1 Blood Price

by Tanya Huff

  When he saw the bus approaching, he moved to the curb, only to be engulfed by the waiting pack of students and pushed back almost to the end of the line. All his efforts to regain his place met with failure and finally he gave in, shuffling forward with the line and fuming.

  Just wait. . . . Norman shifted his grip on his briefcase, ignoring the way it cracked against the shins of the person next to him. When I have my Demon Lord, there’ll be no more lines, no more buses, no more sharp elbows. He glared at the back of the tall skinny young man attached to the elbow in question. As soon as he got a chance, that guy was going on the list.

  Vicki allowed herself to be caught up in the rush of students and carried with them out through the back doors of the bus. Intensive eavesdropping during the long trip had taught her two things; that nothing had changed much since she’d gone to university and that the verb “says” seemed to have disappeared from common usage.

  “. . . so then my dad goes, if you’re going to take the car out I gotta know where you’re going like and . . .”

  And what’s really depressing is that she’s probably an English major. Out on the sidewalk at last, Vicki fastened her jacket and took a quick look back at the bus. The doors were just closing behind the last of the students fleeing the campus and, as she watched, the heavily loaded vehicle lumbered away. Well, that was that, then; no changing her mind for another forty minutes.

  She felt a little foolish, but this was the best idea she could come up with. With any luck, the head of the computer science department would be able—and willing—to tell her who’d be likely to own and use the stolen computer system. Coreen might have had information that could help sort the living needle out of the haystack, after all, she was a student out here, but when Vicki’d called her apartment at about 8:30 there’d been no answer.

  Pushing her glasses up her nose, she started across the parking lot, watching for black leather jackets. As Celluci had pointed out, there were a number of them on males and females both. Vicki knew full well that physical characteristics had nothing to do with the ability to commit crime, but she looked anyway. Surely a demon-caller must show some outward manifestation of that kind of evil.

  Norman pushed into the first available seat. His injured hand should’ve entitled him to one the moment he got on the bus but not one of his selfish, self-centered fellow students would get up although he’d glared at all and sundry. Still sulking, he fished his calculator out of his shirt pocket, and began to work out the time he’d need to spend downtown. He was, at that very moment, missing an analytical geometry class. It was the first class he’d ever skipped. His parents would have fits. He didn’t care. As much as he’d hoarded every A and A plus—he had a complete record of every mark he’d ever received—he’d realized in the last couple of days that some things were more important.

  Things like getting even.

  When the bus finally wheezed into the subway station, Norman was deep in a pleasant fantasy of rearranging the world so that jocks and their sort were put where they belonged and he got the recognition and the women he deserved. Chin up, he strutted down to the trains, oblivious to the raised brows and the snickers that followed him. A Norman Birdwell run world would be set up to acknowledge the value of Norman Birdwell.

  “Dr. Sagara?”

  “What?”

  Norman was a little surprised at the vehemence in the old lady’s voice; he hadn’t even asked her for anything yet. “Professor Leigh said I should talk to you.”

  “What about?” She glared up at him over the edge of her glasses.

  “I’m doing a project on demons. . . .”

  “The ones on the Board of Directors?” She sniggered, then shook her head at his complete lack of reaction. “That was a joke.”

  “Oh.” Norman peered down at her, annoyed at the lack of light. Bad enough that the Rare Book Room itself was so dark—a few banks of fluorescents would be a decent start until the whole smelly mess could be transcribed onto a mainframe—but it really was unnecessary to carry the conceit over into the offices. The brass lamp threw a pool of gold onto the desk, but Dr. Sagara’s face itself was in shadow. He looked around for a wall switch but couldn’t see one.

  “Well?” Dr. Sagara tapped the fingers of one hand against her desk blotter. “What does Professor Leigh think your project has to do with me? He was singularly nonspecific on the phone.”

  “I need to find out about Demon Lords.” His voice picked up the rhythm of the throbbing.

  “Then you need a grimoire.”

  “A what?”

  “I said,” she spoke very slowly and distinctly as though to an idiot, “you need a grimoire; an ancient, practically mythological book of demon lore.”

  Norman bent forward, squinting a little as he came within the sphere of the desk lamp. “Do you have one?”

  “Well, your Professor Leigh seems to think I do.”

  Grinding his teeth, Norman wished U of T paid more attention to its retirement regulations. The old lady was obviously senile. “Do you?”

  “No.” She laced her fingers together and leaned back in her chair. “But if you really want one, I suggest you contact a young man by the name of Henry Fitzroy. He came to visit me when he first moved to Toronto. Spitting image of his father as a young man. His father had a great love of antiquities, books in particular. Donated a number of the books we have in our collection here. God knows what young Henry inherited.”

  “This Henry Fitzroy has a grimoire?”

  “Do I look like God? I don’t know what he has, but he’s your best bet in the city.”

  Norman pulled his electronic address book out of his briefcase. “Do you have his number?”

  “Yes. But I’m not going to give it to you. You have his name, look it up. If he’s not in the phone book, he obviously doesn’t want to be bothered.”

  Norman stared at her in astonishment. She couldn’t just not tell him, could she? The throbbing became a kettledrum between his ears.

  Yes, she could.

  “Good afternoon, young man.”

  Norman continued to stare.

  Dr. Sagara sighed. “Good afternoon,” she repeated more firmly.

  “You have to tell me. . . .”

  “I don’t have to tell you anything.” Whining topped her rather considerable list of character traits she couldn’t abide. “Get out.”

  “You can’t talk to me like that!” Norman protested.

  “I can talk to you anyway I like, I have tenure. Now are you going to leave or am I going to call library security?”

  Breathing heavily through his nose, he whirled and stamped toward the door.

  Dr. Sagara watched him go, brows drawn down and two vertical lines cutting into her forehead. Professor Leigh would be hearing from her about this. Obviously, he still bore a grudge for that C minus.

  She’ll be sorry. Norman charged through the dim quiet of the Rare Book Room and careened off the entrance turnstile. They’ll all be sorry! The exit was on the other side of the guard’s desk. If anyone laughs at me, they’re dead.

  He slammed into the exit bar and got his briefcase caught between it and the desk. The grinding noise brought a startled exclamation from the guard.

  “No, I don’t need your help!” Norman snarled. Bandaged hand waving, he yanked at the case and jammed it more tightly. “This is all your fault,” he growled as the guard came around to see what could be done. “If you built these things properly, there’d be room!”

  “If you were more careful going through them. . . .” the guard muttered, jiggling the mechanism and hoping he wasn’t going to have to call building maintenance.

  “You can’t talk to me like that. It wasn’t my fault.” In spite of his awkward position, Norman drew himself up and looked the guard right in the eye. “Who’s your supervisor?”

  “Wha. . . .” The guard, who had never considered himself an imaginative man, had the strangest feeling that something not the least human studied h
im from behind the furious gaze of the young man. The muscles in his legs felt suddenly weak and he wanted desperately to look away.

  “Your supervisor, who is he? I’m going to register a complaint and you’ll lose your job.”

  “And I’ll what?”

  “You heard me.” With a final heave, the briefcase came free, deeply scored down one side. “You just wait!” Norman backed out the door, almost running down two students trying to enter. He scowled at the confused guard. “You’ll see!”

  He felt better by the time he’d walked to Bloor Street. With every step, he imagined pulling one of those stupid so-called rare books off the shelves, throwing it on the sidewalk in front of him, and kicking it out into traffic. Still breathing a little heavily, he went into the phone booth at the gas station and looked up the name the crazy old woman had given him.

  Henry Fitzroy had no listed number.

  Letting the phone book fall, Norman almost laughed. If they thought a minor detail like that could stop him. . . .

  On the way back to his apartment, he added Dr. Sagara, the library guard, and a surly TTC official to his black book. He didn’t worry much about the lack of names; surely a Demon Lord would be powerful enough to work without them.

  Once home, he added his upstairs neighbor. On principle more than anything else, for the heavy metal beat pounding through his ceiling only seemed to enhance the beat pulsing in his head.

  Breaking into the phone system took him less time than he’d anticipated, even considering that he had to type one-handed.

  The only Henry Fitzroy listed lived at 278 Bloor Street East, unit 1407. Given the proximity to Yonge and Bloor, Norman suspected the building consisted of expensive condominiums. He glanced around at his own tiny apartment. As soon as he called the Demon Lord, he’d have that kind of address and be living in the style he deserved.

  But first, he’d have to get the grimoire he was certain Henry Fitzroy had—that wacko old lady was obviously just being coy.

  Of course, Henry Fitzroy wouldn’t lend it to him, no point in even asking. People who lived in those kinds of buildings were too smug about what they owned. Just because they had lots of money, the world was below their notice and a perfectly reasonable request to borrow a book would be denied.

  “He probably doesn’t even know what he has, thinks it’s just some old book worth money. I know how to use it. That makes it mine by right.” It wouldn’t be stealing to take a book that by rights should be his.

  Norman turned and looked down at the pool of metal that had been the hibachi. There was only one way to get his property out of a high security building.

  “Anything much happen today?” Greg asked sliding into the recently vacated chair. He should’ve waited a little longer. It was still warm. He hated sitting in a chair warmed by someone else’s butt.

  “Mr. Post from 1620 stalled his car goin’ up the ramp again.” Tim chuckled and scratched at his beard. “Every time he tried to put it in gear he’d roll backward, panic, and stall again. Finally let it roll all the way down till it rested on the door and started from there. I almost split a gut laughing.”

  “Some men,” Greg observed, “are not meant to drive standards.” He bent over and picked up a package from the floor by the desk. “What’s this?”

  The day guard paused, half into his hockey jacket, his uniform blazer left hanging on the hook in its place. “Oh that—it came this afternoon, UPS from New York. For that writer up on fourteen. I rang his apartment and left a message on his machine.”

  Greg put the package back on the floor. “Guess Mr. Fitzroy’ll be down for it later.”

  “Guess so.” Tim paused on the other side of the desk. “Greg, I’ve been thinking.”

  The older guard snorted. “Dangerous that.”

  “No, this is serious. I’ve been thinking about Mr. Fitzroy. I’ve been here four months now and I’ve never seen him. Never seen him come down for his mail. Never seen him take his car out.” He waved a hand in the general direction of the package. “I’ve never even been able to get him on the phone, I always talk to his machine.”

  “I see him most nights,” Greg pointed out, leaning back in his chair.

  “Yeah, that’s my point. You see him nights. I bet you never see him before the sun sets.”

  Greg frowned. “What are you getting at?”

  “Those killings where the blood was sucked out; I think Mr. Fitzroy did it. I think he’s a vampire.”

  “I think you’re out of your mind,” Greg told him dryly, allowing the front legs of his chair to come to ground with a thud. “Henry Fitzroy is a writer. You can’t expect him to act like a normal person. And about those vampires. . . .” He reached down and pulled a copy of the day’s tabloid out of his old leather briefcase. “I think you better read this.”

  With the Leafs actually winning the division playoffs after the full seven games, the front page was dedicated to hockey. Anicka Hendle had to settle for page two.

  Tim read the article, brows drawn down over some of the larger words. When he finished, Greg raised a hand to cut off his reaction and turned the page. Anne Fellows’ column didn’t attempt to appeal to the reason of her readers, she played Anicka Hendle’s death for every ounce of emotion it held. She placed the blame squarely in the arms of the media, admitting her own involvement, and demanding that the scare tactics stop. Are there not enough real terrors on our streets without creating new ones?

  “They made up all that stuff about vampires?”

  “Looks that way, doesn’t it?”

  “Just to sell papers.” Tim shook his head in disgust. He pushed the tabloid back across the desk, tapping the picture on the front page. “You think the Leafs are going to go all the way this year?”

  Greg snorted. “I think there’s a better chance that Henry Fitzroy’s a vampire.” He waved the younger guard out of the building then came around the desk to hold the door open for Mrs. Hughes and her mastiff.

  “Get down, Owen! He doesn’t want your kisses!”

  Wiping his face, Greg watched as the huge dog bounded into the elevator, dragging Mrs. Hughes behind him. The lobby always seemed a little smaller after Owen had passed through. He checked that the lock on the inner door had caught—it was a little stiff, he’d have to have a word with maintenance—before returning to the desk and picking up his paper.

  Then he paused, memory jogged by the smell of the ink or the feel of the newsprint, suddenly recalling the first night the vampire story had made the paper. He remembered Henry Fitzroy’s reaction to the headline and he realized that Tim was right. He’d never seen the man before sunset.

  “Still,” he shook himself, “man’s got a right to work what hours he chooses and sleep what hours he chooses.” But he couldn’t shake the memory of the bestial fury that had shone for a heartbeat in the young man’s eyes. Nor could he shake a feeling of disquiet that caressed the back of his neck with icy fingers.

  As the light released its hold on the city, Henry stirred. He became aware of the sheet lying across his naked body, each thread drawing a separate line against his skin. He became aware of the slight air current that brushed his cheek like a baby’s breath. He became aware of three million people living their lives around him and the cacophony nearly deafened him until he managed to push through it and into the silence once again. Lastly, he became aware of self. His eyes snapped open and he stared up into the darkness.

  He hated the way he woke, hated the extended vulnerability. When they finally came for him, this was when it would happen; not during the hours of oblivion, but during the shadow time between the light and dark when he would feel the stake and know his death and be able to do nothing about it.

  As he grew older, it happened earlier—creeping closer to the day a few seconds at a time—but it never happened faster. He woke the way he had when he was mortal—slowly.

  Centuries ago, he’d asked Christina how it was for her. “Like waking out of a deep sleep—one momen
t I’m not there, the next I am.”

  “Do you dream?”

  She rolled over on her side. “No. We don’t. None of us do.”

  “I think I miss that most of all. ”

  Smiling, she scraped a fingernail along his inner thigh. “We learn to dream while we wake. Shall I show you how?”

  Occasionally, in the seconds just after he woke, he thought he heard voices from his past, friends, lovers, enemies, his father once, bellowing for him to get a move on or they’d be late. In over four hundred years, that was as close as he’d come to what the mortal world called dreaming.

  He sat up and paused in mid-stretch, suddenly uneasy. In absolute silence he moved off the bed and across the carpet to the bedroom door. If there was a life in the apartment, he’d sense it.

  The apartment was empty, but the disquiet remained.

  He showered and dressed, becoming more and more certain that something was wrong—worrying at the feeling, poking and prodding at it, trying to force an understanding. When he went down to the desk to pick up his package, the feeling grew. The civilized mask managed to exchange pleasantries with Greg and flirt a little with old Mrs. McKensie while the rest of him sorted through a myriad of sensations, searching for the danger.

  Heading back to the elevator, he felt the security guard’s eyes on him so he turned and half smiled as the doors opened and he stepped inside. The closing slabs of stainless steel cut off Greg’s answering expression. Whatever was bothering the old man, he’d have to deal with later.

  “Private Investigations. Nelson.” As she had no way of knowing what callers were potential clients, she’d decided to assume they all were. Her mother objected, but then her mother objected to a number of things she had no intention of changing.