3 Blood Lines

by Tanya Huff

  If I die, I would have the eternity the church promises. It would be so easy to take that way out, come the dawn. Except that suicide is a sin.

  The greater sin would be the pain he would leave behind. If he wanted to take that way out, he would have to wait. With a sudden lightening of his heart, he realized that for the first time in weeks, for the first time since the dreams had started, he could face the dawn without fear. The sun that Tawfik pushed at him could no longer push him in that direction. Whatever else happened—desire and fear and identity were still a tangled mess he could not sort—that would not.

  The priest lifted one hand, his eyes nearly shut above the curves of his cheeks. “Go in peace,” he said softly, and it sounded as though he meant it.

  The mass over, the congregation of mostly elderly immigrants began to file out. Henry hung behind, waiting, while the priest greeted each of them at the door. When the last black-clad body was on its way down the path, he stepped forward and captured the priest’s gaze.

  “Father, I need to talk to you.”

  More than vocation made it impossible for the priest to refuse that request.

  It was seven ten when he got back to the condo, barely eighteen minutes before sunrise. Vicki met him at the door, grabbed his hands, and practically dragged him inside.

  “Where the hell have you been,” she snarled, worry twisting into anger now he was safe.

  “I had an encounter with our mummy.”

  The flatness of his tone penetrated. You can deal with this only if you deny the effect it had. Over the years Vicki had seen enough of the effects of major trauma to recognize this particular defense mechanism in her sleep. With an effort, she damped her own emotions to suit. “So you found it. Tony called me about midnight, he was afraid the creature had sucked up your life the way it had the baby’s. Mike drove me over. I’ll have to call him after sunrise and let him know what happened.” Provided you let me know what happened.

  Henry could hear a slow and quiet heartbeat coming from the living room.

  “Tony finally fell asleep on the couch about four,” she continued. “I’ll get him out of here after I’ve got you safe.”

  The grip that pulled him purposefully through the apartment would have been painfully tight around a mortal’s hand; even Henry found it a bit uncomfortable. He made no effort to break it though; it was a welcome anchor.

  Not until they reached the bedroom and the door had been closed behind him and the blackout curtain drawn, did Vicki release him. Leaving him standing in the middle of the room, she sat down on the end of the bed and slid her glasses back up the bridge of her nose.

  “If you had died out there,” she said slowly, because if she didn’t speak she was going to explode, “you would have left a hole in my life impossible to fill. I’ve always hated the thought of putting conditions on . . .” She wet her lips. “ . . . on love but if you ever go off to face an enemy whose strengths we don’t know, who we know can kill with a look, who just the night before sent you running from him in panic, and don’t come back looking at least a little the worse for wear . . .” Her head jerked up and she met his eyes. “. . . I’m going to wring your fucking vampiric neck. Do I make myself clear?”

  “I think so. You went through hell, so I better have?” He sat down beside her on the bed. “If it makes you feel any better, I did.”

  “Fuck off, Henry, that’s not what I meant.” She wiped viciously at the tear that traced a line down her cheek. “I was scared spitless you’d taken on more than you could handle . . .”

  “I had.” He raised a hand to cut her off. “But not because I had to prove something after last night. I grew out of stupid displays of machismo three centuries ago. I went because Tony needed me to.”

  Vicki took a deep breath, and her shoulders straightened as though a weight had lifted. God knows, she’d taken impossible risks in her time, and, thank God, he’d had a reason she could live with. “You are such an idiot.”

  Henry leaned forward and drew the flavor of her mouth deep into his. “And you have such interesting ways of saying I love you,” he murmured against her lips. He realized just how frightened for him she’d been when she made no protest, merely returned his embrace with an intensity that held a hint of desperation. When she finally drew back, he got to his feet and began to strip off his shirt. If he didn’t hurry, he’d be spending the day in his clothes.

  She watched him, the soft, anxious expression she’d worn for a moment hardening into something a little closer to, All right, let’s get on with this. “Are you okay?”

  “Well, to begin, I didn’t find him, he found me.” He tossed the shirt to the floor. “And I discovered that the sun that I’ve been dreaming about has been nothing more than a manifestation of his life-energy.”

  “What?”

  “Apparently there were times I was more susceptible than others. And now I’ve met him, I can’t completely tune him out.”

  “You can always see the sun?”

  “It hovers on the edge of my consciousness.”

  “Jesus Christ, Henry!”

  “He frightens me, Vicki. I can’t see any way we can beat him.”

  Her brows drew down. “What did he do to you?”

  “He talked.” Henry flipped the covers back and got into the bed. The sun, the other sun, trembled on the horizon. “He twisted me into knots and left me to sort myself out.”

  She shifted around until she faced him again. “Did you?”

  “I think so. I don’t know.” I won’t know until I face him again. “I spent the night trying to redefine myself. The church. The hunt.” He reached out and laid two fingers against her wrist. “You.”

  I’m worried sick and he’s out having a prayer, a snack, and a fuck? The smell of sex that clung to him was faint but unmistakable now she’d been made aware of it. Calm down. Everyone deals with trauma his own way. At least he made it home. “And what about you do I define?”

  “My heart.”

  She laid her palm gently on his bare chest, stroking the soft red-gold curls with her thumb. “I really hate this mushy stuff.”

  “I know.” He almost smiled, then quickly sobered again. “I tried to attack him. I couldn’t even get close. He’s dangerous, Vicki.”

  He obviously wasn’t referring to the deaths that had occurred since the mummy disentombed itself and the faint shadow of pain that slipped into his voice was far more disturbing than out and out panic would have been. “Why?”

  “Because I can’t reject his offer out of hand.”

  “His offer?” Vicki’s brows snapped down so hard that her glasses trembled on the very tip of her nose. “What offer? Tell me!”

  He began to shake his head . . .

  . . . then the motion slowed . . .

  . . . then the day took him.

  “When he wakes up, I’m going to grab him and shake him and he’s going to tell me everything he knows and we’re going to go over what happened second by second.” Vicki stuffed another handful of cheese balls into her mouth. “This is what comes of letting your hormones interfere with your caseload,” she muttered savagely, but indistinctly to an uninterested pigeon. Because she’d been so worried about Henry, first she’d babbled then she’d let him babble and nothing, absolutely nothing of any use had been passed on before he’d passed out.

  “If I’d ever done anything half so stupid with a witness while I was on the force I’d have been up on charges of gross incompetence.” Sucking the virulent orange stain from her fingers, she shook her head, growling around them, “And they wonder why I won’t get mushy romantic.” All right, that was unfair. Neither of them wondered. Celluci understood and Henry accepted. This screwup she could lay at no one’s door but her own.

  “Good lord. Celluci.” She shoved the half-eaten package of cheese balls into her shoulder bag and checked her watch. He’d be going into headquarters for eleven and he’d told her to call him before he left. Vicki figured she owed him that m
uch; not, given her lack of relevant information, that she was looking forward to it. To her surprise it was only eight fifty-three. Why did she feel like it should be later? Time flies when you’re having fits. . . .

  With Henry safely and infuriatingly tucked away, she’d roused Tony, reassured him, and popped him onto a subway heading toward his current job site, shoving five bucks into his hand so he could buy breakfast when he got there. Then she’d taken transit in the other direction, paused only long enough to pick up a snack and a short lecture on nutrition from Mrs. Kopolous at the store, and had just rounded the comer onto Huron Street and home. They left Henry’s condo at ten to eight, it was now ten to nine. An hour seemed about right . . .

  “Daylight savings time. My body thinks it’s ten to ten.” She sighed. “My body is an idiot. My emotional state is completely unreliable. Damn, but it’s a good thing I’m so smart.”

  The legal side of Huron Street was, as usual, parked solid, so Vicki paid less than no attention to the brown sedan that had pulled over illegally in front of her building. She moved onto the walk, heard a car door open behind her, and froze when a familiar voice called out, “Good morning, Nelson.”

  “Good morning, Staff-Sergeant Gowan.” She pivoted around to face him, the smile she wore completely unconvincing. Staff-Sergeant Gowan had resented everything about her while she’d been on the force, his resentment growing with every promotion, every citation, every bit of praise she got until it had festered into hate. To be fair, she despised him in turn. “Oh, and I see you brought Constable Mallard.” She’d once turned Mallard into the Police Review Board for conduct unbecoming a human being. As far as she was concerned, the uniform meant responsibility; it didn’t excuse the lack of it.

  Her palms began to sweat. They were both out of uniform. Whatever was going to happen, it didn’t look good.

  “So, what unexpected pleasure brings you two out so early in the morning?”

  Gowan’s smile spread all over his face. It was the happiest she’d ever seen him. “Oh, a pleasure indeed. . . . We have a warrant for your arrest, Nelson.”

  “A what?”

  “I knew if I waited long enough, you’d go one step too far and piss off the wrong person.”

  She backed away as Mallard approached.

  “Looks like resisting arrest to me,” he murmured and swung out with the nightstick he’d been holding, hidden, behind his leg.

  The blow came too fast to avoid. It hit her hard across the solar plexus and she folded, gasping for breath. He always was a fucking hotshot with that thing. Each man grabbed an arm and the next thing she knew, she’d been tossed across the back seat of the car. Mallard climbed in with her. Gowan scurried around to the front.

  The whole operation, from the time Gowan had first spoke, had taken less than a minute.

  Vicki, her face pressed hard against musty upholstery, struggled to breathe. As the car began to move, Mallard yanked her arms back and forced the cuffs around her wrists, closing them so tightly the metal edges dug into the bone. The pain jerked her head up and his fist slammed it down.

  “Go ahead, fight.” He snickered and she felt him drive his forearm across the small of her back, immobilizing her with his weight.

  Her glasses were hanging off one ear and losing them frightened her more than anything Mallard or Gowan could do. Although it wasn’t going to be fun . . . she’d seen prisoners both men had released into holding cells. Apparently, they’d fallen down a lot.

  When he started fumbling with the waistband of her jeans, she got one leg free and attempted to drive the heel of her sneaker through his ear. He grabbed her foot and twisted.

  Goddamned, fucking, son of a bitch!

  The pain gave her something new to think about for a few seconds and the lesser pain of the needle almost got lost in it.

  Needle?

  Oh, shit . . .

  The drug worked quickly.

  Thirteen

  “Nelson Investigations. No one is available to take your call, but if you leave your name and number as well as a brief outline of your problem . . . ”

  “You’re my problem, Nelson,” Celluci growled as he dropped the receiver back into the cradle. He glared at the clock on the kitchen wall. Ten twenty-five. Even at this hour of the morning, theoretically well past rush hour, driving from Downsview to the center of town was going to take just about all of that thirty-five minutes. He couldn’t afford to wait any longer; Cantree had an understandable objection to his detectives wandering in to work when it suited them.

  Of course, there was another number he could call. Fitzroy himself would have long ago crawled back into his coffin for the day, but Vicki might still be at his apartment.

  Celluci snorted. “No, at his condominium.” God, that was such a yuppie word. People who lived in condominiums ate raw fish, drank lite beer, and collected baseball cards for their investment potential. Granted Fitzroy did none of those things, but he still played at the lifestyle. And romance novels? Bad enough for a man to write the asinine things but for a . . . a . . . for what Fitzroy was . . .

  No. He wasn’t calling Fitzroy’s place. It was a big city, Vicki could be anywhere. Very likely she was taking young Tony home and tucking him in. The thought of Vicki in such a maternal role brought a sardonic smile and the thought that followed lifted his eyebrows almost to his hairline.

  Tucking Tony in?

  No. Celluci shook his head emphatically. Thinking about Fitzroy was driving his mind right into the gutter. He shrugged into his jacket, grabbed his keys up off the kitchen table, and headed for the door. Vicki no doubt had a good reason for not calling. He trusted her. Maybe Tony’s fears hadn’t been completely unfounded—Fitzroy had been hurt facing the mummy, and she’d taken him wherever one took a hurt . . . romance writer. He trusted her innate good sense not to have used the information Fitzroy may have brought back and gone out after the mummy herself. . . .

  “And if there isn’t a message waiting for me at the office, I’m going to take her innate good sense and beat her to death with it.”

  The phone rang.

  “Great timing, Vicki, I was just on my way out the door. And where the hell have you been anyway? I told you to call me first thing!”

  “Celluci, shut up for a minute and listen.”

  Celluci blinked. “Dave?” His partner didn’t sound like a happy man. “What’s wrong. It’s not the baby, is it?”

  “No, no, she’s fine.” On the other end of the line, Dave Graham took a deep breath. “Look, Mike, you’re going to have to lay low for a while. Cantree wants you picked up and brought in.”

  “Say what?”

  “He’s got a warrant for your arrest.”

  “On what charge?”

  “There doesn’t appear to be one. It’s a special . . .”

  “It’s a fucking setup.” Celluci grinned, suddenly relieved. “You didn’t actually believe it, did you?”

  “Yeah. I believed it. And you’d better, too.” Something in Dave’s voice wiped the grin off his face. “I don’t know what’s going on around here today, but they’ve shuffled a couple of departments around, no warning, and that warrant’ ll stand. I’ve never seen Cantree so serious about anything.”

  “Shit.” It was more of an observation than an expletive.

  “You can say that again, buddy-boy. I’m not sure I should ask, but just what have you done?”

  “I was in the wrong place at the wrong time and I found out something I shouldn’t have.” Celluci considered what Vicki had told him about the Solicitor General’s Halloween party. Cantree. God damn it! The son of a bitch has subverted one of the few honest cops in the city. He had to assume that Fitzroy had been an accurate witness, but the thought of Cantree, of all people, blindly dancing to another man’s tune made him feel physically ill. And he’s dancing right over me. The next time I think there’s a mummy on the rampage in Toronto, I’ll keep my fucking mouth shut. “Are you calling from headquarters?”
/>   “Do I look like an idiot?” Dave’s voice was dry. “I’m at the Taco Bell around on Yonge Street.”

  “Good. Look, Dave, this is bigger than just me. Watch your back and, for the next little while, keep a very, very low profile.”

  “Hey, you don’t need to tell me. There’s something majorly weird going down around here and I’ve never been keen on being strip searched. How do I stay in touch?”

  “Uh . . . good question.” He could access messages off his machine by remote and as long as the messages were short enough there wouldn’t be time to trace the line back; but they’d be monitoring and that would put Dave right in the toilet with him. Odds were good they’d also be monitoring Vicki’s line. Cantree was well aware how close the two of them had been and how close they’d stayed. Best to keep away from Vicki’s place completely and that included keeping Dave away from Vicki’s answering machine.

  “You could call me.”

  “No. Even if they don’t suspect you warned me, they’ll be monitoring your lines. You’re the logical person for me to call. Damn it all to hell anyway!” He slapped his palm against the table and stared at the scrap of pink memo paper that fluttered down to the floor. Fitzroy? Why not. “I’ve got a number you can leave a message at. I can’t guarantee I’ll get it until after dark, but it should be safe. Memorize it, don’t write it down, and use . . .”

  “A public phone line. Mike, I know the drill.” Dave repeated the number three times to be sure he had it, then warned, “You better get out of there. Cantree might not have wanted to wait until you came in. He may have sent a car up.”

  “I’m gone. And Dave? Thanks.” Partners who could be depended on when the chips were down—or sideways—had saved the lives of more cops than a thousand fancy pieces of equipment. “I owe you one.”

  “One? You still owe me for a half a dozen meals, not to mention getting that asswipe from accounting off your back. Anyway, be careful.” He hung up before Celluci could reply.