3 Blood Lines

by Tanya Huff

  After the ceremony, he would not need to be as magically involved and would, therefore, need to feed less often.

  “And when I find you, my bright and shining one . . .” He placed his empty cup down with the rest of the breakfast dishes and scooped up the opera cloak the Solicitor General had found outside the library door. “. . . I may never need to feed again.” As the satin folds slid across his fingers, he basked in the remembered glow. This ka would stand out like a blaze of glory against the others in this city; now that he had touched it, it would not be able to hide from him. He was mildly curious about what kind of a man—for it had been only a man, there had been no mark of god or wizard about the presence—would carry such a ka, but curiosity paled beside his desire.

  The opera cloak pooled about his feet. Perhaps he would return the young man’s forgotten garment, and as their fingers touched he would look into his eyes and . . .

  With such power at his command there would be nothing he could not do.

  Tony wasn’t sure what had driven him from his basement room this morning, but something had nagged him up out of sleep and onto the street. Two coffees and a double chocolate chip muffin in Druxy’s had brought him no closer to an answer.

  Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, he stood on the corner of Yonge and Bloor and waited for the light, effortlessly eavesdropping on the conversations around him, filtering out the yuppie concerns, paying close attention to a cluster of street kids complaining about the cold. At this time of the year, those who lived in parks and bus shelters worried first about surviving the coming winter and then about their next meal, their next smoke, their next bit of cash. They talked about the best places to panhandle, to turn tricks, what doorways were safe, what cop would cut a little slack, who’d been picked up, who’d died. Tony had survived on the street for almost five years and knew what talk had substance behind it and what talk was just wind. No one seemed to be saying anything that would clue him into whatever it was that had him so jumpy.

  He walked west on Bloor, thin shoulders hunched high. The new jacket he wore, bought with money from a real honest-to-God steady job, kept him plenty warm enough, but old habits took time to break. Even after two months, he was still a little unsure about the job, afraid that it would vanish as suddenly as it had appeared and with it the room, the warmth, the regular meals . . . and Henry.

  Henry trusted him, believed in him. Tony didn’t know why, didn’t really care why. The trust and the belief were enough. Henry had become his anchor. He didn’t think it had anything to do with Henry being a vampire—although he had to admit that was pretty fucking awesome and it certainly didn’t hurt that the sex was the best he’d ever had and just remembering it made him hot—he thought it had more to do with Henry just being a . . . well, being Henry.

  The feeling that had driven him out and onto the street had nothing to do with Henry, not specifically at least. Henry feelings, he could always recongize.

  Dropping down onto the low wall in front of the Manulife Center, Tony rubbed at his temples and wished the feeling would go away. He had better things to do with his Sunday afternoon than wander about trying to find where the ants between his ears came from.

  He kicked his heels against the concrete and watched the parade of people pass by. A baby in a backpack, barely visible under a hat and mittens and a scarf and a snowsuit, caught his attention and he grinned up at it, wondering if it could even move. Jeez, the kid gonna spend the first few years of its life only seeing where it’s been. Probably grow up to be a politician.

  The baby appeared to be gazing in happy fascination at the man who walked along behind its parents although, as far as Tony could tell, he wasn’t doing anything to attract its attention. He wasn’t a bad looking man either; quite a bit of gray in the hair and a nose that hooked out into tomorrow but with a certain something that Tony found attractive.

  Guess he likes kids. Sure is staring at that . . . that . . . Jesus, no.

  Under the pale blue hat with its row of square-headed yellow ducks, the baby’s face had gone suddenly slack. The bulk of its clothing held it upright, arms reaching out over the carrier but Tony knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that the baby was dead.

  Cold fingers closed around his heart and squeezed. There was now no gray in the hair of the man who followed.

  He killed it. Tony was more certain of that than he’d ever been of anything in his life. He didn’t know how it had been done, nor did he care. Jesus God, he killed it.

  And then the man turned, looked right at him, and smiled.

  Tony ran, instinct guiding his feet. Horns sounded. A voice yelled protest after a soft collision. He ignored it all and ran on.

  When even terror could no longer keep him moving, he collapsed in a shadowed doorway and forced great lungfuls of air past the taste of iron in the back of his throat. His whole body trembled and every breath drove a knife blade, barbed and razor sharp, up under his ribs. Exhaustion wrapped itself shroudlike around what he’d seen, dulling the immediacy, allowing him the distance to look at it again.

  That man, or whatever he was, had killed the baby just by looking at it.

  And then he turned and looked at me. But I’m safe. He can’t find me here. I’m safe. No footsteps sounded in the alley, nothing threatened, but his scalp prickled and the flesh between his shoulder blades twisted into knots. He didn’t need to follow. He’s waiting for me. Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. I don’t want to die.

  The baby was dead.

  They’ll think the baby’s asleep. They’ll laugh about the way babies sleep through anything. Then they’ll get home and they’ll take it out and it won’t be sleeping. Their baby will be dead and they won’t know when or how or why it happened.

  He scrubbed his palms across his cheeks.

  But I know.

  And he knows I know.

  Henry.

  Henry’ll protect me.

  Except that sunset wouldn’t be for hours and he couldn’t stop thinking of the baby’s parents arriving home and finding . . . He couldn’t just let that happen. He had to tell someone.

  The card he pulled from his pocket had seen better days. Limp and stained, the name and number on it barely legible, it had been for years his link to another world. Clutching it tightly in a sweaty hand, Tony moved cautiously from his hidey-hole and went looking for a pay phone. Victory would know what to do. Victory always knew what to do.

  “Nelson Investigations. No one is available to take your call, but if you leave your name and number, as well as a brief reason for your call, after the tone, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.”

  “Shit.” Tony slammed the receiver down and laid his forehead against the cool plastic of the phone. “Now what?” There was always the number scrawled on the back of the card, but somehow Tony doubted that Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci would appreciate having this kind of thing dumped in his lap. “Whatever kind of thing it is. Jesus, Victory, where are you when I need you?”

  He shoved the card back in his pocket and, after a cautious examination of the passing crowds, slipped out of the phone booth. Squinting at the sky, he began making his way back to Yonge and Bloor. He knew where Henry was and the hours between now and sunset would only seem like they were taking up the rest of his life. With any luck.

  The boy had seen him feed; or been aware, at least, that he had fed. Apparently, there were a few in this age who had not built barriers of disbelief around their lives. The incident was of interest but placed him in no danger. Who would the boy tell? Who would believe him? Perhaps later he would search him out and, if he could not be used, he was young enough still that his life would be an adequate source of power.

  At the moment, he had all the power he needed. He felt wonderful. An infant’s life, so very nearly entirely unrealized potential, was a pleasure to absorb. Occasionally, in the past, when his fortunes were high, he would buy a female slave, have her impregnated by an acolyte, and devour the
life of the child at the moment of its birth. The slave’s birth pains and then the despair at the loss of her child became a sacrifice to Akhekh. Such nourishment took careful purchasing and then constant monitoring, however, as the children of some women could be claimed by the gods while still in the womb. Perhaps, with so few gods active, when Akhekh’s temple had been built anew, he would be able to feed in such a way as a matter of course.

  He raised his personal temperature another two degrees just because he had the power to spare. It was too lovely a day to return to the enclosure of his hotel room. He would walk to the park, ward a small area, and soak up a few rays while he searched for the ka that blazed so brightly.

  “Mike, it’s Vicki. It’s about two-ten, Sunday afternoon. Call me when you’ve got time to talk.” She hung up the phone and reached for her jacket. Now that they knew high-ranking police officers were involved and, given those same officers had already pulled him off the case, a tap on Celluci’s phone line was a possibility; a slim one, granted, but Vicki saw no reason to discount it just because the odds were ridiculously high. After all, they were hunting down an ancient Egyptian mummy and who’d want to figure the odds on that.

  “An ancient Egyptian mummy named Anwar Tawfik.” She hoisted her shoulder bag up into position. “How much do you want to bet that’s not its real name.” Still, it was the only name they had, so she planned on spending the afternoon checking the hotels clustered around the Royal Ontario Museum. Everything pointed to it having remained in that area and, from what Henry had to say, Mr. Tawfik apparently preferred to travel first class. She wondered briefly how it paid for such a lifestyle and muttered, “Maybe it has a platinum Egyptian Express card. Don’t be entombed without it.”

  Henry.

  Henry wanted to get as far away from this creature and its visions of the sun as was humanly possible. He didn’t have to say it, it was painfully obvious. She doubted he’d be willing, or even able, to face the mummy again.

  “So I guess that means it’s up to me.” Her glasses slid forward and she settled them firmly back on the bridge of her nose. “Just the way I like it best.”

  The vague, empty feeling, she ignored.

  His ka swept over the city and found no trace of the life he had touched so briefly the night before. A ka with such potential should shine like a beacon and searching for it should only be a matter of following the blaze of light. He knew it existed. He had seen it, felt it. It should not be able to hide from him!

  Where was it?

  The connection between them had lasted less than a searing, glorious instant before the young man threw himself backward through the library window and away but even such a slight touch would enable him to gain access into the young man’s ka. If he could find it.

  Had the young man died in the night? Had he taken one of the miraculous traveling devices of this age and flown far away? His frustration grew as he brushed over a thousand kas that together burned less brightly than the one he desired.

  And then he felt his own ka gripped by a greater power and, for a moment knew a sudden, all-encompassing fear. Recognition lessened the fear only slightly.

  Why have you not given me the buffering of the one I claimed?

  Lord, I . . . He had walked through the woman’s ka and gathered all the information he needed for his lord’s pleasure. He had intended to set it in motion the night before. Had he done so, the suffering would have begun. The touch of the intruder’s ka had driven it right out of his mind.

  No excuses.

  It made no difference that the pain existed on the spiritual level only. His ka screamed.

  “Are you all right?”

  He felt strong hands around his arm, lifting him back into a sitting position, and knew the wards had broken. Slowly, because it hurt, he opened his eyes.

  At first, while he fought his way free of the webs of pain, he thought the young man standing so solicitously by resembled the young man who had escaped him; who had been responsible for the delay in the working of his god’s desire. Who had been responsible for the agony his god had seen fit to twist around him. A moment later, he saw the hair was lighter, the skin darker, the eyes gray rather than pale brown, but by then it didn’t matter.

  “You tipped over.” The young man smiled tentatively. “Is there anything I can do?”

  “Yes.” He forced his throbbing head up enough to meet the other’s gaze. “You can throw yourself in front of a subway .”

  Eyes widened and face muscles spasmed.

  “Your last word must be Akhekh.”

  “Yes.” Legs moved jerkily away. Body language screamed no.

  He felt better. There had been nothing subtle about the coercion, but there had been no need. The young man would live such a short time that laying on an appearance of normalcy would be a waste. He could feel his lord following close behind, drinking in the despair and panic. The young man knew what he was about to do, he just couldn’t stop himself from doing it.

  Hopefully, his lord would be appeased until the chosen one could be delivered.

  Vicki paused outside the Park Plaza Hotel and looked down at what she was wearing. Sensible shoes, gray cords, and a navy blue duffle coat were fine for most places in this city, but she had a feeling that when she walked through the door and into the lobby she was going to feel underdressed. The hotels she usually searched for suspects did not have a doorman; if someone was stationed out front, he was there as a lookout in case the police arrived. Adjoining shops sold cigarettes and condoms, not seven thousand dollar diamond and emerald necklaces. The windows would be opaque because of plywood, not because the glass had been impregnated with gold.

  And I am not being intimidated by a building. The Park Plaza was directly across Bloor Street from the museum and therefore the logical place to begin a search for Anwar Tawfik. She strode past the doorman, swung through the revolving door at a speed that would have swept any other occupants off their feet, and paused again in the echoing quiet of the green marble lobby.

  Some things, however, were universal to hotels. The registration desk had two harried clerks behind it and eleven people—eleven very well-dressed people, Vicki noted—attempting to check in. She sighed silently and got into line, mourning the loss of the badge that would have made waiting unnecessary.

  His stride had nearly steadied by the time he reached the hotel. The vast amount of power he had absorbed from the infant’s ka had acted as a buffer between the anger of his lord and any lasting damage. There had been times in the past when he had crawled away from such an encounter on his belly and it had taken days of pain and fear to recover his strength. Thankfully, the new acolytes would soon be sworn and his lord’s attention would not then be directed so exclusively at him.

  Akhekh, while not one of the more powerful gods, was still very conscious of services owed in return for immortality.

  The liveried doorman scurried to open the door and he swept past the tinted glass and into the lobby, stopping abruptly at the touch of a familiar ka.

  She looked much as she perceived herself although in truth was a little less tall, a little less blonde, and rather more determined of jaw. What was his lord’s chosen doing here, however? He reached out and gently stroked the surface of her thoughts. After the nights he had spent mapping it, her ka could hold no secrets from him.

  He frowned as he uncovered the reason for her presence. She searched for him? She was no wizard to be aware of his wandering in her . . . ah, she searched at the request of another. Apparently, he had not been as thorough at the museum as he had thought. No matter. He smiled. His lord would have twice the pleasure for the plans he had made for the suffering of Ms. Nelson could be adapted to include Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci as well, without even the need to search the detective’s ka.

  But, in the meantime, it would not do for the chosen one to disrupt his sanctuary. Without so much as touching her awareness, he laid a false memory over the parameters of her search.

&
nbsp; What am I doing back in line? Vicki wondered, shaking her head and turning for the door. They’re not going to have any more information now than they did a moment ago. Computer listings could be changed, Anwar Tawfik might not be the name he was registered under, and if the manager had never heard of him, there wasn’t much else she could do but check the rest of the hotels in the area.

  Maybe she’d think of another angle to hit later.

  “Yes, it was a very pleasant evening, Mrs. Zottie. Thank you. Now, if I could speak with your husband . . .” He looked out over the city as he waited for the Solicitor General to pick up the phone. When he stood close to the wall of windows, the rest of the suite seemed less enclosing.

  “You wished to speak with me, Master?”

  “I assume you are alone?”

  “Yes, Master. I took the call in my study.”

  “Good.” It had become necessary to ask for the effect of the control spell had Zottie’s mental abilities deteriorating at an unanticipated pace. Fortunately, his assistance would be necessary only until the others were pledged. “Pay attention, there’s something important I want you to arrange . . . ”

  Henry had faced enemies before, faced them and conquered them, but his nature denied him the ability to face the sun. Vicki had offered him a chance to leave—she’d understand if he ran from this creature he had no chance of defeating.