Setting: After 'Night in Question' 

Thanks to Jules, for taking the time to read this when she had far heavier burdens 
demanding her attention < ---- V. much a treat of a person

Thanks to Bonnie, Cousinly-Receptionist-In-Training, Great-Capacity-Of-V.-Deep-Non-
Idiot-Thinking for her myriad of brilliant suggestions!

Halloween: Post-Hoc 
Copyright 2001
By Bonnie Rutledge

************************

"What makes you wicked, my children?" the Nightcrawler inquired lingeringly over the 
radio waves. "Have you been irrevocably corrupted by your demons? Do you feel as if 
your hunger has entered your every pore, strapping you against fate's ever turning wheel? 
Are you a helpless servant, wallowing and scraping under the mastery of your tainted 
desires for eternity...?"

************************

"Are you scared?" he whispered, his voice silky yet carrying a raw urgency.

"No." A juicy laugh erupted from her smile as she adjusted her costume, making certain 
her cleavage was an inch closer to improperly precarious. In the echo of her delight, she 
issued a Mother-May-I inquiry in an equally liquid voice. "Should I be?"

"Yes," he promised, running his gloved hands over the smooth, bare skin of her 
shoulders.

He wore a cape. God, that made her wild! Especially tonight, Halloween night, when the 
world could turn as dark, romantic, and arcane as a woman with a low neckline and an 
itch to scratch could handle.

He was a stranger. She'd met him at a party, just another Halloween masquerade running 
low on Chablis where no one revealed their true faces. You could be whoever and do 
whatever the hell tickled your fancy, all under the cover of a night that stirred disguise 
and illusion into an acceptable brew. 

She'd chosen one of those trashy wench costumes with all the accessories: full skirt best 
hitched beyond modesty, waist cinched into oblivion, and breasts pushed invitingly up to 
her earlobes. She'd told one of her friends earlier in the day, "I'll be a walking billboard 
for the medieval bimbo. Count on it."

Speaking of Counts, the moment she'd seen her stranger decked out like Dracula, she'd 
decided she would take him to some spot quiet and sinful. Sure, she knew that it was 
cliche. The whole vampire-lover scene was dead and ready for formaldehyde. If she'd 
been truly adventuresome and chic, she'd have picked up the guy disguised as a hobbit 
for the night's festivities. She couldn't help it, though. Call her a sentimental tramp, but 
Dracula was a Halloween party favorite she intended to wrap her teeth around for old 
times' sake.

To her delight, he'd offered to take her to his place nearby for the shadowy fun - much 
better from her one-night-is-all-I-can-stand point of view since he wouldn't know where 
she lived. As every naughty girl knows, a vampire in your bed is pointless the morning 
after. A gal likes assurance her fanged boy-toy will make dust with the sunrise.

Now that she was inside his loft with the lights out, her back against the cold, hard brick 
of one wall, the soft warmth of his gloves stroking her flesh, she felt like she'd died and 
gone to Wonderland. Those fingers played a melody on her body, running from the high 
thrust of her breasts over her collarbone to the lean line of her throat. Oh, she loved being 
played, loved it almost as much as being the player.

He held her arms up over her head as he sucked and nibbled lightly at her skin. She 
purred encouragingly, only half-listening when he shot a hot breath of words into her ear, 
"You should be scared to death."

She laughed again, a heated and lush sound. This was a game she'd enacted before with 
other men, one of her favorites. She lifted one leg, stroking up the side of his body with 
her thigh as she asked candidly, "You're going to make me scream. You don't want me 
to scream...do you?"

He tightened his grip on her wrists, straightening her arms until the tension was almost 
painful. "You like it kinky?"

He'd asked the question in a tone that implied she wasn't ready for what he had to offer. 
She liked the sound of that. "Kink away, lover."

His touch grew gentle on her arms then, and he pulled them in an arc against the rough 
surface of the bricks until her limbs stretched parallel to the floor. He released one hand, 
focusing his attention on her other arm as his lips trailed over her chemise, then her 
sleeve. She shivered at the sensation of his tongue dancing on her palm, twitching as he 
sucked her index finger deep into the warm cavity of his mouth.

As delightful as this dab of foreplay was, she began to wonder about the kinkiness he'd 
advertised when a familiar rattle reached her ears. She cooed with pleasure as she heard 
the chain clink against the mortar, felt the cold snap of the shackle securing her wrist 
firmly in place. Dungeon. He was playing dungeon. Wonderful!

She tried to maintain her cool as he imprisoned her other wrist, but she couldn't hold 
back a wriggle of excitement, feeling a rush of thrill inside her over the bite of the metal 
against her fragile skin. Amateur, the bimbo-for-a-night mused. Any experienced Count 
Dracula would have used padded manacles for an increase in his victim's pleasure. 
"Careful, I bruise easily."

"No," he countered before he commenced exploiting the bare flesh of her throat once 
more. Christ! She'd have *the* master hickey in the morning. She pictured how she'd 
bob the collar of her turtleneck tomorrow, flashing her love-bite trophy when she met her 
friends for lunch. She savored the prospect of their impressed squeals, their ensuing 
demands for all the dirty details, with almost as much as anticipation as she felt for the 
night to come itself.

But then his breath shivered in her ear again, interrupting her satisfied dreaming. His 
voice was amplified and steamy as he uttered with ruthless conviction, "No, I want to 
drink your blood."

She couldn't stop from laughing again. He'd even sunk into a schmaltzy Transylvanian 
accent - priceless! Oh, she could eat him up! Promises, promises...

Suddenly, the humor choked in her throat as she felt a second, unexpected bite of metal 
against her wrists. Sharp fire burned up her arm as he slashed a blade through her veins, 
first the left, then the right. Her kiss-smudged lips opened in slack horror as she 
registered what he'd done, what was happening, and just how powerless she was to 
escape.

H-he cut me! I'm - Oh, God! I-I'm -- I'm bleeding! No! No, this can't really be 
happening. This isn't happening. Th-this is all a b-bad dream -- 

Blood pooled where her wrists strained against the handcuffs, drizzling down the wall 
behind her in thick splashes of ruby syrup. A few trickles broke that dam of stained 
chrome, flowing over her palm in lazy ribbons to collect at her fingertips. She could feel 
his lips touch her flesh again, pressing and insistent. Now the caresses down her arm only 
filled her with dread. His clammy kisses fed the speechless fear swarming in the pit of 
her stomach, clogging up into her throat. She swallowed convulsively in silent, desperate 
panic as he licked hungrily at her seeping wounds, choking on the shock that strangled 
her voice.

Stop it! Stop, y-you sick f-!! No! I-I don't wanna die! Let me go! Help! Someone help m-
me!! Oh, God, please! No!

His mouth closed over her index finger a second time, lapping away at the scarlet drops 
of her life that beaded there before they splattered on the floor. Then he began to suck at 
her wrist, as if he could consume her, as if he fully intended to eat her alive. He believed 
it, this whole vampire illusion. He'd brought her here to feed it. He was going to kill her 
to satisfy it. She was going to die.

That's when she started to scream, every cell of her being begging, protesting, bartering 
for an escape. He laughed openly at her fear, exultation filling his voice as her frantic 
pleading intensified. She began to cry in harsh sobs as her world deteriorated; the safety 
of fantasies and costumes stripped away, leaving only the pain, the inevitability, and his 
stealing mouth.

************************

"You'd like to think of your wickedness as an affliction, wouldn't you?" the 
Nightcrawler reasoned with a caustic chuckle. "Such a convenient scapegoat is the Devil. 
That poor, horned illusion you spank constantly in your self-righteousness. So many 
crimes, so much time to shift the blame..."

************************

"That's our break," Tracy announced as she shrugged into her jacket. "All three victims 
were last seen in nightclubs within that four block radius. Chances are our perp is taking 
them somewhere in the area."

"And since it's Halloween," Captain Reese followed, "you know this loony is going to 
strike again."

Nick had a distant look in his eyes, his thoughts centered far, far away from the 96th 
precinct. All at once, his gaze sharpened into resolute determination, and he nodded 
abruptly, "We'll sweep door to door, until we find him."

Tracy was already headed for the exit as Reese tacked on orders, "Miller and Pulte, 
follow Knight and Vetter in a squad car and help them cover the area."

Natalie tagged Nick's arm as he moved to join the uniformed officers, her expression 
murky with her concern. "Are you sure you're ready for this?"

"I told you, Nat," he replied, his voice dropping to a level meant only for her ears. "We 
aren't dealing with a real vampire." His mouth twisted as he added, "Just your average 
*mortal* psychotic."

"That may be, but Nick..." Natalie nibbled worriedly at her lower lip, then dove into 
expressing her fears frankly. "This is your first official case since you were shot in the 
head. It's only been a week and a half! The Captain would understand if you told him you 
weren't up for street work yet. He'd have given you more time off, if you had asked!"

Nick's features shuttered. "I don't need more time off."

"I saw, Nick," she countered, her voice flooded with accusation. "I saw the look on your 
face at the last crime scene. You were drawn to the blood. You wanted it, Nick. Don't go 
out tonight. You need more time to recover," Natalie said urgently. "You're still getting 
back on track. Don't jeopardize -"

Nick held up one palm, cutting off her plea with a cold voice, "I think I'm in a better 
position than you to know if I can handle it."

Natalie stepped backward, blinking as though his words had carried a physical slap. "If 
that's how you feel," she said numbly.

Tracy ducked back inside the precinct entrance. "Nick? Are you coming or not? Time's a 
wasting!" his partner called, tapping her watch.

Nick faced Natalie's pained stare with firm assurance. "That's how I feel," he stated, 
squeezing her forearm apologetically before he moved to join the waiting officers.

************************

"Look at your hands, my children," the Nightcrawler urged, his tone reflecting the cool, 
night air. "Can you see the blood? You made the puncture. You thrust inside the hidden 
depths. Your arms embraced the darkness. Your mouth kissed each sin before you sent it 
into eternal slumber. And, if you have a choice now, my children: which is it? To be 
wicked or to repent..."

************************

Tracy shot Nick a curious glance, pursed her lips for a prim second, then asked hesitantly, 
"Are you sure you're ready for this?"

Nick briefly took his eyes off of the traffic, reacting like she'd smacked at his 
concentration with a flyswatter. "What?"

"You know, this case. The collar. Possibly having to chase after a perp," Tracy fumbled 
over her explanation. "Are you ready to run someone down? I mean, it's pretty 
incredible. When you were shot, we thought you were dead!"

Nick grimaced, saying impatiently, "Don't tell me you and Natalie had a meeting behind 
my back."

Tracy frowned in incomprehension. "Huh?" She shook her head stridently. "Look. All 
I'm saying is that ever since you've been back on the job, you've been..." her voice 
trailed off uncertainly.

"I've been what?" Nick prompted.

"You've been acting kind of weird," Tracy affirmed, then waved her hand in the air in the 
face of his deadpan stare as if to clear the smoke from that accusation. "Okay, so maybe 
weird isn't the right word. But there's something different. It's like you're not on the 
same page as the rest of the world."

Suddenly, a scream bolted out of the night, but it was only a brilliant bonfire in Nick's 
ears. Tracy remained deaf to the distant, desperate cries. 

Calmly, deliberately, he pulled the Cadillac over and parked at the curb. The squad car 
followed suit. "Maybe you have a point," he said, outwardly mirroring practicality while, 
inwardly, his senses swelled with the urge to hunt. "Why don't you take Pulte and Miller 
to do the sweep? I'll stay here with the car, until I hear something."

The worry in Tracy's expression faded. "I think that's a really good idea, Nick. I respect 
how you're trying to get back to the job, I really do," she said as she exited the Caddy. 
Leaning over the car door, she added, "But you're only human, right? You have to take 
time to heal." She nodded as the uniformed officers joined her outside the car. "Don't 
worry," she promised Nick. "We'll get this guy."

As Nick watched the trio move out of sight from the vantage point of the driver's seat, 
the screaming continued to rip through his consciousness. With each cry of terror, the line 
of his jaw grew stonier. With every plea for help, another shade of gold brightened his 
gaze. In the instant Tracy and the officers disappeared from view, Nick flashed out of the 
car, homing toward the sounds of death.

The lure came from a warehouse, the type with thick walls designed to smother the noise 
of industrial lifts shifting crates and other racket from the rest of the neighborhood. It 
reminded Nick of his own home in that respect. But this place, this cradle of shrill panic 
molting into dying breaths, featured a significant difference.

Blood twisted in the air, human and fresh. The scent snaked from the building like 
Salome's hands: teasing, sultry and sweet with promises.

Nick slammed into the room generating this nectar, effortlessly cuffing into 
unconsciousness the mortal responsible for bleeding three victims to death. Nick kicked 
the man's body over with one foot, sneering through his true fangs at the gaudiness of the 
mortal's cape and the smears of blood around his mouth. 

Then Nick's focus pierced the cataleptic woman pinned against the wall in a raw 
spectacle of bloodletting. In that moment, he knew he should call the others, to make 
some excuse for his first arrival on the scene, to summon an ambulance and rescue this 
injured woman, getting the hell away from the hunger making his hands shake, fleeing 
the perfume of life that stained her hands crimson. Blood dyed the bricks and the concrete 
floor that beautiful pigment of death he had never quite captured in palettes of deep 
cadmium or alizarin, and he was transfixed. 

Nick realized that these were the actions he should take: small redemptions for a myriad 
of decaying crimes. He understood the choice, and yet he would claim helplessness as his 
lips fell to suckle the last streams of life that pumped from this woman's wrist. Someone 
else would pay for his act of murder. He would return to his own loft, finally accepting 
the wisdom of additional leave from work while he struggled to recover from his wounds 
as so many had hopefully encouraged. The warm glow of the well-fed vampire would 
clash with his raging conscience and lying memory. 

And, while the sun rose on the Day of the Dead, Nick would fight an ancient battle of 
darkness, crafting his imaginary answer with a brush and canvas in themes of light and 
shadow manifested by hue, form and perspective. When complete, he would find the 
starkness of the painted shapes unbearable. The colors would scratch at his eyes, a 
rainbow of profane blemishes intermingled with pristine white. He would question 
everything: the angle of his hand as he dashed oil onto the blank slate, the mixture of the 
tints swirled on his palette, the measure of his worthiness, and the limits of his sanity. All 
the while, the radio would play on, the Nightcrawler's voice mercilessly taunting with 
words that never quite seemed to fade into silence...

************************

 "If you have ever claimed a hope of deliverance, if you have ever nourished a fantasy on 
the sweet pabulum of sanctimony, doesn't this resolve prove that you have always had 
the power of choice at your disposal? Don't you wonder why it took you so long to resist 
temptation under the guise of such devotion? Hasn't it occurred to you why you continue 
to fall, why you give into that attraction time and again?" 

"No, the beast does not make you depraved. There is no beast. There are no scapegoat 
devils. No monster feeds evil into your heart and forces you to make a meal of it. How 
has it escaped you after all this time? This blind religion preying for release from your 
iniquitous curse has only served to costume the truth: You are not wicked because of 
what you have become. Ergo propter hoc...You have become what you are because a part 
of you has always been wicked. Halloween is a night for lost souls. No rest for you, my 
children. No rest for you."

************************
Fin

< ' 
   | |___/ 
   |  __ |        Bonnie Rutledge 
   | |   | |        llamababe@carolina.rr.com 
    ^     ^