1 Blood Price

by Tanya Huff

  Suddenly, he noticed that a path was opening before him as he made his way across the crowded room and he hastily schooled his expression. The men and women gathered here, with faces painted and precious metals dangling, were still close enough to their primitive beginnings to recognize a hunter walking among them.

  That’s three times now; the guard, the sun, and this. You’ll bring the stakes down on yourself if you’re not more careful, you fool. What was the matter with him lately?

  “Hey, Henry, long time since you bin by.” Alex, the owner of the loft wrapped a long, bare arm around Henry’s shoulders, shoved an open bottle of water into his hand, and steered him deftly away from the bar. “I got someone who needs to see you, mon.”

  “Someone who needs to see me?” Henry allowed himself to be steered. It was the way most people dealt with Alex, resistance just took too much energy. “Who?”

  Alex grinned down from his six-foot-four vantage point and winked broadly. “Ah, now, that would be tellin’. Whach you do to your hand?”

  Henry glanced down at the bandage. Even in the dim light of the studio it seemed to glow against the black leather of his cuff. “Burned myself.”

  “Burns is bad stuff, mon. Were you cookin’?”

  “You could say that.” His lips twitched although he sternly told himself it wasn’t funny.

  “What’s the joke?”

  “It’d take too long to explain. How about you explaining something to me?”

  “You ahsk, mon. I answer.”

  “Why the fake Jamaican accent?”

  “Fake?” Alex’s voice rose above the music and a half a dozen people ducked as he windmilled his free arm. “Fake? There’s nothing fake about this accent, mon. I’m gettin’ back to my roots.”

  “Alex, you’re from Halifax.”

  “I got deeper roots than that, you betcha.” He gave the shorter man a push forward and, dropping the accent, added, “Here you go, shrimp, delivered as ordered.”

  The woman sitting on the steps to Alex’s locked studio stood considerably shorter even than Henry’s five six. Her lack of height, combined with baggy jeans and an oversized sweater, gave her a waiflike quality completely at odds with the cropped platinum hair and the intensity of her expression.

  Sliding out from Alex’s arm, Henry executed a perfect sixteenth century court bow—not that anyone in the room could identify it as such. “Isabelle,” he intoned gravely.

  Isabelle snorted, reached out, grabbed his lapels, and yanked his mouth against hers.

  Henry returned the kiss enthusiastically, skillfully parrying her tongue away from the sharp points of his teeth. He hadn’t been certain he was going to feed tonight. He was certain now.

  “Well, if you two are going to indulge in such rampant heterosexuality, in my house yet, I’m going.” With an exaggerated limp-wristed wave, Alex sashayed off into the crowd.

  “He’ll change personalities again before he gets to the door,” Henry observed settling himself on the step. The length of their thighs touched and he could feel his hunger growing.

  “Alex has more masks than anyone I know,” Isabelle agreed, retrieving her beer bottle and picking at the label.

  Henry stroked one finger along the curve of her brow. It had been bleached near white to match her hair. “We all wear masks.”

  Isabelle raised the brow out from under his finger. “How profound. And do we all unmask at midnight?”

  “No.” He couldn’t stop the melancholy from sounding in his voice as he realized the source of his recent discontent. It had been so long, so very long, since he’d been able to trust someone with the reality of what he was and all that meant. So long since he’d been able to find a mortal he could build a bond with based on more than sex and blood. And that a child could be created out of the deepest bond that vampire and mortal could share, then abandoned, sharpened his loneliness to a cutting edge.

  He felt Isabelle’s hand stroke his cheek, saw the puzzled compassion on her face, and with an inward curse realized his mask had slipped for the second time that night. If he didn’t find someone who could accept him soon, he feared the choice would be taken from him, his need exposing him whether he willed it or not.

  “So,” with an effort, he brought himself back to the moment, “how was the gig?”

  “It was March. It was Sudbury.” She shrugged, returning to the moment with him, if that was how he wanted it. “Not much else to add.”

  If you can’t share the reality, there are worse things than having someone to share the masks. His gaze dropped to a faint line of blue disappearing beneath the edge of her sweater and the thought of the blood moving so close beneath the surface quickened his breath. It was hunger, not lust, but he supposed in the end they were much the same thing. “How long will you be in town?”

  “Only tonight and tomorrow.”

  “Then we shouldn’t waste the time we have.”

  She twined her fingers in his. carefully ignoring the bandage, and pulled him with her as she stood. “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Saturday night, at 11:15, Norman realized he was out of charcoal for the hibachi and the only local store he’d been able to find it in had closed at nine. He considered substitutions and then decided he’d better not mess with a system that worked.

  Saturday night passed quietly.

  Sunday night. . . .

  “Damn. Damn! DAMN!”

  Mrs. Kopolous clicked her tongue and frowned. Not at Vicki’s profanity, as she might have on any other day, but at the headline of the tabloid now lying on her counter.

  “VAMPIRE KILLS STUDENT; Young man found drained in York Mills.”

  Four

  “Good God, would you look at old Norman.”

  “Why?” Roger pulled his head out of his locker and turned around. He could feel his jaw quite literally drop. “ ‘Good God’ doesn’t quite cover it, my man. I wish Bill were here to see this.”

  “Where is he?”

  Roger shrugged, not taking his eyes from the sartorial splendor of Norman Birdwell. “Beats me. But he’ll shit if he misses this.”

  Norman, conscious of eyes upon him, threw a bit more of a swagger into his walk. The chain hanging from his new black leather jacket chimed softly against the small of his back. He squinted down at the sterling silver toe caps on his authentic style cowboy boots and wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have gotten spurs as well. His new black jeans, tighter than he’d ever worn before, made an almost smug shik shik sound as the inseams rubbed together.

  He’d shown them. Thought he wasn’t cool, did they? Thought he was some kind of a nerd, did they? Well, they’d be thinking differently now. Norman’s chin went up. They wanted cool? He’d show them cold. Tonight he was going to ask for a red Porsche. He’d learn to drive later.

  “What the hell is that?”

  Roger grinned. “Now aren’t you glad you weren’t any later?” he asked, shoving a friendly elbow into Bill’s ribs. “Kinda takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

  “If you mean it makes me want to gag, you’re close.” Bill sagged against his locker and shook his head. “How the hell is he paying for all of that?”

  “So go ask him.”

  “Why not. . . .” Bill straightened and stepped away from his locker just as Norman passed by.

  Norman saw him, allowed their eyes to meet for a second, then moved on, chortling silently to himself, “Ha! Snubbed you. Let’s see how you like it.”

  The question of payment dead in his mouth, Bill stood staring until Roger moved up beside him and slugged him in the arm.

  “Hey, what’s wrong?”

  Bill shook his head. “There’s something different about Birdwell.”

  Roger snorted. “Yeah, new threads and an attitude. But underneath he’s the same old Norman the Nerd.”

  “Yeah, I guess you’re right.” But he wasn’t. And it wasn’t something Bill could explain. He felt as though he’d reached under the bed and something rotte
n had squished through his fingers—a normal, everyday action gone horribly awry.

  Norman, aware he’d made an impression—Norman, who in a fit of pique had decided he didn’t care if a stranger had to die—Norman strutted on.

  “Victoria Nelson?”

  “Yes?” Vicki peered down at the young woman—girl, really, if she’s out of her teens it’s by hours only—standing outside her apartment door. “If you’re selling something. . . .”

  “Victoria Nelson, the Private Investigator?”

  Vicki considered it a moment before answering and then said slowly, “Yes. . . .”

  “I have a job for you.”

  The words were delivered with the intensity only the very young can muster and Vicki found herself hiding a smile.

  The girl tossed unnaturally brilliant red curls back off her face. “I can pay, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  As the question of money hadn’t even begun to cross Vicki’s mind, she grunted noncommittally. They locked eyes for a moment—Tinted contacts, I thought so. Well, they go with the hair.— then she added, in much the same noncommittal tone, “Most people call first.”

  “I thought about it.” The shrug was so minimal as to be almost nonexistent and her voice was completely nonapologetic. “I figured the case would be harder to turn down in person.”

  Vicki found herself holding he door open wider. “I suppose you’d better come in.” Work wasn’t so scarce she had to take jobs from children, but it wouldn’t hurt to hear what the girl had to say. “Another thirty seconds in the hall and Mr. Chin’ll be showing up to see what’s going on.”

  “Mr. Chin?”

  “The old man who lives downstairs likes to know what’s going on, likes to pretend he doesn’t speak English.”

  Sliding past Vicki in the narrow hall, the girl sniffed, obviously disapproving. “Maybe he doesn’t speak English,” she pointed out.

  This time, Vicki didn’t bother to hide her smile. “Mr. Chin has been speaking English a lot longer than both of us have been alive. His parents came to Vancouver in the late 1880s. He used to teach high school. He still teaches English as a Second Language at the Chinese Community Center.”

  Bright green eyes narrowed accusingly and the girl glared up at Vicki. “I don’t like being patronized,” she said.

  Vicki nodded as she closed the door. “Neither do I.” During the silence that followed, Vicki could almost hear their conversation being replayed, each phrase, each word tested for nuance.

  “Oh,” the girl said at last. “Sorry.” Then her brow unfurrowed and she grinned as she offered a compromise. “I won’t do it anymore if you’d don’t.”

  “Deal.” Vicki led the way through her tiny living room, pushing her leather recliner back upright as she passed, to her equally tiny office. She’d never actually had a client, or potential client, in the office before and there were a couple of unanticipated problems. “I’ll, uh, get another chair from the kitchen.”

  “It’s okay. This is fine.” Shrugging out of her coat she settled both herself and it on Vicki’s weight bench. “Now, about this job. . . .”

  “Not yet.” Vicki pulled her own chair out from the desk and sat down. “First, about you. Your name is?”

  “Coreen, Coreen Fergus.” She continued on the same breath, obviously feeling that her name covered all the necessary details. “And I want you to find that vampire that’s been terrorizing the city.”

  “Right.” It was too early on a Monday and the latest death was too close. “Did Michael Celluci put you up to this?”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.” Shaking her head, Vicki stood. “Look, I don’t know who put you up to this but you can go back to them and. . . .”

  “Ian Reddick was my . . .” She frowned, searching for a word that would give the relationship its proper weight. “. . . lover.”

  “Ian Reddick,” Vicki repeated and sat down again. Ian Reddick, the first victim. The body she’d found mutilated in the Eglinton West subway station.

  “I want you to find the thing that killed him.”

  “Look, Coreen,” her voice dropped into the professional “comfort tone” that police officers worldwide had to master, “I recognize how upset you must be, but don’t you think that’s a job for the authorities?”

  “No.”

  There was something utterly intractable in that “no.” Vicki pushed her glasses up her nose and searched for a response while Coreen continued.

  “They insist on looking for a man, refusing to acknowledge that the paper might be right; refusing to consider anything outside their narrow little world view.”

  “Refusing to consider that the killer might actually be a vampire?”

  “Right.”

  “The paper doesn’t really believe it’s a vampire either, you know.”

  Coreen tossed her hair back off her face. “So? The facts still fit. The blood is still missing. I bet Ian would have been drained dry if he hadn’t been found so quickly.”

  She doesn’t know it was me. Thank God. And again she saw him, his face a clichéd mask of terror above the gaping red wound that was his throat. Gaping red wound . . . no, more as though the whole front of his throat had been ripped away. Not ripped through, ripped away. That was what had been missing; the incongruity that had been nagging at her for over a week now. Where was the front of Ian Reddick’s throat?

  “. . . so will you?”

  Vicki slowly surfaced from memory. “Let me get this straight. You want me to find Ian’s killer, working under the assumption that it really is a vampire? Bats, coffins, the whole bit.”

  “Yes.”

  “And once I’ve found it, I drive a stake through its heart?”

  “Creatures of the night can hardly be brought to trial,” Coreen pointed out reasonably but with a martial light in her eye. “Ian must be avenged.”

  Don’t get sad, get even. It was a classic solution to grief and one Vicki didn’t altogether disapprove of. “Why me?” she asked.

  Coreen sat up straighter. “You were the only female private investigator in the yellow pages.”

  That, at least, made sense and explained the eerie coincidence of Coreen showing up in the office of the woman who’d found Ian’s body. “Out of all the gin joints in all the. . . .” She couldn’t remember the rest of the quote but she was beginning to understand how Bogart had felt. “It wouldn’t be cheap.” What am I cautioning her for? I am not going vampire hunting.

  “I can afford the best. Daddy pays me a phenomenal amount of guilt money. He ran off with his executive assistant when I was in junior high.”

  Vicki shook her head. “Mine ran off with his secretary when I was in sixth grade and I never got a cent out of him. Times change. Was she young and pretty?”

  “He,” Coreen corrected. “And yes, very pretty. They’ve opened a new law practice in the Bahamas.”

  “As I said, times change.” Vicki pushed her glasses up her nose and sighed. Vampire hunting. Except it wouldn’t have to be that. Just find whoever, or whatever, killed Ian Reddick. Exactly what she’d be doing if she were still on the force. Lord knew they were undermanned and could use the help.

  Coreen, who had kept her gaze locked on the older woman’s face, smiled triumphantly and dug for her checkbook.

  “Michael Celluci, please.”

  “One moment.”

  Vicki tapped her nails against the side of the phone as she waited for the call to be put through. Ian Reddick’s throat had been missing and Celluci, the arrogant shit, hadn’t thought to mention whether it had been found or if the other bodies were in the same condition. She didn’t really care at this point if he wasn’t speaking to her ’cause she was bloody well going to speak to him.

  “Criminal Investigation Bureau, Detective-Sergeant Graham.”

  “Dave? It’s Vicki Nelson. I need to talk to Celluci.”

  “He’s not here right now, Vicki. Can I help?”

  From her b
rief experience with him, Vicki knew Dave to be, if possible, a worse liar than she was. And if he couldn’t lie convincingly for important things he certainly couldn’t do it just to protect his partner’s ass. Trust Celluci to get out before the heat came down. “I need a favor.”

  “Shoot.”

  The wording became crucial here. It had to sound like she knew more than she did or Dave might clam up and retreat to the official party line. Although, with luck, the acquired habit of answering her questions could last around the department for years. “The hunk of throat missing from the first body, did anyone ever find it?”

  “Nope.”

  So far so good. “What about the others?”

  “Not a sign.”

  “Not even last night’s?”

  “Not yet anyway. Why?”

  “Just sitting here wondering. Thanks, Dave. Tell your partner from me that he’s a tight-lipped horse’s ass.” She hung up and stared at the far wall. Maybe Celluci had been holding the information back to ensure he had bargaining power in the future. Maybe. Maybe he quite honestly forgot to tell her. Ha! Maybe pigs would fly, but she doubted it.

  Right now, she had more important things to consider. Like what kind of creature walked off with six square inches of throat as well as twelve pints of blood?

  The subway roared out of Eglinton West toward Lawrence and, with the station momentarily deserted, Vicki strode purposefully for the workman’s access at the southern end of the northbound platform. This was now her case and she couldn’t stand working with secondhand information. She’d see the alcove where the killer allegedly disappeared for herself.

  At the top of the short flight of concrete stairs, she paused, her blood pounding unnaturally loudly in her ears. She had always considered herself immune to foolish superstitions, race memories, and night terrors, but faced with the tunnel, stretching dark and seemingly endless like the lair of some great worm, she was suddenly incapable of taking the final step off the platform. The hair on the back of her neck rose as she remembered how, on the night Ian Reddick had died, she’d been certain that something deadly lingered in the tunnel. The feeling itself hadn’t returned, but the memory replayed with enough strength to hold her.