by Tanya Huff
“That sometimes when we get too old, when the weight of all those centuries becomes too much to bear, we get so we can no longer stand the night and finally give ourselves to the sun.”
“And before that happens, the dreams come?”
“I don’t know.”
She closed her hand around his. “All right. Let’s take this one step at a time. Have you gotten tired of living?”
“No.” That, at least, he was sure of and the reason for it stared at him intently from less than an arm’s length away. “But, Vicki, as much as I have changed, the body, the mind is still basically human. Perhaps . . .”
“Perhaps the equipment is wearing out?” she interrupted, tightening her grip. “Planned obsolescence? You start heading toward your fifth century and the system starts breaking down?” Her brows drew in and her glasses slid down her nose. “I don’t believe that.”
Henry reached over and pushed her glasses back into place. “You can’t disbelieve the dreams,” he said softly.
“No,” she admitted, “I can’t.” She sighed deeply and one side of her mouth quirked up. “It’d be useful if you lot did a little more communicating, so we weren’t approaching this blind—maybe put out a newsletter or something.” He smiled at that, as she knew he would, and he relaxed a little. “Henry, less than a year ago I didn’t believe in vampires or demons or werewolves or myself. Now I know better. You aren’t crazy. You don’t want to die. You are therefore not going to give yourself to the sun. Q.E.D.”
He had to believe her. Her no-nonsense mortal attitude slapped aside the specter of madness. “Stay till morning?” he asked. For a moment he couldn’t believe the words had come from his mouth. He might as well have said, “Stay until I’m helpless. ” It meant the same thing. Did he trust her that much? He saw that she understood and by her hesitation gave him time to take back the request. He suddenly realized he didn’t want to take it back. That he did, indeed, trust her that much.
Four hundred and fifty years ago he’d asked, “Can we love?”
“Can you doubt it?” had been the answer.
The silence stretched. He had to break it before it pulled them apart; pulled her apart, forced her to hear what he knew she wasn’t ready to hear. “You can tie me to the bed if I start to do anything stupid.”
“My definition of stupid or yours?” Her voice was tight.
In for a penny in for a pound. “Yours.” He smiled, planted a kiss on her palm, and turned to face the window. If Vicki thought him sane, then he had to think so, too. Perhaps why he dreamed of the sun was of less immediate concern than how he dealt with the dreams. “More things in heaven and earth . . .” he mused.
Vicki sagged back against the sofa cushions. “Christ, I’m getting tired of that quote.”
Four
Vicki had seen a thousand dawns and seen none of them the way she saw this one.
“Can you feel it?”
“Feel what?” Half asleep, she lifted her head off Henry’s lap.
“The sun.”
A sudden shot of adrenaline snapped her awake and she jerked forward, peering into his face. He looked very intent, brows drawn down, eyes narrowed. She glanced at the window. Although it faced south, not east, the sky had definitely begun to lighten. “Henry?”
He blinked, focused, and shook his head when he saw her expression, his smile both reassuring and slightly embarrassed. “It’s all right, this happens every morning. It’s like a warning.” His voice took on the mechanical tones of a dozen science fiction movie computers. “You have fifteen minutes to reach minimum safe darkness.”
“Fine.” Vicki stood, still holding his wrist. “Fifteen minutes. Let’s go.”
“I was making a joke,” he protested as she pulled him to his feet. “As warnings go, it’s not really that definite. It’s just a feeling.”
Vicki sighed and shot an anxious glance out the window at the streaks of pink she was sure she could see touching the edges of the city. “Okay. It’s just a feeling. What do you usually do when you feel it?”
“Go to bed.”
“Well?”
He studied her face for a moment—his intent expression back—sighed in turn, and nodded. “You’re right.” Then he pulled his hands free, spun on his heel, and walked across the living room.
“Henry?”
Although he stopped, he didn’t turn, merely looked back over his shoulder.
I don’t have to stay if you’re sure you’re all right. Except he wasn’t sure. That was why she was there. And while he might be regretting making the offer—she recognized second thoughts in his hesitation—the reason he’d made it still existed. It seemed that if they were to both get through sunrise, she’d have to treat this like any other job. The client fears that under certain conditions he may attempt suicide. I’m here to stop him. With a start, she realized he was still waiting for her to say something. “Uh, how do you feel?”
Henry watched the parade of emotions cross Vicki’s face. This isn’t any easier for you, is it? he thought. “I feel the sun,” he said softly and held out his hand.
She took it with what he’d come to recognize as her working expression and together they made their way to the bedroom.
The first time Vicki had seen Henry’s bed, she’d been irrationally disappointed. By that time she’d known he didn’t spend the day locked in a coffin atop a pile of his native earth, but she’d been secretly hoping for something a little exotic. A king-size bed—“I bet your father would have loved to have one of those . . . ”—with white cotton sheets and a dark blue blanket was just too definitively normal looking.
This morning, she shook free of his hand and stopped just inside the closed door. The soft circle of light from the lamp on the bedside table left her effectively blind, but she knew, because he’d told her on that first visit, that the heavy blue velvet drapery over the window covered a layer of plywood painted black and caulked around the edges. Another curtain just inside the glass hid the wood from the prying eyes of the world. It was a barrier designed to keep the sun safely at bay and a barrier, Vicki knew, that Henry could rip down in seconds if he chose. Her body became the barrier before the door.
Standing by the bed, Henry hesitated, fingers on shirt buttons, surprised to find himself uncomfortable about undressing in front of a woman he’d been making love to—and feeding from—for months. This is ridiculous. She probably can’t even see you from there, the light’s so dim. Shaking his head, he stripped quickly, reflecting that helplessness brought with it a much greater intimacy than sex.
He could feel the sun more strongly now, more strongly than he could remember feeling it before. You’re sensitive to it this morning. That’s all. God, he hoped it was all.
For Vicki, watching the flicker of pale skin as Henry moved in and out of the circle of light, standing guard at the door suddenly made less than no sense. “Henry? What the hell am I doing here?” She walked forward until his face swam into focus and then reached out and laid her hand gently on his bare chest, halting his movement. “I can’t stop you . . .” She scowled, recognizing the words as inadequate. “I can’t even slow you down.”
“I know.” He covered her fingers with his, marveling as he always did at the heat of her, at the feel of her blood pulsing just under the skin.
“Great.” She rolled her eyes. “So what am I supposed to do if you make a run for the sun?”
“Be there.”
“And watch you die?”
“No one, not even a vampire, wants to die alone.”
It could have sounded facetious. It didn’t. Hadn’t she realized only hours before that was all she had to give him? But she hadn’t realized, not then, that it might come to this.
Breathing a little heavily, wishing the light was strong enough for her to see his expression, Vicki managed not to yank her hand free. Be there. Bottom line, it was no more than Celluci had ever asked of her. Only the circumstances were different. “Jesus H. Christ, Henry.�
�� It took an effort, but she kept her voice steady, “You’re not going to fucking die, okay? Just get your jammies on—or your tuxedo or whatever it is the undead sleep in—and get into bed.”
He released her and spread his arms, his meaning plain.
“Fine.” She pointed at the bed and glared at him while he did as he was told. Then, pushing her glasses hard against the bridge of her nose, she perched on the edge of the mattress. If she squinted, she could make out his features. “Are you okay?”
“Are you daring me not to be?”
“Henry!”
“I can feel the sun trembling on the horizon, but the only thing in my mind is you.”
“You’re just a bundle of clichés this morning.” But the relief in his voice had made it sound like truth. “What’s going to happen? I mean to you?”
He shrugged, his shoulders whispering against the sheets. “From your side, I don’t know. From mine, I go away until sunset. No dreams, no physical sensation.” His voice began to slow under the weight of dawn. “Nothingness.”
“What should I do?”
He smiled. “Kiss me . . . good-bye.”
Her lips were on his when the sun rose. She felt the day claim him. Slowly, she pushed herself back up into a sitting position.
“Henry?”
He looked so dreadfully young. So dreadfully vulnerable.
She grabbed his shoulders and shook him, hard.
“Henry!”
His heart had always beat slowly; now, her ear pressed tight against his chest, she couldn’t hear it beat at all.
He couldn’t stop her from doing whatever she wanted to him. He had just put himself completely and absolutely in her hands.
Be there. Bottom line, that was all Celluci had ever asked of her. Bottom line, that was all she’d ever asked of Celluci in return.
Be there. Bottom line, it meant a lot more when Henry Fitzroy asked it.
“Henry, you shit.” She shoved her glasses out of the way and scrubbed her knuckles across her eyes. “What the hell can I give you to match this?”
A few moments later, she pulled herself together with a more prosaic question. “Now what? Do I leave? Or do I stay and keep watch over you all day?” A massive yawn threatened to dislocate her jaw; she hadn’t gotten much sleep during the long wait for morning. “Or do I climb in with you?”
She ran one finger lightly down his cheek. The skin felt cool and dry. It always had, but with the night to give it animation it had never felt so . . . unalive. “All right, scratch that last idea.” Not even as tired as she was could she sleep next to the body—to the absence of Henry—that the day had created. Scooping his discarded pants off the floor, she rummaged in the pockets for his keys.
“I’m going home,” she said, needing to hear herself just to offset his absolute stillness. “I’ll get some sleep and be back before dark. Don’t worry, I’ll lock up on my way out. You’ll be safe.”
The lamp by the bed switched off at the door. Vicki took one look back then extinguished the pale island of light, plunging the room into complete and utter darkness.
She had her hand on the knob and had actually begun to turn it when a sudden realization stopped her cold. “How the hell do I get out of here?” Her fingers traced the rubber seals that edged the door, blocking any possible intrusion of light. Could she leave without destroying Henry? This is just great. The door boomed a hollow counterpoint to her thoughts as she beat her head gently against it. I stay to save him from suicide and end up committing murder.
Go or stay?
There’d be light spilling into the hall through the open door of his office and if she opened this door here . . . How direct did the sun have to be? How diffuse?
We should have covered this earlier, Henry. She couldn’t believe that neither of them had considered anything past sunrise. Of course, they’d both been dealing with other things.
She couldn’t risk it. The entrance door to the condo had been locked and the security chain fastened. He was as safe in here as he ever was. He just had company.
Eyes closed—voluntary lack of sight seemed to help—she stumbled back to the bed and lay down on top of the covers as far from Henry’s inert body as she could get.
All her senses told her she was alone. Except she knew she wasn’t. The entire room had become a coffin of sorts. She could feel the darkness pressing against her, becoming a six by three by one foot box, and tried not to think of Edgar Allan Poe and premature burials.
“How did he die?”
“His heart stopped.” The assistant coroner peeled off his gloves. “Which, in fact, is what kills us all in the end. You want to know why he died, ask me after I’ve had him on the table for a couple of hours.”
“Thank you, Dr. Singh.”
He smiled, completely unaffected by the sarcasm. “I live to serve. Don’t keep him too long.” He paused on his way out the door and threw back, “Offhand, given the position, I’d say he was dead before he hit the floor.”
Waving an acknowledgment that he’d heard, Mike Celluci knelt by the body and frowned.
His partner, Dave Graham, leaned over his shoulder and whistled through his teeth. “Someone’s got quite the grip.”
Celluci grunted in agreement. Purple and green bruises circled the left wrist, brilliantly delineating the marks of four fingers and a thumb. The left arm lay stretching away from the body.
“He got dropped when he died,” Dave said quietly.
“That’d be my guess. Check out the face.”
“No expression.”
“Right first time. No fear; no pain; no surprise; no nothing. No record of the last few minutes of life at all.”
“Drugs?”
“Maybe. Nice jacket.” Celluci got to his feet. “Wonder why it wasn’t taken with the shoes.”
Stepping back out of the way, Dave shrugged. “Who the hell can tell these days? They took the cash but not the credit cards or ID. Even left him his transit pass.”
Carefully stepping around both the chalk lines and the bits of broken glass on the floor, the two men made their way over to the sink. Where the stainless steel had been previously scored, the acid poured into it had eaten into the metal. A vague ammonia smell still drifted up from the drain.
“No sign of what he dumped . . .”
Celluci snorted. “Or of who dumped it. Kevin!” The ident man looked up from his position at the side of the corpse. “I want prints lifted off the glass.”
“Off the glass?” Only the base and the section of the neck protected by the screw-on cap had survived in anything large enough to even be considered pieces. “Shall I cure the common cold while I’m at it?”
“Suit yourself, but I want those prints first. Harper!”
The constable who’d been staring into the coffin started and jerked around. “Detective?”
“Get someone in here to drain the trap . . . the curved pipe under the sink,” he added when Harper looked blank. “There’s water in it, maybe enough to dilute the acid and give us some indication of what was dumped. Where’s the guy who found the body?”
“Uh, in the departmental offices. His name’s . . .” Harper frowned and glanced down at his notes. “. . . Raymond Thompson. He’s a researcher, been here about a year and a half. Some of the rest of the staff have arrived and they’re in there, too. My partner’s with them.”
“The offices are?”
“End of the hall on the right.”
Celluci nodded and started for the door. “We’re finished with the body. As soon as all and sundry have got their pound of flesh, you can get it out of here.”
“Charming as always,” Dave murmured, grinning. He followed his partner out into the hall and asked, “How come you know so much about plumbing?”
“My father was a plumber.”
“Yeah? You bastard, you never told me you were independently wealthy.”
“Didn’t want you borrowing money.” Celluci jerked his head back toward th
e workroom. “What do you think?”
“The good doctor interrupted an intruder?”
“And the janitor they pulled out of here yesterday?”
“I thought you said he saw a mummy and had a heart attack.”
“So what happened to the mummy?”
Dave’s forehead furrowed. The coffin had definitely been empty and, while the workroom was crowded with all kinds of ancient junk, he’d bet his last loonie that there hadn’t been a body tucked into a back comer. “The intruder walked off with it? Dr. Rax broke it into chunks, poured acid over it and washed it down the sink? It came to life and is lurching about the city?” He caught sight of Celluci’s expression and laughed. “You’ve been working too hard, buddy.”
“Maybe.” Celluci pushed open the door marked Department of Egyptology a little more forcefully than necessary. Maybe not.
Besides the uniformed police constable, there were half a dozen people sitting in the large outer office, all exhibiting various forms of shock and/or disbelief. Two of them were crying quietly, a half empty box of tissues on the desk between them. Two were arguing, their voices a constant background drone. One sat, his head buried in his hands. Dr. Shane, her expression wavering between grief and anger, stood as the detectives came into the room and walked toward them.
“I’m Dr. Rachel Shane, the assistant curator. What’s going on? No, wait . . .” Her hand went up before either of them could speak. “That’s a stupid question. I know what’s going on.” She took a deep breath. “What’s going to happen now?”
Celluci showed her his badge—from the corner of his eye he saw Dave do the same—and continued to hold it out while she focused first on it and then back on him. “Detective-Sergeant Celluci. My partner, Detective-Sergeant Graham. We’d like to ask Raymond Thompson a few questions.”
The young man with his head in his hands jerked erect, eyes wide and face pale.
“We’d like to leave Dr. Rax’s office as it is for the moment,” Celluci continued, carefully using the matter-of-fact tones most people found calming. “Dr. Shane . . . ?”
“Yes, yes, of course. Use mine.” She gestured at the door, then laced her fingers together so tightly the tips darkened under the pressure.