2 Blood Trail

by Tanya Huff

  “Sure you will,” he muttered. “If that damned pup’s been chewing on them again I’ll. . . .”

  “Scratch him behind the ears and tell him he’s adorable,” Rose finished, coming into the room with a half dozen albums under her arm, “just like you always do.”

  While they were leaving, Vicki paused on the front step and watched Storm race across the lawn after a butterfly.

  “What happens when you die?” she asked the doctor.

  He snorted. “I rot. Why?”

  “I mean, what happens to them? They won’t stop needing a doctor just because you’re gone.”

  “When the time is right, I’ll tell the young doctor who took over my practice.” He laughed suddenly. “She grew up not knowing if she wanted to be a vet or a GP. The wer should be right up her alley.”

  “Don’t wait too long,” Vicki warned.

  “Don’t stick that investigating nose of yours in where it doesn’t belong,” Dr. Dixon shot back. “I’ve known the Heerkens family for years, longer than you’ve been alive. I have no intention of dropping dead and leaving them to face the world alone.”

  “They won’t be alone.”

  He grinned at her defensive tone, but his voice was soft as he said, “No, I don’t suppose they will be.”

  Jennifer and Marie didn’t bother coming in for dinner.

  “They shared a rabbit about an hour ago,” Nadine explained, smiling fondly, sadly, out the window at them. They were curled so tightly around each other that it was difficult to see where one fur-form ended and the other began.

  Colin had long since left for work so only the seven of them sat down at the table. Daniel did his best to make up for the missing three.

  After dinner, Vicki worked on her notes—impressions of Carl Biehn, Frederick Kleinbein, the birders, the doctor, the new set of tracks—and then she just sat, attempting to put the day and the day’s discoveries in order. Order kept escaping her, she had a number of bits and pieces but nothing that definitely fit into the pattern. The opera in the background wasn’t a lot of help and the weird harmonics added by her hosts could only be called distracting.

  Actually, Vicki could think of a number of other things to call them, but she went to the pond to watch Shadow hunt frogs instead. Under the circumstances, it seemed safer—not only for Shadow but for herself as well.

  “Don’t let him eat too many,” Nadine called over the music as they left, “or he’ll make himself sick.”

  “I’m not at all surprised,” Vicki muttered, but she ended up letting him eat both frogs he caught. He’d worked so hard at it, bounding this way and that, barking hysterically, that she felt he deserved them.

  Back at the house, dusk seemed to stretch for hours, the crickets and Pavarotti singing duets to the setting sun. Vicki’s vision dimmed and the sound of the wind moving in the trees became the sound of death quietly approaching the house: the tap of two twigs, a rifle bolt drawn back. She knew she was allowing her imagination to overrule common sense even while she waited for the gunshot that would tell her it wasn’t imagination at all. Finally, the darkness drove her to the kitchen table where the hanging bulb surrounded her with a hard edged circle of sight.

  At last, Donald lifted his head and, nostrils flaring, announced, “Henry’s up.”

  Vicki pulled her glasses off and rubbed at her eyes. It was about time. You know it’s been a strange day, she mused, when you’re looking forward to the arrival of the bloodsucking undead.

  Eight

  Usually, when he awoke in a place other than his carefully shielded sanctuary, there would be a moment of near panic while memory fought to reestablish itself. Tonight, he knew even before full consciousness returned, for the unmistakable scent of the wer saturated his tiny chamber.

  He stretched and lay still for a moment, senses extended until they touched Vicki’s life. The hunger rose to pulse in time with her heartbeat. He would feed tonight.

  As Henry made his way downstairs, Mozart’s Don Giovanni filled the old farmhouse and, he suspected, a good portion of the surrounding countryside. Stereo systems had been one piece of human culture the wer had embraced wholeheartedly. Henry winced as a descant Mozart could never have imagined soared up and over and around the recorded soprano.

  Oh, well, I suppose it could be worse. He braced himself against Shadow’s enthusiastic welcome. It could be New Kids on the Block.

  With one hand fondling Shadow’s ears, Henry paused on the kitchen’s threshold, allowing his eyes to become accustomed to the light. He half expected to see Vicki seated at the table, but the room was empty save for Donald who sat, feet up, watching Jennifer and Marie work their way through a sink full of dishes. Seconds later, this simple domestic scene shattered as Shadow bounded forward and shoved a cold, wet nose against the back of Marie’s bare legs. A plate hit the floor, bounced, and lay there forgotten as both twins chased their younger brother out of the house.

  “Evening,” Donald grunted as Henry bent to pick up the plate. “Don’t suppose you know any opera singers?”

  He’d known an opera dancer once, almost two hundred years ago, but that wasn’t quite the same thing. “Sorry, no. Why?”

  “Thought if you knew one, you could bring her out.” Donald waved an arm in the air, the gesture encompassing Don Giovanni. “Be nice to hear this stuff live for a change.”

  Henry was about to point out that Toronto wasn’t that long a drive and that the Royal Canadian Opera Company, while not Vienna, definitely had its moments when he had a sudden vision of wer at the theater and blanched. “Where is everyone?” he asked instead.

  “Tag and Sky . . .”

  Stuart and Nadine, Henry translated.

  “. . . are out hunting, in spite of protests from your Ms. Nelson. You saw the exit of the terrible trio. Colin is at work, and my other two are . . .”

  The descant rose above the tenor solo, wrapping the notes almost sideways to each other.

  “. . . in the living room with their heads between the speakers. They got a couple of old recordings from the doctor today, obscure companies that aren’t out yet on CD.” He scratched at the mat of red hair on his chest and frowned. “Personally, I think the tenor is a little sharp.”

  “Why the doctor? Was someone hurt?”

  “Everyone is fine.” Vicki’s voice came from behind him, from the door leading to the bathroom, and her tone added, so far. Henry turned as she continued. “I needed to talk to him to make sure he wasn’t the killer.”

  “And are you sure.”

  “Quite. It’s not him, it’s not Colin’s partner, and it’s not the game warden. Unfortunately, at least another thirty-seven people regularly go wandering through the woods with high-powered binoculars and it could be any one of them. Not to mention an unknown number of nature photographers whose names I don’t have yet.”

  Henry raised a brow and smiled. “Sounds like you’ve had a productive day.”

  Vicki snorted. “I’ve had a day,” she amended, shoving her glasses back up her nose. “I’m not really any closer to finding out who did do it. And Stuart and Nadine have gone for a little nocturnal hike.” Her opinion of that dripped off her voice.

  “They’re hunters, they. . . .”

  “They can hunt at the local supermarket until this is over,” she snapped. “Like the rest of us.”

  “They aren’t like the rest of us,” Henry reminded her. “You can’t judge them by. . . .”

  “Leave it! I’ve had just about as much of that observation as I can take.” She sighed at his expression and shook her head. “I’m sorry. I’m just a little frustrated by illogical behavior. Can we go somewhere and talk?”

  “Outside?”

  She scowled. “It’s dark, I won’t be able to see, and besides, outside is crawling with bugs. What about my room?”

  “What about mine?” While it wasn’t large, his was the only room in the house with a door that could be bolted from the inside. If they began in his room, th
ey wouldn’t have to move later when it came time to feed. He felt her blood calling him and the plate he still held snapped between his hands. “Oh, hell. Donald, I’m sorry.”

  Donald only shrugged, a suspiciously knowing smile lurking around the edges of his mouth. “Don’t worry about it. We’re kinda hard on dishes around here anyway.”

  Giving thanks that his nature no longer allowed him to blush—his fair Tudor coloring had been the curse of his short life—Henry dropped both halves of the plate in the garbage and turned once again to Vicki. For a change, he found her expression unreadable. “Shall we?” he asked, taking refuge in formality.

  Scalloped glass light fixtures illuminated the stairs and the upper hall in the original section of the house but the wer, who could see almost as well in the dark, hadn’t bothered extending them down the hall of the addition.

  Vicki swore and stopped dead at the edge of the twilight. “Maybe my room is better after all. . . .”

  Henry tucked her arm in his and pulled her gently forward. “It isn’t far,” he said soothingly.

  “Don’t patronize me,” she snapped. “I’m going blind, not senile.”

  But her fingers tightened against the bend of his elbow and Henry could feel the tension in her step.

  The bare forty watt bulb hanging from the center of Henry’s closet—it was gross exaggeration to call it a room—threw enough light for Vicki to see Henry’s face but the piled junk held shadows layered upon shadows. Dragging his pillow up behind her back, she leaned against the far wall and watched him bolt the door.

  He could scent the beginning of her desire.

  Slowly, he turned, hunger rising.

  “So.” She kicked off her sandals and scratched at a mosquito bite. Nothing like taking care of one itch to distract you from another. “Sit down and I’ll tell you about my day.”

  He sat. There wasn’t much else he could do.

  “. . . and that’s the suspect list as it stands right now.”

  “You really believe it could be one of these birdwatchers?”

  “Or the photographers. Hell, I’d rather it was Carl Biehn or his slimy nephew than some lone hiker we’ll never track down.”

  “You don’t think it was Mr. Biehn.”

  “Get real. He’s a nice guy.” She sighed. “Course, I have been wrong before and I haven’t taken him off the list. Mind you, at this point, I’ve only got three people who I have taken off the list.”

  “I don’t believe that.” Henry picked up the bare leg stretched out on the cot beside him and began kneading her calf, digging his thumbs deep behind the muscle and then rolling it between his palms.

  After a half-hearted attempt to drag it out of his grip, Vicki left her leg where it was. “Believe what?”

  “That you’ve been wrong before.”

  “Yeah. Well. It happens . . .” She had to swallow before she could answer. “. . . occasionally.”

  Henry knew he could have her now, she’d made her point and would be willing. More than willing—the tiny room all but vibrated to the pounding of her heart. He wrapped iron control around his hunger.

  “So.” Slapping her lightly on the bottom of the foot, he laid her leg aside. “What did you want me to do?”

  Her eyes snapped open and her brows drew down.

  Henry waited, his expression one of polite interest.

  For a heartbeat, Vicki teetered between anger and amusement. Amusement won and she grinned.

  “You can stake out that tree I found. What wind there is—and there’s bugger all air moving that I can tell—has changed again so that it’s off the fields. If someone shows up with a .30 caliber rifle waiting for a target, grab him and it’s case over.”

  “All right.” He began to rise, but she swung her leg across his lap, barring his way.

  “Hold it right there . . . and don’t raise that eyebrow at me. We keep this up much longer and we’ll end up ripping each other’s clothes off in the kitchen and embarrassing ourselves. I don’t want that to happen, this is one of my favorite T-shirts. Now that we’ve both exhibited control over our baser natures, what do you say we call it a draw and get on with things?”

  “Fair enough.” He held out his hand, intending to scoop her up into his arms in the best romantic tradition, but instead found himself yanked down hard against her mouth.

  They didn’t rip the T-shirt, but they did stretch it a little.

  At the end, he took control and when his teeth broke through the skin of her wrist, she cried out, digging the fingers of her free hand hard into his shoulder. She kept moving as he drank and only stilled as he licked the wound clean, the coagulant in his saliva sealing the tiny puncture.

  “That was . . . amazing,” she sighed a moment later, her breath warm against the top of his head.

  “Thank you.” The salty smell of her skin filled nose and throat and lungs. “I was pretty amazed myself.” He squirmed around until he could see her face. “Tell me, do you always make love with your glasses on?”

  She grinned and pushed them higher with an unsteady finger. “Only the first time. After that, I can rely on memory. And for some things, I have a phenomenal memory.” She moved, just to feel him move against her. “Are you always this cool?”

  “Lower body temperature. Do you mind?”

  “It’s August and we’re in a closet with no ventilation. What do you think?” Her fingernails traced intricate patterns along his spine. “You feel great. This feels great.”

  “Feels great,” he echoed, “but I’ve got to go.” He said it gently, as he sat up, one hand trailing along the slick length of her body. “The nights are short and if you want me to solve this case for you. . . .”

  “For the wer,” she corrected, yawning, too mellow to react to his smart-ass comment. “Sure, go ahead, eat and run.” She snatched her foot back, away from his grab, and watched him dress. “When can we do this again?”

  “Not for a while. The blood has to renew.”

  “You couldn’t have taken more than a few mouthfuls; how long is a while?”

  Tucking his shirt into his jeans, he leaned down and kissed her, sucking for a moment on her lower lip. “We have lots of time.”

  “Maybe you do,” she muttered, “but I’ll be dead in sixty, seventy years tops and I don’t want to waste any more of it.”

  Police Constable Barry Wu glanced over at his partner and wished he knew what the hell was going on. Whatever had been bothering Colin for the last few weeks, getting under his skin and twisting, bothered him no longer—which was great, a depressed werewolf was not the most pleasant companion in a patrol car—but Colin still wouldn’t say what the problem had been and Barry didn’t like that. If Colin was in some kind of trouble, he should be the first to know. They were partners, for Chrissakes. “So.” He peered up and down Fellner Avenue as they crossed the intersection; it looked quiet. “Everything’s all right now?”

  Colin sighed. “Like I told you at the beginning of shift, we’re working on it. I’ll tell you what’s happening the moment Stuart releases me.” Stuart had proven damned elusive this afternoon, but Colin had every intention of tracking the pack leader down the moment he got off shift and laying Vicki’s conclusions before him. Now that loyalties no longer pulled him in two directions, the sooner he could talk this whole thing over with Barry the better.

  “But it’s about me?” Barry prodded.

  “No, I told you, not anymore.”

  “But it was about me?”

  “Listen, can you just trust me until tomorrow night? I swear, I’ll be able to tell you everything by then.”

  “Tomorrow night?”

  “Yeah.”

  Barry maneuvered the car around the corner onto Ashland Avenue; on hot summer nights, gangs of kids often hung out around the Arena and the police liked to keep an eye on the place. “All right, sheep-fucker. I can wait.”

  Colin’s lip curled. “You’re lucky you’re driving.”

  Barry grinned. �
��I wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t been. . . .”

  Henry stood for a moment, staring into the woods, one hand resting on the top rail of the cedar fence. In high summer, the woods seethed with life, with hunters and hunted, far too many for him to separate one from the other. He sensed no human lives near but couldn’t be sure if that was due to their absence or to the masking of the smaller lives around them.

  Had it been a mistake to feed? he wondered. Hunger would have increased his sensitivity to the presence of blood. Mind you, he admitted, smiling at the memory of Vicki moving beneath him, in the end, I don’t think I had much choice.

  In the past, when he stayed with the wer for longer than three days and it became imperative to feed, he’d drive into London for a couple of hours and hire a prostitute. He didn’t mind paying occasionally—spread over time it was still cheaper than buying groceries. Upon a moment’s reflection, he decided not to share that thought with Vicki.

  The fence was barely a barrier, and a moment later he moved shadow silent through the trees, following the trail Vicki had laid that morning. A small creature crossed his path, then, catching the scent of so large a predator, froze, its heart beating like a trip-hammer. He heard it scurry away once he’d passed and wished it Godspeed; the odds were good it wouldn’t survive the night. The wer had come this way, probably on the hunt, but not lately as the spoor had faded to hints and that only where the forest floor retained some dampness.

  He ducked under a branch and plucked free a single golden-brown hair from the twig that had captured it. Vicki hadn’t done too well in the woods, the evidence of that was all around him—a faint signature of her blood marked much of the trail. Coming as she did from a world of steel and glass, he supposed this was hardly surprising. Tucking the hair safely in his pocket, he continued along her path, allowing his mind to wander with her memory while he walked.

  He hadn’t intended to come out tonight, but he hadn’t been able to sleep so he took that as a sign. Settling back in the tree, drawing in deep breaths of the warm, pine-scented air, he brushed away a rivulet of sweat and squinted at the sky. The stars were a hundred thousand gleaming jewels and the waning moon basked in reflected glory. There would be light enough.