1 Blood Price

by Tanya Huff

  “Vicki, it’s Henry. Look, I think you should come over here tonight.”

  “Why? Have you turned up something new we should talk about before you head out?”

  “I’m not heading out.”

  “What?” She swung her feet down off her desk and glared at the phone. “You better have a good reason for staying home.”

  She heard him sigh. “No, not exactly. I’ve just got this feeling.”

  Vicki snorted. “Vampire intuition?”

  “If you like.”

  “So you’re just going to stay home tonight because you’re got a feeling?”

  “Essentially, yes.”

  “Just letting demons run loose all over the city while you ride a hunch?”

  “I don’t think there’ll be any demons tonight.”

  “What? Why not?”

  “Because of what happened last night. When the power of God reached out and said, ‘No.’ ”

  “Say what?”

  “I don’t really understand myself. . . .”

  “What happened last night, Fitzroy?” She growled out the question through clenched teeth. She’d interviewed hostile witnesses who’d been more generous with details.

  “Look, I’ll tell you when you get here.” He did not want to explain a religious experience to a woman raised in the twentieth century over the phone. He’d have enough trouble convincing her of what had happened face-to-face.

  “Does this feeling have anything to do with what happened last night?”

  “No.”

  “Then why. . . .”

  “Listen, Vicki, over time I’ve learned to trust my feelings. And surely you’ve ridden a few hunches in the past?”

  Vicki pushed her glasses up her nose. She didn’t have much choice when it came right down to it—she had to believe he knew what he was doing. Believing in vampires had been easier. “Okay, I’ve got a few things to take care of here, but I’ll be over as soon as I can.”

  “All right.”

  He sounded so different than he had on other occasions that she frowned. “Henry, is something wrong?”

  “Yes. . . . No. . . .” He sighed again. “Just come over when you can.”

  “Listen, I have a . . . damn him!” Vicki stared at the receiver, the loud buzz of the dial tone informing her that Henry Fitzroy didn’t care what she had. And yet she was supposed to drop everything and hurry over there because he had a feeling. “That’s just what I need,” she muttered, digging around in her bag, “a depressed vampire.”

  The list the computer science professor had finally given her held twenty-three names, students he figured would actually be able to make use of the potential of the stolen computer system. Although, as he’d pointed out, the most sophisticated of home systems were often used for no better purpose than games. “And even you could run one under those parameters,” he’d added. He had no idea which ones of the twenty-three wore black leather jackets. It just wasn’t the sort of thing he paid attention to.

  “Have any of them been acting strangely lately?”

  He’d smiled wearily. “Ms. Nelson, this lot doesn’t act any way but strangely.”

  Vicki checked her watch. 9:27. How had it gotten so damned late? On the off chance that Celluci might finally be at his desk—he hadn’t been in since she’d started trying to reach him around four in the. afternoon—she called headquarters. He still wasn’t there. Nor was he at home.

  Leaving yet another message, she hung up. “Well, he can’t say I didn’t try to pass on all relevant information.” She tacked the list to the small bulletin board over the desk. Actually, she had no idea how relevant the names were. It was the slimmest of chances they’d mean anything at all, but so far it was the only chance they had and these twenty-three names at least gave her a place to start.

  9:46. She’d better get over to Henry’s and find out just what exactly had happened the night before.

  “The hand of God. Right.”

  Demons and Armageddon aside, she couldn’t even begin to guess at what would make such an impression on a four hundred and fifty year old vampire.

  “Demons and Armageddon aside. . . .” She reached for the phone to call a cab. “You’re getting awfully blasé about the end of the world.”

  Her hand was actually on the plastic when the phone rang and her heart leapt up into her throat at the sudden shrill sound.

  “Okay.” She took a deep breath. “Maybe not so blasé after all.” By the third ring she figured she’d regained enough control to answer it.

  “Hi, honey, have I called at a bad time?”

  “I was just on my way out, Mom.” Another five minutes and she’d have been gone. Her mother had a sixth sense about these things.

  “At this hour?”

  “It isn’t even ten yet.”

  “I know that, dear, but it’s dark and with your eyes. . . .”

  “Mom, my eyes are fine. I’ll be staying on well lighted streets and I promise I’ll be careful. Now, I really have to go.”

  “Are you going alone?”

  “I’m meeting someone.”

  “Not Michael Celluci?”

  “No, Mom.”

  “Oh.” Vicki could practically hear her mother’s ears perk up. “What’s his name?”

  “Henry Fitzroy.” Why not? Short of hanging up, there was no way she was going to get her mother off the phone, curiosity unsatisfied.

  “What does he do?”

  “He’s a writer.” As long as she stuck to answering her mother’s questions, the truth would serve. Her mother was not likely to ask, “Is he a member of the bloodsucking undead?”

  “How does Michael feel about this?”

  “How should he feel? You know very well that Mike and I don’t have that kind of relationship.”

  “If you say so, dear. Is this Henry Fitzroy good looking?”

  She thought about that for a moment. “Yes, he is. And he has a certain presence. . . .” Her voice trailed off into speculation and her mother laughed.

  “It sounds serious.”

  That brought her back to the matter at hand. “It is, Mom, very serious, and that’s why I have to go now.”

  “Very well. I was just hoping that, as you couldn’t make it home for Easter, you might have a little time to spend with me now. I had such a quiet holiday, watched a bit of television, had supper alone, went to bed early.”

  It didn’t help that Vicki was fully aware she was being manipulated. It never had. “Okay, Mom. I can spare a few moments.”

  “I don’t want to put you out, dear.”

  “Mother. . . .”

  Almost an hour later, Vicki replaced the receiver, looked at her watch, and groaned. She’d never met anyone as capable as her mother at filling time with nothing at all. “At least the world didn’t end during the interim,” she muttered, squinting at Henry’s number up on the corkboard and dialing.

  “Henry Fitzroy is not able to come to the phone at the moment. . . .”

  “Of all the nerve!” She hung up in the middle of the message. “First he asks me to come over and then he buggers off.” It wasn’t too likely he’d met an untimely end while her mother had held her captive on the phone. She doubted that even vampires had the presence of mind to switch on their answering machines while being dismembered.

  She shrugged into her jacket, grabbed up her bag, and headed out of the apartment, switching her own machine on before she left. Moving cautiously, she made it down the dark path to the sidewalk, then pointed herself at the brighter lights that marked College Street half a block away. She’d been going to call for a taxi, but if Henry wasn’t even at home, she’d walk.

  Her mother attempting to call attention to her disability had nothing to do with the decision. Nothing.

  Henry grabbed for the phone, then ground his teeth when the caller hung up before the message had even finished. There were few things he hated more and that was the third time it had happened this evening. He’d turned the mach
ine on when he sat down to write, more out of habit then anything, with every intention of picking up the receiver if Vicki chanced to call. Of course, he couldn’t tell who was calling if they didn’t speak. He looked at his watch. Ten past eleven. Had something gone wrong? He dialed her number and listened to her complete message before hanging up. It told him nothing at all.

  Where was she?

  He considered going to her apartment and trying to pick up some kind of a trail but discarded the idea almost immediately. The feeling that he should stay in the condo was stronger than ever, keeping him in a perpetual sort of twitchy unease.

  As long as he had to hang around anyway, he’d been attempting to use that feeling in his writing.

  Smith stepped backward, sapphire eyes wide, and snatched the captain’s straight razor off his small shaving stand. “Come one step closer,” she warned, an intriguing little catch in her voice, “and I’ll cut you!”

  It wasn’t going well. He sighed, saved, and turned off the computer. What was taking Vicki so long?

  Unable to remain still, he walked into the living room and peered down at the city. For the first time since he’d bought the condo, the lights failed to enthrall him. He could only think of them going dark and the darkness spreading until the world became lost in it.

  He moved to the stereo, turned it on, pulled out a CD, put it back, and turned the stereo off. Then he began to pace the length of the living room. Back and forth, back and forth, back. . . .

  Even through the glass doors of the bookcase he could feel the presence of the grimoire but, unlike Vicki, he named it evil without hesitation. A little over a hundred years ago it had been one of the last three true grimoires remaining in the world, or so he’d been told, and he had no reason to doubt the man who’d told him—not then, not now.

  “So you’re Henry Fitzroy.” Dr. O’Mara gripped Henry’s hand, his large pale eyes gleaming. “I’ve heard so much about you from Alfred here, I feel that I already know you.”

  “And I you,” Henry replied, stripping off his evening gloves and carefully returning exactly the amount of pressure applied. The hair on the back of his neck had risen and he had a feeling that appearing stronger than this man would be just as dangerous as appearing weaker. “Alfred admires you a great deal.”

  Releasing Henry, Dr. O’Mara clapped Alfred on the shoulder. “Does he now?”

  The words held an edge and the Honorable Alfred Waverly hastened to fill the silence that followed, his shoulder dipping slightly under the white knuckled grip. “It’s not that I’ve told him anything, Doctor, it’s just that. . . .”

  “That he quotes you constantly,” Henry finished with his most disarming grin.

  “Quotes me?” The grim expression eased. “Well, I suppose one can’t object to that.”

  Alfred beamed, eyes bright above slightly flushed cheeks, the expression of terror that had caused Henry to intervene gone as though it had never existed.

  “If you will excuse me, Mr. Fitzroy, I have a number of things I must attend to.” The doctor waved an expansive hand. “Alfred will introduce you to the other guests.”

  Henry inclined his head and watched his host leave the room through narrowed eyes.

  The ten other guests were all young men, much like the Honorable Alfred, wealthy, idle, and bored. Three of them, Henry already knew. The others were strangers.

  “Well, what do you think?” Alfred asked, accepting a whiskey from a blank-faced footman after introductions had been made, the proper things said, and they were standing alone again.

  “I think you’ve grossly misled me,” Henry told him, refusing a drink. “This is hardly a den of iniquity.”

  Alfred’s smile jerked up nervously at the corners, his face paler than usual under the flickering gaslight. “Dash it, Henry, I never said it was.” He ran his finger around the edge of his whiskey glass. “You’re lucky to be here, you know. There’s only ever twelve invited and Dr. O’Mara wanted you specifically after Charles . . . uh, had his accident.”

  Accident; Charles was dead, but Alfred’s Victorian sensibilities wouldn’t let him say the word. “I’ve been meaning to ask you, why did Dr. O’Mara want me?”

  Alfred flushed. “Because I told him all about you.”

  “All about me?” Given the laws against homosexuality and Alfred’s preferences, Henry doubted it, but to his surprise the young man nodded.

  “I couldn’t help myself. Dr. O’Mara, well, he’s the kind of person you tell things to.”

  “I’m sure he is,” Henry muttered, thanking God and all the Saints that Alfred had no idea of what he actually was. “Do you sleep with him, too?”

  “I say, Henry!”

  The bastard son of Henry VIII, having little patience with social conventions, merely asked the question again. “Are you sleeping with him?”

  “No.”

  “But you would. . . .”

  Managing to look both miserable and elated, Alfred nodded. “He’s magnificent.”

  Overpowering was closer to the word Henry would have used. The doctor’s personality was like a tidal wave, sweeping all lesser personalties before it. Henry had no intention of being swept, but he could see how he might be if he were the idle young man he appeared to be; could see how the others in the room had been, and he didn’t like it.

  Just after eleven, the doctor disappeared and a gong sounded somewhere in the depths of the house.

  “It’s time,” Alfred whispered, clutching at Henry’s arm. “Come on.”

  To Henry’s surprise, the group of them, a dozen young men in impeccable evening dress, trooped down into the basement. The huge central room had been outfitted with torches and at one end stood what appeared to be a stone block about waist high, needing only a knight lying in effigy on its top to complete the resemblance to a crypt. Around him, his companions began stripping off their clothes.

  “Get undressed,” Alfred urged, thrusting a loose black robe in Henry’s direction. “And put this on.”

  Suddenly understanding, Henry had to bite back the urge to laugh. He’d been brought in as the twelfth member of a coven; a group of juvenile aristocrats dressing up in black bedsheets and capering around in a smoky basement. He allowed Alfred to help him change and he remained amused until Dr. O’Mara appeared behind the altar.

  The Doctor’s robe was red, the color of fresh blood. In his right hand he carried a human skull, in his left an ancient book. He should have looked as foolish as his sycophants. He didn’t. His pale eyes burned and his personality, carefully leashed in the drawing room, blazed forth, igniting the chamber. He used his voice to whip the young men to a frenzy, one moment filling the room with thunder, the next dropping it low, wrapping it about them, and drawing them close.

  Henry’s disgust rose with the hysteria. He stood in the deepest shadows, well away from the torches, and watched. A sense of danger kept him there, a pricking up and down his spine that told him no matter how ludicrous this looked, the doctor, at least, played no game and the evil that spread from the altar was very real.

  At midnight, two of the anonymous, black clad bodies held a struggling cat upon the stone while a third wielded the knife.

  “Blood. Blood! BLOOD! BLOOD!”

  Henry felt his own need rise as the blood scent mixed with the smell of smoke and sweat. The chant grew in volume and intensity, pulsing like a heartbeat and pounding against him. Robes began to fall, exposing flesh and, surging just below the surface, blood . . . and blood . . . and blood. His lips drew back off his teeth and he stepped forward.

  Then, over the mass of writhing bodies between them, he met the doctor’s eyes.

  He knows.

  Terror broke through the blood lust and drove him from the house. Clad only in the robe, and more frightened than he’d been in three hundred and fifty years, he made his way back to his sanctuary, gaining it just before dawn, falling into the day with the memory of the doctor’s face before him.

  The next night, a
s little as he wanted to, he went back. The danger had to be faced. And eliminated.

  “I knew you’d return.” Without rising from behind his desk, Dr. O’Mara waved Henry to a chair. “Please, sit down.”

  Senses straining, Henry moved slowly into the room. Except for the sleeping servants on the third floor the doctor was the only life in the house. He could kill him and be gone with no one the wiser. He sat instead, curiosity staying his hand. How did this mortal know him and what did he want?

  “You blend quite well, vampire.” The doctor beamed genially at him. “Had I not been aware already of the existence of your kind, I would have disregarded young Alfred’s babblings. You made quite an impression on him. And on me. The moment I realized what you were, I had to have you with me.”

  “You killed Charles to make room for me.”

  “Of course, I did. There can never be more than twelve.” At Henry’s utterance of disgust, he only laughed. “I saw your face, vampire. You wanted it. All those lives, all that blood. Fresh young throats to rip. And they’d have given themselves joyously to your teeth if I commanded it.” He leaned forward, pale eyes like cold flames. “I can give you this, each and every night.”

  “And what do I give you?”

  “Eternal life.” Hands became fists and the words rang like a bell. “You will make me as you are.”

  That was enough. More than enough. Henry threw himself out of the chair and at the doctor’s throat.

  Only to slam up against an invisible barrier that held him like a fly in a web. He could thrash about where he stood, but he could move neither forward nor back. For a moment he fought against it with all his strength and then he hung, panting, lips drawn back, a soundless growl twisting his face.

  “I rather suspected you would refuse to cooperate.” The doctor came around the desk, standing so close Henry could feel his breath as he spoke. “You thought I was a posturing fool, didn’t you, vampire? You never thought I would hold real power; power brought out of dark places by unspeakable means, gained by deeds even you would quail to hear. That power holds you now and will continue to hold you until you are mine.”