Jazz could almost forget that today was the darkest day of his life. Almost. He had Adam at his side and life felt possible once more.

Swinging their entwined hands between them, the young couple walked unhurriedly up the driveway towards the cottage at the edge of the Chateau’s grounds. Pausing only a moment or two to kiss, they reluctantly separated.

“We’ll get through this, Nicky,” he reassured the younger teenager.

Jazz leaned forward, his forehead touching Adam’s all too briefly. “You keep telling me that, man. Maybe then I’ll believe it.”

Suddenly James appeared at the door, clearly waiting for Jazz. His face a careful blank, nevertheless James’ deep blue eyes were grave. “Come inside,” he said softly.

“What’s wrong?” Jazz asked, willing himself not to start trembling.

James looked at Adam for a moment, as if enlisting his aid, then repeated what he just said. “Come inside.”

Jazz began to move, but Adam caught him by the wrist, stopping him. “Hey.” With an equally surreptitious glance at James, Adam abruptly wrenched the younger adolescent into his arms for a fierce embrace. His mouth buried against Jazz’ ear, Adam whispered, “Don’t forget that I love you.”

As Jazz stepped back, his fingertips clung to Adam’s for a brief second before breaking away. Nodding without saying another word, James went inside the little house.

How long Adam stood there unmoving, he might never be sure.

***

It was easily his worst nightmare come true. Some children, no matter how badly abused, might long to see their parents again, either to set things right, or to wreak vengeance upon them. Sometimes those two things were the same.

“Jazz!” His mother hadn’t changed a great deal. Oh, she was cleaner, if only in the most superficial sense of the word. But he doubted that she was sober. Sylvie simply wasn’t that motivated.

She held her arms out to him, but he couldn’t make himself go to her. From time to time he thought of her, the picture always the same. She was apologetic. She was caring. She was—

--completely out of character.

“Jazz,” she purred, “all that trouble between us is over now. Come with me. I can introduce you to your real father.”

For a price, Jazz added mentally. He shook his head sulkily.

“Please?”

“No.”

“No?” Sylvie turned to face James, her hands on her hips. “What kind of lies have you people been feeding him?” she asked sharply.

“You people? They’re not “you people”, Mama. They’re the same as me.”

She swung around rapidly, her index finger punctuating the air with deadly stabs. “You don’t talk back to your mother! Pack your things!”

“I won’t! You can’t make me!” Jazz shouted.

Sylvie pulled her clenched fist back to hit Jazz, and the fourteen-year old ducked and closed his eyes, waiting for the blow to fall.

It never came.

When Jazz opened his eyes, Smoke was standing just behind Sylvie, his hand gripping her wrist. “I won’t let you hurt him. Ever again.”

Sylvie narrowed her eyes and spat in Smoke’s face. Smoke never flinched. “You want to fight dirty, Sylvie? You’d better think about it real hard.”

“You forget. I know you, Smoke. You wouldn’t hit a woman.”

“In your case, I’d make an exception.”

“You’re all bluff.”

“Try me.”

Sylvie and Smoke stood nose-to-nose, glaring at one another. Stalemate.

“I’m not going to argue with a faggot.”

Smoke regarded her with considerable equanimity. “Good.”

“You want to hit me, though, don’t you?”

“You have no idea,” he managed to snarl without raising his voice at all.

“Bet you couldn’t knock me out if you tried, pussy boy.”

“You’re probably right,” he agreed.

“But you want a chance to try, don’t you, you precious little fag?”

“Mama. Stop!” Jazz’ fervent plea did not go unnoticed.

Like a woman possessed, Sylvie whirled around, her voice a pitiable growl. “I told you not to call me that, you filthy twat!” Suddenly she began to cackle wildly. “I don’t know why you’re defending him! He’s not even a *real* man! Is *that* what you want to be when you grow up?” she snorted derisively.

Jazz didn’t care what she called him. But when she started taking Smoke apart, something in him snapped. All this time, he had been holding himself in a kind of limbo, conflicted between hating what Sylvie represented and caring what she thought, simply because she was *still* his mother. But when she crossed that line, when she stood there, starkly revealed for the person she really was, his conflict was no more.

He’d never seen it as a showdown between Sylvie and Smoke before. He’d never seen that there was a choice to be made. Once and for all.

In the heartbeat that it took to register her derision, Jazz threw himself in front of Smoke, visibly taking a stand, overtly making that choice.

“I hope someday I’m *half* the man that he is!” he shouted, throwing his arms open wide in a protective manner that encompassed as much of Smoke’s slender frame as possible.

“My, you *are* an ambitious little fag, aren’t you? Or you would be, if *he* was any kind of a man! Why, *I’m* more of a man than he is!”

When Sylvie took a step towards him, Jazz unconsciously backed up. Only Smoke’s firm grasp of both his shoulders stopped him. “I won’t let her hurt you,” Smoke whispered to him.

“Such devotion,” she purred. “Is that why you’re so attached to him, Smoke? Are you fucking him?”

The sound of the slap echoed loudly in the silence that followed Sylvie’s accusation. James, heretofore standing quietly, even numbly, on the sidelines, watched this woman tear apart everything he held dear until he just couldn’t bear anymore.

“How dare you touch me!” Sylvie hissed.

“Get out,” said James, over the lump in his throat.

“Not without Jazz,” she countered. “I’m taking him out of here right now.”

“Over-my-dead-body,” James intoned slowly but emphatically.

“You can’t do this! I’m his mother!”

“Only by a terrible accident of birth,” Smoke said, wrapping his arms protectively around Jazz.

“Jazz! Honey! You know I didn’t mean it! Come with me, baby!”

Jazz’ bright eyes had gone dark long ago. With remembered pain. Now they filled with tears and fresh pain. “No, Mama,” he whispered.

Smoke’s fingers tightened, digging into Jazz’ chest, reminding him that he was there. Thank God. Thank God that he had found him that day.

“I won’t leave without him,” she declared mutinously to no one in particular.

James reached for her. “Oh, yes, you will.”

“Who’s going to throw me out? You?” she sneered. “You haven’t got the guts.”

Suddenly there was an unexpected voice coming from the direction of the front door. Leaning against the interior threshold, arms folded casually in front of her, was Derry. “But I do.”

Sylvie blatantly looked the younger woman up and down, acting as though she found her lacking both the wit and the strength to take her down. “Really.”

“Aye, really. But if you don’t believe me, you can ask my husband,” indicating the large man coming up behind her.

“We’re just next door in the gatehouse, guys. You couldn’t call?” Davenport asked rhetorically, an anticipatory grin cutting across his handsome face.

Sylvie started edging toward the door, thinking to dart through quickly, but Derry reached out and tapped her on the shoulder. “Going somewhere?”

“I have a friend waiting for me outside. He’ll take care of you two,” Sylvie said, hoping that it was true.

“Oh, you mean this little guy?” Davenport pulled a seedy looking young man through the door, his hand on the scruff of his neck. “This weasel was lurking around outside. Thought he was a thief.”

“Lemme go,” said the apparent burglar, struggling to get away. “I’m calling the police.”

“I don’t think so.” Davenport was his usual unshakably calm self, which greatly reassured the rest of them. Except for Derry. Being a force to be reckoned with, she didn’t need any reassurance.

Derry stabbed a finger into the would-be robber’s chest. “You can deal with the police or you can deal with us, boyo.” She looked up at her husband, a curious glint in her silver-grey eyes. “Y’know, if someone gave *me* that choice, I think I’d take the police, too. We’re too bloody dangerous,” she said with a chuckle.

Sylvie squawked as if on command. “He’s my boyfriend. Please don’t hurt him.”

“You stupid bitch. You can’t do anything right. You just couldn’t stick with the plan, could you? It was so simple, just grab the kid and go.”

He would have hit Sylvie, but for the arms restraining him. Still Sylvie jumped back accordingly. “You bastard!”

Derry shook her head, her chestnut brown hair waving about her shoulders. “They seem made for each other, Jake. I think we should let them go and have at it.”

Davenport thrust the man through the doorway with ease. Derry had to use a bit more force on the recalcitrant Sylvie. “Don’t come back here.”

“You can’t tell me what to do, bitch.” Sylvie would have lunged at Derry, but Davenport held onto her shoulder in what could only be described as an approximation of the Vulcan nerve pinch.

“We don’t expect to see you again,” Davenport added for good measure.

“You can’t keep me away from my son.”

“You could always get a lawyer.”

Sylvie paled. She couldn’t risk going to court. She had a record. She was lucky to be out of jail right now.

“No, no, it’s, um, okay. I can see that Jazz is in, um, good hands.” Her complete about-face surprised no one, including Jazz. If his mother knew how to do one thing and do it well, it was to survive.

There were several seconds of utter chaos after Sylvie and her boyfriend left. But things did anything but settle down. Davenport demanded an explanation, and James assured him that he would get one. As soon as he figured out what it was.

When James and Smoke were alone with Jazz, James noticed right away that Smoke was reluctant to let go of him. “Pete, it’s okay. They’re gone.”

Smoke unwound his arms, but Jazz clung to them. Jazz’ anguished, “Don’t leave me, please,” convinced James that both Smoke and Jazz needed a bit more than reassurance.

Gathering both of them into an expansive embrace, James murmured to Smoke, “Hey, we made it.”

“This time,” said Jazz, uncertain that his mother would give up.

A chill settled over the room.

***

But though Sylvie and her boyfriend fought all the way back to the alleyway that seemingly spawned them, Jazz was no longer a real concern. Sylvie was more afraid of going back to jail than anything else, so Davenport and Derry’s warnings hit their mark.

But the plan that Sylvie’s boyfriend hatched as a quickie get-rich scheme did not die there. Sylvie had already contacted Jazz’ father.

That was the problem with loose ends.

Jazz stared at his plate, his eyes unseeing. Smoke apprehensively watched the teenager whom he had claimed as son. Chewing on his lower lip, Smoke cocked his head and asked, “Not hungry?”

At the unexpected breaking of the silence that stretched between them, Jazz flinched. That sole gesture told Smoke more than words. Jazz was living on the edge of his nerves. Ever since Sylvie left.

He couldn’t blame the adolescent for not being sure that Sylvie wouldn’t double-cross them somehow. It fit the whole pattern of his upbringing. Always sold to the highest bidder.

“Would you like me to make you a sandwich instead?” Now Smoke was being overly solicitous and he knew it. The almost fifteen-year old was perfectly capable of making himself something to eat. If he was hungry. It was obvious that he wasn’t.

“No,” Jazz murmured, more out of politeness than anything else.

“Would—“ It hurt to ask this, but Smoke would do anything, anything at all, to bring some kind of peace back into Jazz’ young life. “If you can’t talk to me, would you talk to Adam?”

“No!” This time it was Smoke’s turn to jump at the sudden explosion of sound coming from Jazz. “I mean, shit, Pete, if I talked to *anyone*, it’d be *you*, okay? I just can’t—“

“I understand,” Smoke said softly.

“Do you?” Jazz squinted hard at Smoke, as if he were having trouble bringing his adoptive father into focus. “I’m not sure *I* do. I never used to care if I pissed her off before. But all of a sudden, I was so—“ Jazz choked on the next word, fear or some deeper emotion threatening to claw its way out of his throat.

“What?” Smoke prompted gently.

Jazz’ pupils dilated, turning his vivid green eyes darker than Smoke had ever seen them. “I thought she was going to take me away. I thought—oh, God—“ Jazz tried to turn his face away, but Smoke cupped his chin, making further movement impossible.

“What, m’ petit?” Smoke’s French was slurred by the emotion wrapping itself around his tongue, but his meaning was clear. It was an endearment of sorts, the kind a father would bestow upon his son.

All at once Jazz looked as though he would burst into tears. “I thought I would never see you again, okay?” It sounded as if the words were dragged from somewhere deep within him.

“And that mattered to you?”

“Don’t you get it? I’m more your kid than I ever was hers!” Aghast at how much he had revealed, Jazz struggled to leave the kitchen table, but Smoke’s grip on his arm was too strong.

“Come ‘ere,” Smoke commanded.

Jazz hesitated, but Smoke took advantage of that second to pull the teenager into his arms. Wrapped tightly in Smoke’s embrace, Jazz gave up trying to fight his feelings and lay his head on Smoke’s shoulder, his long golden-brown hair falling into his eyes.

“I’m not a little boy,” Jazz declared mutinously.

“Of course not,” Smoke agreed, refusing to relinquish his hold on him.

“I’m almost fifteen.”

“I know.”

“You rescued me,” he whispered to the older man. “You’re *still* rescuing me.”

Smoke pressed a kiss to Jazz’ hair and sighed. “She can’t have you back. You’re too important to me.”

“Me? Important?” Jazz sniffled and hid his face once more.

“I love you. I always have.”

“Me, too, Pete.”

For the longest time, they were content to stay that way. When Smoke looked up, however, he saw his partner, James, hovering expectantly in the doorway. His expression looked every bit as grim as it did the day that Sylvie Verlaine dared to come to the Chateau.

“Jamie? What is it?”

Jazz couldn’t help but ask, “Is it Mama?”

James shook his head slowly. As if he were considering what words to choose, he paused. “It’s not her.”

A tall, distinguished-looking gentleman in his late forties appeared behind James. “It’s me.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m your father.”

“You have my mother’s eyes.”

Jazz blinked without speaking. As hungry as he was for knowledge about his background, he was loath to put his faith in this man. He didn’t want to get hurt again.

The man cleared his throat, seemingly nervous despite his elegant attire and his initially poised demeanor. “My name is Philippe Deveraux,” he offered by way of introduction, extending a hand to Smoke.

Smoke glanced quickly out of the corner of his eyes at James before shaking the older man’s hand. For a moment, Smoke was at an understandable loss for words. What could he say? Pleased to meet you? He wasn’t that big on hypocrisy. My pleasure? It was hardly that.

In the end he simply settled for his name. “Pierre Sideau.”

James met Smoke’s eyes, curious as to why his partner chose to use his real first name. Smoke’s bland affect told James that he was gathering strength from wherever he could, no matter how unlikely the source.

Deveraux nodded and broke off the handshake. Sensing that he was not going to get very much information from Jazz himself, Deveraux spoke directly to Smoke. “You’re probably wondering why I’m here.”

Oh, yeah, that was the number one question that was on *everybody’s* mind. Smoke cautiously instructed himself to relax, consciously forcing his hands, which had somehow become fists, to uncurl. “Actually, yes,” Smoke replied, wondering where on Earth he found the noncommittal tone.

“This doesn’t have to be hostile, you know.”

Smoke didn’t know why, but he resented Deveraux pointing that out to him. “Of course not.”

Deveraux, who clearly owed his good looks as much to genetic advantage as to old money, pondered. His hair was far darker than Jazz’, his almond-shaped eyes the color of aged brandy. There was little physical resemblance between Jazz and his biological father, though there was some indication of his Asian heritage in both his eyes and his skin tone. “Why don’t we start at the beginning?”

“Why don’t we start with why you’re here?” Smoke countered, this time unable to prevent the wave of bitterness that surged through him from erupting close to the surface, where it could be easily seen.

At the exact moment that James was readying himself to break up a potential fight, Jazz interjected, “Why’s my name Verlaine then? Huh?”

“That’s your mother’s name.”

“Guess I wasn’t good enough to be a Deveraux,” Jazz muttered under his breath, but both Smoke and Deveraux heard him.

“I didn’t know about you when you were born. Otherwise, you would certainly have my name.”

“But not a place in your family, right?”

“Things are—complicated. There are things you wouldn’t understand, Nicolas.”

Jazz’ eyes narrowed as he contemplated his father. “Don’t call me that!”

“Why ever not? It’s your name, isn’t it?”

“My name’s *Jazz*.”

His father’s lip wrinkled slightly, but whether from distaste or from Jazz’ tone, it was hard to tell. “I was like you once.”

“I doubt that,” Jazz snorted, folding his arms across his chest. His whole body looked tense yet fragile, like a strong gust of wind might knock him over and break him, scattering the pieces to the air like so many leaves.

“I *was*,” Deveraux insisted.

“Really? You were gay?” Jazz asked rhetorically, his voice now dripping with contempt.

If he was hearing this for the first time, Deveraux took the news surprisingly well. “No, I wasn’t,” he answered, treating Jazz’ query as a legitimate question. “But I was wild and full of myself.” His smile was tinged with chagrin. “A condition that sadly lasted until I was well into my twenties, I’m afraid.”

“Yeah, well, being gay’s not something you get over.”

“You sound like you’ve tried.”

Jazz’ eyes went wide. “Do I look self-destructive to you? It’s not a disease; it’s part of who I am.”

“I see.” Deveraux lowered his head, making it all but impossible for Jazz to see his eyes, which frustrated him no end.

“So—how’s the wife?” Jazz asked impertinently. Smoke was close enough to touch him, but he didn’t dare. He was terribly afraid of this man. He wore power like an expensive suit, and Smoke was convinced that if there were a way, Deveraux would take Jazz with him.

“Are you curious about the rest of your family?”

Jazz shook his head. “They’re not my family. *This* is my family,” he indicated James and Smoke with a wave of his hand.

“What about Sylvie?”

Jazz’ expression never changed. “What about her?”

“She thought she could extort money from me by threatening to tell my wife and my children about you.”

“So? That’s between you and her, man.”

“It doesn’t make you angry that your own mother wanted to use you as some kind of perverted bargaining chip?”

“Who are you calling perverted, old man?” This time Smoke did move to hold onto Jazz, ostensibly to comfort him. In truth, Smoke feared losing him and wrapping his arms around the boy he considered *his* son was almost symbolic. He wondered if Deveraux would even notice.

Ignoring Jazz’ last comment, Deveraux said, “I wish I could offer you a home with me, son. Take you away from all this—“

“All what?” Jazz was furious. No one was going to make his decisions for him. He was almost fifteen. If he had to, he would run away before he would let his so-called father take him from James and Smoke. But then, he thought with a frown, wouldn’t that defeat the whole purpose? Then no one would win. Not even him.

“What do you know about my life with Mama? What do you know about trying to survive on the streets? Your idea of being *wild* was probably getting drunk on Saturday night.”

“No,” the older man intoned solemnly, “it involved fathering an illegitimate child on a whore.”

Jazz would have struck him, but Smoke’s grip on him was too tight. Sylvie was a terrible, evil woman, but she was his mother. No one had more right to hate her than he did. But this supercilious bastard had no right to denounce her to Jazz’ face.

James’ lower lip curled in disgust as he moved closer to his partner and his adoptive son. “You are *some* piece of work,” he growled.

“I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

James enlightened him. “I thought that you came here for a tearful meeting with the son you never knew you had. I thought that you genuinely regretted not being able to raise him. And last but not fucking least, I thought that if you couldn’t offer him a home, you would throw outrageous amounts of money around, to compensate and to assuage your guilt.”

“Ah, you were expecting a big payoff? How much *do* you make, Mr. Elliott, on your teacher’s salary?” For some reason, James flinched as if he had been physically assaulted. There was something about the way Deveraux saw them. Or did he see them? Maybe they were simply too far beneath him for him to register their presence.

James refused to sacrifice his dignity on the altar of Deveraux’s discontent. “I’m sure you already know more about me than I’ll ever know about you,” he stated coolly.

Deveraux smiled.

That smile changed everything. James eyed the older man with a venomous glare. “Seems to me that you don’t like Jazz *or* us. Too bad. You gave up your right to care a long time ago. Maybe you should have considered the consequences of where you put your dick sixteen years ago when it might have mattered.”

“Jamie!” Smoke cried out. James might be right, but it was hardly a politically sane move to make at this point. They were at a disadvantage; they should be begging Deveraux to let them keep Jazz, not antagonizing him.

Deveraux chuckled. “I would love to take Nicolas home with me, but he just—wouldn’t fit in.”

James opened his mouth to say something, but Smoke punched his upper arm. Hard. It wasn’t a gentle reminder.

“But I’ve never been one to shirk my responsibilities so I will set aside a yearly allowance for him until he comes of age.”

I’m not touching it, Jazz thought to himself. This wasn’t love. Or even affection. It wasn’t even a business deal. It was an obligation to be met and dealt with. He could almost see his father making a little checkmark next to Jazz’ name on his Things To Do list.

“And once he’s of age?”

Deveraux shook his head at their naiveté. “Why, he’s on his own, of course.”

“No inheritance? No name change? Don’t you even want to claim him as yours?”

The gentleman in appearance only shrugged. “I came out of curiosity. I’m satisfied. If you wish to adopt him, I won’t protest.”

James was simmering. Smoke could tell by the heat in his deep blue eyes. Willing him to see this as an opportunity rather than a disaster, Smoke rubbed James’ shoulder. When James didn’t speak, Smoke took that as acquiescence and ran with it.

Addressing Deveraux directly, Smoke said politely, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

When Deveraux left, James turned to Smoke and hissed, “Why didn’t you let me take him apart?”

“Cause he left the way open for us to adopt Jazz!”

Jazz looked from James to Smoke and back again. “Guys, guys, don’t fight about me. I’m not worth it.”

Smoke kissed his cheek and ruffled his hair affectionately. “Jazz, I know this seems like the worst possible time to ask this, but would you even consider—“

“You want me to be your son? For real?”

James put his arm around Smoke’s shoulder and leaned on his partner. Those were real tears in Jazz’ eyes, but this time they weren’t tears of pain. They were—

--tears of joy.

Michael walked softly to the bedroom windows and threw open the latch. Definitely master of all he surveyed, sometimes he could hardly believe that all of this, the chateau and its lands, belonged to him. He leaned forward on his arms, the early morning breeze already warm on his handsome face, foretelling a brand new day.

He felt her presence behind him. Without turning to look, he whispered, “I hope that I didn’t wake you, doucette.”

She slid her cheek along his bare back and sighed contentedly. As she wrapped her arms around his waist, she leaned heavily on him, enjoying the feel of his skin against hers. “Mmm, no. I just missed you lying next to me.”

He smiled, though she couldn’t see his expression. “Did you ever wake up and think, Today is going to be special?”

“Every day I wake up with *you* is special, Michael,” she murmured huskily, the vibration of her voice against his skin vaguely erotic.

He knew he wasn’t making all that much sense. He wasn’t articulate at describing his feelings. Not like some of the others. Even after all these years away from Section. “It’s like…we’re starting over. Like this is the first day of the rest of our lives.”

She kissed a spot in the middle of his back before reluctantly releasing him. “That was beautiful, Michael. I dunno why you think you don’t have a way with words. You do.”

“On a page, doucette. When I can think about what I need to say.”

“Always underestimating your own talents, love.”

He turned to face her, a trace of the smile remaining. He reached out with his thumb and caressed her right eyebrow, as always making her feel like a well-cosseted feline. “I’m good at this.”

“Mmm, yes, you are,” she said, her light blue eyes sliding shut. Her mouth found his thumb and engulfed it.

He was instantly hard. He fought his thumb for her mouth, his tongue nudging her lips apart. With one kiss, he disarmed her for she was defenseless against this reflection of her own love. “I love you, doucette.”

“Oh, Michael, sometimes I think if we couldn’t be together, I wouldn’t be able to go on.”

“Ssh, ssh, Kita. You’ll never have to find out,” he whispered, his mouth brushing her ear. “I’ll always be right here.”

Her arms wound their way around his neck as she buried her face against his shoulder. “I love you.”

“No tears, doucette. Not today.”

She nodded silently, her cheek rubbing against Michael’s shoulder. No tears, she echoed inwardly. Not today.

Why was their love always tinged with this bittersweet sensation? Was it regret for all they’d left behind? Hardly. Was it because deep down Nikita believed that they had narrowly snatched their love from the jaws of the Section beast, and they were living on borrowed time? That was part of it.

Nikita was convinced that, as happy as they were, they could not have *forever*. Forever was a word that Declan bestowed on Birkoff with an ease that made her uncomfortable. There was always something dark, something hidden, something waiting expectantly around the corner in the world they inhabited.

But that didn’t mean that they couldn’t try. For what was the alternative but to give in, give up, and get out.

All of this and more passed through her mind at the speed of light. But she said nothing.

Nothing except “I love you, Michael.”

It meant so many things. It meant everything. It meant the most important thing of all.

And Michael understood.

“Please?”

“I said I’ll think about it.”

“That’s what you always say when you really mean no.”

“If I meant no, I would say no. Now shoo.”

“All the other kids get to—“

“You’re not other kids.”

“I wish I was.”

“No, you don’t.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“You’re entirely too precocious for your own good, you know.”

“What’s perkoshus?”

“It means that you’re getting too big for your britches.” With that, Nikita ruffled her youngest son’s hair before patting him on the behind.

Luc glared at his mother, his eyes so like his father’s that it made Nikita pause. Of all of the children, and she was certainly not playing favorites, she had a soft spot in her heart for Luc. He looked so much like Michael.

She often wondered what Michael was truly like before Section. Before he was recruited into L’Heure Sanguine. She pictured him at Luc’s age in her mind’s eye. Quiet. Serious. Well-spoken. Her lips curved into a mischievous smile. Not at all like Luc then.

Oh, Luc had his moments. But he was a virtual whirlwind, frequently leaving the others trailing in his wake. His mind was so agile. He definitely got that from Michael. He was creative. He saw possibilities where no one else did. His imagination stood him in good stead. And yet, he loved science, embracing its structure and logic with a fervor that Nikita found almost contradictory.

Studying Luc’s mutinous stance, she sighed. She hated to set a precedent like this. But there *were* exceptions to every rule. And she *did* rather hate rules, no matter how useful they could be.

“Luc?”

His look said, What the heck do you want now, Mom? But Luc was ever the practicing politician, even at five. “Yeah, Mom?”

“If I say you can go—“

“Yippee! Yayyyy! You’re the best, Mommy!” Luc wasted no time at all in dancing around Nikita’s legs, suddenly looking more like a leprechaun than a boy.

“I said *if*, Luc.”

Luc’s happy dancing stopped. He bit his lip anxiously, trying to figure out what combination would unlock his mother’s heart.

“If I say you can go, you have to be on your absolute best behavior. This is a big deal-grownup-type thing to do. Do you understand?”

Luc looked positively solemn. “Yes, Mommy,” he whispered.

“Okay, you can go.” Luc yipped with glee. “Unless—“ Nikita drawled. Luc fell silent instantly.

“—your father disagrees.”

“Oh, Mommmm. Daddy never lets me. Never ever ever.” Luc began shaking his head vehemently, as if to emphasize his point.

Nikita permitted herself a tiny smile at hearing secondhand about Michael’s overprotective streak. She was well-acquainted with it. In fact, though she could be quite vocal about how his overprotection chafed her own well-developed sense of independence, she secretly reveled in it. For it was tangible proof of Michael’s love for her.

“Oh, Luc, Daddy just doesn’t want to see you in such a hurry to grow up.” It was true. Sometimes she thought that Michael savored his moments with Luc most of all, though he was careful not to favor him over the other children.

Luc looked at her with Michael’s eyes and her smile. “I can’t help it, Mommy. I’m just a kid,” he said with a shrug.

Nikita felt such love well up inside that she was afraid she would cry. But it wouldn’t be from sadness. Never that. Her children were a constant reminder of the life she and Michael left behind.