was, get a little more information.  <Then> she'd make a decision 
about what to do.
        Having decided not to decide made her feel better.  She made 
faces at herself in the mirror as she brushed her teeth, thrilled that the 
only garlic smell seemed to be emanating from her discarded 
nightshirt.  Once she felt clean and presentable, she bundled the 
smelly clothing and dirty towels together, unlocked the bathroom 
door, and stepped out into the small hall, which was separated from 
the living room by a partition.
        The aroma of brewed coffee drew her into the kitchen like a 
siren's song.  Dorian was standing at the kitchen counter--having 
made the room safe for himself by covering those windows as well 
as the others she'd covered the night before--fixing something on a 
plate.  He turned as she entered, placing the plate and a mug of 
coffee on the table.
        Toast.  With a sprinkling of cinnamon and sugar.
        Natalie stared at it, swallowing a moment, remembering the last 
time Dorian had prepared a meal for her . . . and failed miserably.  
        "I hope it's all right," he asked, his voice containing a note of 
concern.  "I remembered what you'd said about not eating much in 
the morning."
        That had been a lie, to spare his feelings.  And it was that lie, 
and the fact that he'd believed it, that had helped her figure out 
exactly what was going on the last time they'd met--how both Dorian 
and Nick were being duped by Vivian, Dorian's mortal assistant.  Up 
until that point, she'd assumed that he could detect a lie told by 
vampires or mortals.  It was only then that she'd found his blind spot-
-that mortals could lie to him easily enough.
        Of course, that was before he'd tricked her into bonding with 
him . . . .
        The thought disturbed her, set in on edge.  She couldn't take her 
eyes away from the toast for a moment.  "No, it's fine.  Really.  The 
coffee smells great."
        "Sit down, I know you must be hungry."  
        He moved to get a chair for her, but Natalie took a step 
backward, finally looking at him.  
        She was right, he'd changed clothes.  The sweats--oversized on 
her but tight on him--had been replaced by a white casual shirt and 
jeans.  He had sneakers on his feet.  And she knew none of it come 
from her clothing closet.  "Where'd you get the outfit?"
        Dorian dropped his hands to his side and leaned back against 
the counter.  "I've been awake for some time--I guess I overfed, 
couldn't sleep.  So I contacted one of my accounts and had a courier 
run over some cash.  All my phone calls were local, I'll be happy to 
pay for--"
        "Don't you know how dangerous that could be?" asked Natalie, 
dismayed.  "If they're looking for you, the first place they'll go is the 
bank."
        "I forgot how tied you are to detective work."  He met her stare 
with a slight smile.  "Don't worry--my problems with Vivian taught 
me that I couldn't afford to leave my finances in other hands.  I'm 
quite a quick study.  The cash I drew won't be traced.  Nor will any 
of my purchases."
        "Well . . . all right."  Still not quite believing him, Natalie pulled 
out her chair and sat down quickly, before Dorian could do it for her.  
Her stomach grumbled aloud as the scent of coffee reached her and 
she felt herself blush at the sound.
        But Dorian had the good grace not to notice.  He moved to the 
microwave and opened the door, pulling out a coffee cup.  Her eyes 
widened for a moment, then she remembered what he'd said the night 
before--he preferred to drink his blood warm.
        It made sense, in a way.  The first time she'd spoken with him, 
he'd been drinking from a coffee cup.  For some reason she'd 
assumed that the blood in it had been cold.  Nick always seemed to 
drink his cold, straight from the fridge.  Although maybe cow tasted 
better that way.  It was possible that human blood--
        Her stomach flipped.  To cover, she raised the cup of coffee to 
her lips and drank it--straight black, no sugar.  She fully expected to 
find it as thick and foul as the last time Dorian had made her coffee.  
Instead, she found herself putting down the cup and staring at it in 
surprise.  It was fine.  In fact, it was one of the best cups of coffee 
she'd ever had.  And she knew that it wasn't her brand.
        When she looked up at him, an eyebrow raised in question, he 
sat down at the table, across from her.  "I hope you like that.  The 
clerk said that it's one of their best.  I only bought ten pounds of it.  
And I bought another ten of this other--"
        "You did <what>?"  Natalie sipped at the coffee again, staring 
at him over the rim of the mug.  Damn, it <was> good!  Then she 
looked around the kitchen, just to make certain all of her appliances 
hadn't been replaced.  "Dorian, what else did you buy?  Other than 
the clothes . . . and the coffee?"
        "The cleaner picked up that mess in the other room."  He held 
up a hand as she started to protest.  "Don't worry about the blood--
he's very discreet.  I've used him before.  It should be delivered some 
time this evening.  I'll leave you his address.  You should sent him 
your nightgown--garlic can be just as bad as blood, sometimes.  It . . . 
lingers."
        Natalie rested her forehead in her hand and shook her head, 
trying to hide her smile.  He <had> been doing her laundry . . . in 
true vampire fashion, of course, by having it sent out.  What they 
ever did before the invention of telephones and ATMs was beyond 
her.  "What else?"
        "The superintendent of your building stopped by--"
        She looked up quickly, half rising from her chair and looking 
over her shoulder toward the living room, only now remembering the 
trail of garlic blood-water that had stained the hall carpet and led 
right to her apartment door.
        Dorian caught her arm, stopping her from rising.  She froze at 
his touch and looked at him.  He dropped his hand quickly, but 
continued to meet her gaze, his expression almost amused.  "Don't 
worry, I took care of it."
        "You . . . took care of it."  Again, Natalie swallowed, half-
wondering if she'd find a body tucked behind one of her living room 
chairs.
        As if he'd read her mind, Dorian leaned back with a wounded 
expression.  "No, no, nothing like that!  He wondered who I was, of 
course--"
        "Oh, God."
        "And I explained that we were . . . acquaintances.  That I got 
into a bit of trouble at a local bar and you were kind enough to help 
me out."  He dropped his gaze and picked up the coffee cup.  "My 
clothing hadn't arrived yet.  And he seemed very concerned about 
your welfare.  I explained that you were sleeping, that we'd had 
rather a late night."
        "Oh . . . God," she said again, pressing the palms of her hands 
over her eyes.  She almost wished Dorian <had> killed the super.  
The man was <such> a gossip.  Her neighbors all thought she was a 
little strange to begin with--such a nice girl, but she cuts up dead 
bodies for a living?  Add picking up friends who'd been involved in 
bar fights and trailed blood through the building, not to mention . . . .
        But what did that matter?  She dropped her hands and looked at 
Dorian, who was still staring down at his coffee cup.  "It's fine.  
Don't worry about it.  They all think I'm a little nuts anyway.  What 
about the carpeting?"
        "It should be fixed in a few days.  And, to be honest, it needed 
replacing.  I couldn't go out with him to take a look at it, but--"
        "Just as well," she muttered into her coffee, trying to banish the 
mental picture of Dorian--in his tight gray sweats--having a serious 
discussion with Mr. Giegle about carpeting replacement.  "What's it 
going to cost?"
        "I've taken care of that."
        "You took care of <what>?"
        "I paid for the carpeting."  When she stared at him, he cleared 
his throat.  "It seemed my responsibility, after all.  It <was> my 
blood."
        She had to give him that.  God only knew what Mrs. Aspwith 
would make of <that> one, once the story started to get around. 
'There was a man at that nice Lambert girl's apartment and he paid 
for the new hall carpeting.  Can you believe it?  It looks <so> 
expensive.  Well, at least she's finally found someone, poor dear--'
        "You really should move into a nicer building.  This place 
<does> have a certain charm, but--"
        "I may have to," she admitted, only half-listening to him.  Now 
that her stomach seemed steadier, she picked up a piece of toast and 
bit into it.  "Not half bad," she complimented, raising the toast to him 
in a sort of salute.
        "Thank you.  I can't begin to repay you for what you did for me 
last night.  Breakfast seemed the least--"  Dorian stopped in mid-
sentence, than looked away.  "Natalie, I frightened you last night.  
Badly.  I want to apologize for anything I did, anything I said . . . ."
        Her teeth crunched down on the toast.  Somehow, she managed 
to chew and swallow without choking at the vampire understatement.  
<Frightened> her?  He'd <attacked> her.  And she'd survived only 
by--
        "Well, I guess I'm sorry about breaking your nose."
        "Oh.  Yes."  He reached up and touched the edge of his nose 
gingerly.  "All healed, thank you.  Though the way you reset it was a 
bit of a shock."
        "You deserved it."
        "I probably did."  The words had been light-hearted for a 
moment, but then she saw a shadow pass behind his eyes and he 
looked away again.  "It's just that--I don't want you to be frightened 
of me."
        This time she nearly did choke on the toast.  Giving it up as 
dangerous, Natalie chewed, swallowed, and pushed the dish away 
from her, at least until the conversation ended.  That was <great> 
toast.  "Am I wrong, or do I remember you telling me that I should be 
afraid of all of you, even Nick?"
        "Yes.  And you <should>.  Last night proved that."  He clasped 
his hands around his coffee cup, still refusing to meet her eyes.  
"That's the beast in us, part of what we are.  If you want to keep your 
life be very wary of that, even in Nick.  But, I was hoping that you 
wouldn't fear . . . me."
        There were warning bells inside her, the memory of that bond 
she'd shared with him, the control he'd been able to exert over her, 
threatening to make her shiver.  But she sat rigidly in her chair and 
fixed her gaze on her coffee cup as she lifted it to her lips.  "You're 
saying there's a difference, between who you are and what you are?"
        "You make that distinction for Nick.  Can't you afford me the 
same kindness?"
        There was an edge to his voice, something so desperate and so 
sad that she wanted to sympathize.  But she still held the memory of 
how afraid and angry she'd been of him, <at> him, when she'd 
realized just what bonding had meant.  And, maybe, just a little fear 
and anger of and at herself, when she fondly remembered something 
of the closeness of it, his protectiveness toward her, his worry about 
and for her, his--
        She shut that line of thought away quickly, locking the mental 
door and tossing the key over her shoulder, into oblivion.  "Nick . . . 
wants to be mortal again.  What do <you> want?"
        Natalie raised her eyes to him; Dorian was watching her.  "To 
keep you safe."
        A chill went through her, as he echoed her thoughts.  "For 
<you>," she corrected sharply.
        Dorian's eyes widened momentarily and he looked down at the 
tabletop.  "Forgive me if this sounds cruel, but . . . I don't share 
Nick's delusions about becoming mortal.  He seems to think that will 
redeem him, serve as a recompense for all that he's done these past 
centuries."
        "And you don't believe that?"
        "I've done so much, to so many over time--vampire <and> 
mortal--"  Dorian rose to his feet, pushing back the chair, the sound 
of the legs scraping across the kitchen floor causing him to wince.  
He picked up his coffee cup and walked to the sink, then paused 
there and tilted his head back, draining it before continuing.  "I told 
you--I remember telling you that I'd never regretted anything I've 
done.  I always thought that would be a great lie, to deny my past 
actions because it seemed expedient.  I've condemned others for 
doing just that.  Like Nick . . .he carries <such> regret in him.  I don't 
know how he manages to survive."
        Carefully, he placed the coffee cup in the sink and then turned 
on the tap, running water into it.  His eyes were fixed on the covered 
window and Natalie placed one hand on the back of her chair, ready 
to rise--she almost had the feeling that he was about to rip away the 
window covering, expose himself to the full afternoon sunlight.
        "He has <hope>."
        Dorian flinched slightly at her soft words.  "I don't believe in 
<hope>.  I've tried to improve myself, tried to rid myself of all the 
impurities of the flesh.  Tried to be better.  Even tried to be kind to 
mortals . . . as if I knew what I was doing."  He gave a short, harsh 
laugh.  "I've changed, over time.  But none of that justifies anything 
I've done.  I've begun to regret."
        Natalie pushed her chair back from the table.  Picking up her 
coffee cup and the remnants of toast, she busied herself with normal 
tasks--toss the crusts in the garbage, carry the plates to the sink.  "But 
you've made the effort," she said, keeping her voice carefully neutral, 
as she stood beside him.  "You said it yourself--you're a different 
person now.  Just like Nick is a different person now.  Regret is fine, 
but don't wallow in it.  Keep moving forward."
        Standing beside him as she did the dishes, Natalie found she 
wasn't afraid.  Not even after what had happened last night.  Dorian 
remained very still, almost as if <he> were afraid that movement 
might startle her, make her bolt.  In answer, she picked up a dish 
towel and slapped it against his chest, saying, "Work toward what 
you <want> to be."
        He seemed startled for an instant.  But he took the first coffee 
cup from her and dried it carefully, then the second.  Natalie 
concentrated on those few dishes for a moment, trying not to feel his 
eyes on her.  
        "I'm a vampire," he said finally, his voice low.  "It's the one 
truth left to my existence.  If I deny <that>, I've nothing left."
        Finishing up the last of the dishes, Natalie turned aside and 
pulled a paper towel from the rack--if she kept this up she'd have the 
equivalent of a degree in vampire therapy.  "Then be the best 
vampire you can be.  I can't help you with that."
        "No.  Perhaps . . . perhaps you can't."
        The last of the dishes were done.  Natalie glanced up at the 
kitchen clock.  "I'd better get ready for work."
        "And I'd better get ready to leave--at sunset," he added quickly, 
with a smile, as she shot him a questioning look.
        Natalie stood at the partition as he passed her and watched him 
move into the living room.  There were a few other boxes that she 
hadn't noticed before, as well as a briefcase and a small piece of 
luggage.  "You <have> been shopping," she said, amazed at the 
variety of items.
        Looking up from the briefcase, which he'd opened on an end 
table, Dorian smiled.  "I wish I'd given a thought to picking up some 
reading material.  Most of your books are medical . . . and very 
graphic, I'm afraid."
        She chuckled beneath her breath.  "Don't tell me the sight of 
blood makes you queasy?"
        "Blood--no.  The dissection of internal organs?"  He frowned 
and she could have sworn that his skin grew even more pale.  "I'd 
rather not discuss it so soon after breakfast."
        "I think there's a couple of trashy novels."  When he raised a 
questioning eyebrow, she shrugged.  "I pick them up in airports, on 
my way to conferences.  Beats spending two hours on a plane talking 
to a woman from Ottawa about how her son the pharmacist, who 
isn't married, just added a built-in pool to his house and is trading in 
his car next year."
        "I pretend to sleep, myself," admitted Dorian, straightening and 
closing the suitcase.  "Only night-flights, after all.  I'm just surprised 
you don't have any poetry."
        "Poetry?  You mean, 'There once was a lady from Spain--?'"
        "<Poetry>," corrected Dorian sharply and, she noticed, 
somewhat taken aback at her comment.  "Fiction is composed of 
organized lies.  But poetry, <good> poetry, is truth incarnate."
        Natalie shrugged and bit back a smile, amused by his indignant 
attitude.  "If you say so."
        "I <do>.  And I'll prove it to you."  He walked over to the couch 
and picked up a few boxes from the floor, then opened the suitcase 
and placed it on the cushions.  "Some other time."
        She took a step forward, then another, until she was standing 
beside him.  "Where will you go?"
        "I . . . don't know."  He wouldn't look at her, but opened boxes 
and removed shirts and such, placing them carefully into his suitcase.  
"I'll find a place--"
        "Where the Enforcers can't find you?"
        He froze, staring down at the interior of his suitcase.  "<If> 
they're looking, they'll find me no matter where I go.  It's only a 
matter of time."
        "Then stay here.  We'll find help for you.  Nick--"
        Dorian looked up quickly.  "No.  I don't want him involved in 
this."
        "He'd help you--"
        "No."  Dorian raised a hand as if to touch her cheek, but 
hesitated and dropped it to her shoulder.  "No," he repeated softly.  "I 
can't allow him to be involved.  I have my reasons."
        "All right--if you won't take my advice as your friend, then at 
least take my advice as your doctor."  Natalie lifted his hand from her 
shoulder and rested it on her palm.  "You've still got some scars, 
which means you haven't healed completely.  No matter how much 
blood you've had, you're ragged out.  You need a few days rest.  So 
take it.  Stay here as long as you can.  Then when you're ready to go, 
you'll be able to defend yourself."
        He started at her words, but didn't pull his hand away.  "If the 
Enforcers found me here--"
        "I'll take my chances.  I wouldn't mind getting in a shot at those 
bastards."  Her eyes narrowed and she looked away, thinking about 
what she'd deduced from his wounds.  "What they did to you--
haven't they ever heard of Amnesty International?"
        "How . . . how do you know?"  It was the slightest quiver in his 
voice that made her look back at him.  She saw his eyes were wide, 
almost frightened.  And she closed her hand over his, trying to 
remember what she knew of the treatment of victims of abuse or 
torture.  Did any of it hold true for vampires, as well as mortals?
        "It's my job," she answered, keeping her voice neutral.  "That's 
what I'm trained to do--look at the results and work backwards, to 
find out what happened."
        "Oh."  Dorian pulled away and seated himself on the arm of the 
couch, still looking at her.  "It might not be a bad idea . . . to stay 
here.  I <do> need the rest.  If I'm not putting you out?  Or . . . your 
reputation?"
        Natalie almost laughed at the last bit, but kept her feelings down 
to a smile.  "I think you've taken care of that.  There's some room in 
the closet if you want to hang up those shirts--they'll wrinkle if you 
don't.  I'll get those last two bottles from my car for you before I 
leave.  I'm sure Janette--"
        "I'll handle the details," he promised.  Dorian rose to his feet 
and took a step forward.  He reached for her hand and when she 
didn't resist, took it in his, wrapping his fingers around hers.  "I 
already owe you my life, several times over.  And I'm grateful for 
your offer.  But, I feel I should ask--what about Nick?"  When her 
eyes widened, he continued, "I know you'll have to tell him I'm here.  
He might not understand.  He's very . . . possessive."
        Again, he'd echoed her thoughts.  Natalie swallowed, meeting 
Dorian's gaze.  "I'll tell him, later.  He'll understand.  And it's not like 
we're . . . we're just friends, that's all."
        "That's all?"  For a moment, she felt he was looking past her 
eyes, into her soul, measuring her.  Then Dorian smiled, ever so 
slightly.  "Yes, I see.  All right.  I'll accept your hospitality, then.  
Thank you."
        "You're wel--"
        Before she knew what was happening, Dorian leaned forward 
and kissed her lightly on the lips, cutting off her sentence.  Stunned, 
she simply stared at him.
        He frowned slightly, as he pulled away.  "I'm sorry.  Was that . . 
. inappropriate?"
        Warning bells were going off.  At least, she <thought> they 
were warning bells.  And she decided, again, to ignore them.  "I don't 
think so."
        "Good."  Dorian released her hand and turned back to his 
suitcase.  "You'd better get ready for work.  Shall I pack you a 
lunch?"
        "No--no, that's all right.  Grace and I--we--no."  She was more 
than a little disoriented as she backed away toward the bedroom.  
"Like I said, there're hangers in the hall closet.  Help yourself.  I'll 
just go--"  Turning, she almost sprinted for the bedroom.
        The door closed behind her.  Leaning her back against it, 
Natalie took a deep breath, wondering what in hell that had been 
about.
        After a moment, she walked over to the bed and started to sit 
down, when she heard a meow of protest.  Sidney's head appeared 
from beneath the blankets, his eyes glaring at her intrusion.
        Chuckling beneath her breath, Natalie picked up Sidney, saying, 
"Aw, poor baby.  I'm sorry--I forgot you were there."  He crawled 
into her lap and part way up her shoulder, stretching against her.  In 
answer, she rubbed along the side of his stomach, then scratched his 
head almost absently.  
        There weren't many times in her life she'd been rendered 
absolutely speechless.  It was the surprise, of course.  She hadn't 
expected Dorian to kiss her.  That last time, he'd kissed her at least 
twice--and gotten smacked good and hard for it the second time.  
And it wasn't like Nick didn't give her a friendly smooch now and 
again, like when she'd had the headache last night . . . .
        God, had it <only> been last night?
        She shuddered, suddenly realizing all that had happened in that 
brief span of time.  She could have been killed.  And now she was 
shaking like a leaf because of a friendly kiss?  It was the surprise, 
that's what it was.  She just hadn't expected it from Dorian.  Just like 
she hadn't expected Dorian to send out her laundry, pay for the hall 
carpeting, straighten up her apartment, make her breakfast . . . .
        He'd offered to pack her a <lunch>.
        "Sidney," she announced, after a brief pause, "this is just too 
weird.  If I had any smarts, I'd follow you under the covers and hide 
until this was over with."
        Snuggling against her, Sidney meowed his assent, then leapt out 
of her arms and headed for his food dish.  Natalie watched him eat, 
wondering if that was last night's grub or if Dorian had remembered 
to feed her cat, too.  She'd have to give Nick a call, remind him to 
feed his goldfish.  He tended to forget little things like that.
        But Dorian didn't.  Not any more.
        Rising to her feet, Natalie padded over to her closet and began 
to sort through her clothing for something to wear.  It would be better 
if she concentrated on the essentials for the moment.  She'd have to 
remember to dump those body bags from her back seat.  And leave 
the car windows opens to get rid of the garlic smell.  Those two 
bottles of blood were in the back of her car--she'd promised to bring 
them up for Dorian.  After sitting in the trunk, with the sunshine 
beating on the metal, they'd probably be warm.  But that was all 
right, since that's how he liked them.
        Which, for some reason, didn't seem to bother her as much as it 
had earlier . . . .

End of Chapter 8