1 Blood Price

by Tanya Huff

  Fingers skimming along the concrete, she began to move faster until one of the voices rising out of the babble stopped her in her tracks.

  “. . . her throat gone just like the others.”

  Henry had been wrong. The demon had killed again tonight. Although why here, practically at the heart of the city, miles from any of the possible names? Henry, and the feeling that kept him at his apartment tonight. . . .

  “Damn!” Trusting her feet to find their own path, Vicki turned and started to run, thrusting her way through the steadily arriving stream of the curious. She stumbled over a curb she couldn’t see, clipped her shoulder against an ill-defined blur that might have been a pole, and careened off at least three people too slow to move out of her way. She had to get to Henry.

  As she reached his building, an ambulance raced by and a group of people surged up the circular drive and after it, trailing along behind like a group of ghoulish goslings as it squealed around the corner onto St. Paul’s Square. The security guard must’ve been among them for when Vicki pushed through the doors and into the lobby, his desk was empty.

  “God double damn!”

  She reached over and found the switch that opened the inner door but, as she’d feared, he’d locked it down and taken the key with him. Too furious and too worried even to swear, she gave the door a vicious yank. To her surprise it swung open, the lock protesting as a metal tongue that hadn’t quite caught pulled free. She dashed through, took a second to shut it carefully behind her—old habits die hard—raced across the inner lobby and jabbed at the elevator buttons.

  She knew full well that continued jabbing would do no good, but she did it anyway.

  The ride up to the fourteenth floor seemed to take days, months even, and adrenaline had her bouncing off the walls. Henry’s door was locked. So certain was she that Henry was in trouble, it never even occurred to her to knock. Scrambling in her bag, she pulled out her lock picks and took a few deep breaths to steady her hands. Although fear still screamed Hurry! she forced herself to slowly insert the proper probe and more slowly still work on the delicate manipulations that would replace the key.

  After an agonizingly stretched few moments during which she thought the expensive lock was beyond her skill, just about when she was wishing Dirty Harry would show up and blow the door off its hinges, the last of the tumblers dropped. Breathing again, thanking God the builders hadn’t gone with electronics, she threw the picks into her bag and yanked open the door.

  The wind whistling in from the balcony had blown away much of the stench, but a miasma of rot lingered. Again she thought of the old woman they had found six weeks dead in high summer, but this time her imagination gave the body Henry’s face. She knew the odor came from the demon, but her gut kept insisting otherwise.

  “Henry?”

  Reaching behind her, she tugged the door closed and groped for a light switch. She couldn’t see a damned thing. Henry could be dead at her feet and she’d never. . . .

  He wasn’t quite at her feet. He lay sprawled over the tipped couch, half covered in torn upholstery. And he wasn’t dead. The dead have a posture the living are unable to imitate.

  Impossible to avoid, glass glittered in the carpet like an indoor ice field. The balcony door, the coffee table, the television—the part of Vicki trained to observe in the midst of disaster inventoried the different colored shards as she moved. Henry appeared to be in little better shape than his apartment.

  She wrestled the solarium door closed, forcing it through drying, sticky puddles of yellow fluid, then dropped to one knee by the couch and pressed her fingers against the damp skin of Henry’s throat. His pulse was so slow that each continuing beat came almost as an afterthought.

  “Is that normal? How the hell am I supposed to tell what’s normal for you?”

  As gently as possible, she untangled him from the upholstery and discovered that, miraculously, no bones seemed broken. His bones were very heavy, she noticed, as she carefully straightened arms and legs and she wondered wildly if he’d gotten them from the vampirism or from a more mortal heredity—not that it mattered much now. He’d been cut and gouged in a number of places, both by the shards of glass and by what she had to assume were the demon’s talons.

  The wounds, even the deepest, bled sluggishly if at all.

  His skin was cool and damp, his eyes had rolled back, and he was completely unresponsive. He was in shock. And whatever the validity of the vampire legends, Vicki knew they were wrong about one thing. Henry Fitzroy was no more undead than she was; he was dying now.

  “Damn. Damn! DAMN!”

  With one hand guiding Henry’s body so that it slid down onto the torn cushions, she heaved the couch back upright, knelt again beside it and reached for her bag. The small blade of her Swiss Army knife was sharpest—she used it less frequently—so she set its edge against the skin of her wrist. The skin dimpled and she paused, sending up a silent prayer that this would work, that whatever the legends were wrong about, they’d be right about this.

  It didn’t hurt as much as she expected. She pressed the cut to his lips and waited. A crimson drop rolled out the corner of his mouth, drawing a line in red across his cheek.

  Then his throat moved, a small convulsive swallow. She felt his lips mold themselves to her wrist and his tongue lap once, twice at the flowing blood. The hair on the back of her neck rose and, almost involuntarily, she pressed the wound harder against his mouth.

  He began to feed, sucking frantically at first, then more calmly when something in him realized he wasn’t going to be denied.

  Will he know when to stop? Her breathing grew ragged as the sensations traveling up her arm caused answering sensations in other parts of her body. Will I be able to stop him if he doesn’t?

  Two minutes, three, she watched him feed and during that time it was all he was—hunger, nothing more. It reminded her of an infant at the breast and under jacket, sweater, and bra, she felt her nipples harden at the thought. She could see why so many stories of vampires tied the blood to sex—this was one of the most intimate actions she’d ever been a part of.

  First there was pain and then there was blood. There was nothing but blood. The world was the blood.

  She watched as consciousness began returning and his hand came up to grasp hers, applying a pressure against that of his mouth.

  He could feel the life that supplied the blood now. Smell it, hear it, recognize it, and he fought the red haze that said that life should be his. So easy to give in to the hunger.

  She could see the struggle as he swallowed one last time and then pushed her wrist away. She didn’t understand. She could feel his need, feel herself drawn to it. She raised her wrist back toward his mouth, crimson drops welling out from the cut.

  He threw it away from him with a strength that surprised her, the marks of his fingers printed white on her arm. Unfortunately, it was all the strength he had, his body going limp again, head lolling against her shoulder.

  The pain of his grip helped chase the fog away, although it was still desperately difficult to think. She shifted position. The room slid in and out of focus and she realized as she swam up out of the darkness why he’d forced himself to stop. She couldn’t give him all the blood he needed, not without giving herself in the process.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” It wasn’t very creative, but it made her feel better.

  Settling him back onto the couch, she patted him down and pulled his keys from his pants’ pocket—if she was to save Henry’s life she had no more time to waste on picking locks. He needs more blood. I have to find Tony.

  The sudden rise to her feet turned out to be a bad idea, the world slipped sideways and her run for the door became more of a stumble. How could he have taken so much in such a short time? Breathing heavily, she moved out into the hall and jogged for the elevator.

  “Good lord, that’s Owen!”

  Owen? Greg pushed his way through to the front of the crowd. If Owen had been hurt, Mrs
. Hughes might need his help.

  Owen had been more than hurt. Owen’s jaws had been forced so far apart his head had split.

  And Mrs. Hughes was beyond any help he could give.

  She had to get to Yonge and Bloor but her body was not cooperating. The dizziness grew worse instead of better and she careened from one solid object to another, stubbornly refusing to surrender to it. By Church Street, surrender became a moot point.

  “Yo, Victory.”

  Strong hands grabbed her as she fell and she clutched at Tony’s jean jacket until the sidewalk stopped threatening to rise up and smack her in the face.

  “You okay, Victory? You look like shit.”

  She pushed away from him, changing her grip from his jacket to his arm. “How the hell am I supposed to put this? “Tony, I need your help.”

  Tony studied her face for a moment, pale eyes narrowed. “Someone been beating on you?”

  Vicki shook her head and wished she hadn’t. “No, that’s not it. I. . . .”

  “You been doing drugs?”

  “Of course not!” The involuntary indignation drew her up straighter.

  “Then what the fuck happened to you? Twenty minutes ago you were fine.”

  She squinted down at him, the glare from the street light adding to her difficulty in focusing. He looked more angry than concerned. “I’ll explain on the way.”

  “Who says I’m going anywhere?”

  “Tony, please. . . .”

  The moment he took to make up his mind was the longest she’d known for a long time.

  “Well, I guess I don’t got anything better to do.” He let her drag him forward. “But the explanation better be good.”

  Wide-eyed, Greg stared over the shoulder of the burly police constable. All he could see of Mrs. Hughes was running shoe, the upturned sole stained red, and a bit of sweatpant-covered leg—the coroner blocked his view of the actual body. Poor Mrs. Hughes. Poor Owen.

  “No doubt about it.” The coroner stood and motioned for the ambulance attendants to take care of the body. “The same as the others.”

  An awed murmur rippled through the crowd. The same as the others. Vampire!

  At the sound, one of the police investigators turned and glared up the hill. “What the hell are these people doing down here? Get them back behind the cars! Now!”

  Greg moved with the others, but he paid no attention to the speculations that buzzed around him, caught up in his own thoughts. In spite of the hour, he recognized a number of tenants from his building in the crowd. Henry Fitzroy wasn’t among them. Neither were a great many others, he acknowledged, but Mr. Fitzroy’s absence had suddenly become important.

  Owen, who had liked everyone, had never liked Henry Fitzroy.

  Unable to forget the expression that had surfaced in the young man’s eyes or the terror it had evoked, Greg had no doubt Mr. Fitzroy could kill. The question became, had he?

  Weaving his way through to the edge of the crowd, Greg hurried back to Bloor Street. It was time for some answers.

  Vampires. Demons. Tony flicked his thumbnail against his teeth and studied Vicki’s face, his expression warily neutral. “Why tell me this kind of a secret?”

  Vicki sagged against the elevator wall and rubbed at her temples. Why, indeed? “Because you were closest. Because you owe me. Because I trust you not to betray it.”

  He looked startled, then pleased. It had been a long time since someone had trusted him. Really trusted him. He smiled and suddenly appeared years younger. “This is for real, isn’t it? No shit?”

  “No shit,” Vicki agreed wearily.

  Picking his way carefully through the glass, Tony walked over to the couch and stared down at Henry, his eyes wide. “He doesn’t look much like a vampire.”

  “What were you expecting? A tuxedo and a coffin?” There’d been no change while she’d been gone and if he looked no better, at least he looked no worse.

  “Hey, chill out, Victory. This is all kind of weird, you know.”

  She sighed and brushed a lock of red-gold hair back off Henry’s forehead. “I know. I’m sorry. I’m worried.”

  “S’okay.” Tony patted her arm as he came around the couch. “I understand worried.” He took a deep breath and rubbed his palms against his jeans. “What do I have to do?”

  She showed him where to kneel, then put the point of her knife against his wrist.

  “Maybe I’d better do it myself,” he suggested when she hesitated.

  “Maybe you had.”

  His blood looked very red against the pale skin and Vicki felt his hand tremble as she guided the cut to Henry’s mouth.

  What the hell am I doing? she wondered as he began to suck and Tony’s expression became almost beatific. I’m pimping for a vampire.

  Blood again but this time the need was not as great and it took much less to become aware of the world beyond it.

  “He’s really doing it. He’s really. . . .”

  “A vampire. Yeah.”

  “It’s, uh, interesting.” He shifted a little, tugging at the leg of his jeans.

  Remembering the feeling, and thankful Tony couldn’t see her blush, she shrugged out of her jacket and headed for the bathroom, wondering if the modern vampire kept anything useful in his medicine cabinet. The extent of Henry’s wounds were beyond the tiny first aid kit she carried in her bag although she’d improvise if she had to.

  To her surprise, the modern vampire owned both gauze and adhesive tape. Gathering it up, along with two damp washcloths, a towel, and the terry cloth dressing gown she’d found hanging on the door, she hurried back to the living room, leaning on walls and furniture whenever possible.

  She’d take care of the one deep cut on Henry’s arm, and then she’d rest. Maybe for a couple of days.

  Fumbling a little with his keys, Greg opened the locker in the recreation room and pulled the croquet stake out of its box.

  “It’s just a precaution,” he told himself, studying the point. “Just a sensible precaution.”

  Trying not to think of the depth or the damage, she washed out the wound and, pressing the edges of torn skin and muscle as close together as they’d go, bound them in place with the gauze. Henry’s arm trembled, but he made no attempt to pull away.

  Tony carefully kept his eyes averted.

  With awareness of self came confusion. Who was he feeding from? Vicki’s scent was unmistakable, but he didn’t know the young male.

  He could feel his strength returning, could feel his body begin to heal as the blood he took was no longer necessary for the mere sustaining of life. Now all he needed was time.

  “I think he’s finished.”

  “Has he stopped, then?”

  Tony held up his wrist. “That’s usually what finished means.” The cut gaped a little, but only one tiny drop of blood rolled down under the grimy sleeve of the jean jacket.

  Vicki leaned forward. “Henry?”

  “Half a mo, Victory.” Tony rocked back on his heels and stood. “If you’re going to wake him, I’m out of here.”

  “What?”

  “He doesn’t know me and I don’t think I oughta be here while you convince him I ain’t going to tell.”

  A second’s reflection convinced Vicki that might not be such a bad idea. She had no concept of how Henry was going to take the betrayal of his secret to a complete stranger. In his place, she’d be furious.

  She followed Tony to the door. “How do you feel?”

  “Horny. And a little dizzy,” he added before she could say anything. “I don’t think he took as much from me as he did from you. Course, I’m younger.”

  “And mouthier.” She reached out and grasped his shoulder, shaking it gently. “Thanks.”

  “Hey, I wouldn’t have missed it.” For a second his face was open, vulnerable, then the cocky grin returned. “I wanna hear how this all comes out.”

  “You’ll hear.” She pulled a handful of crumpled bills out of her pocket and pressed it i
nto his hand. “Drink lots of liquids over the next little while. And Tony, try not to let the guard see you on the way out.”

  “Teach granny to suck eggs, Victory.”

  In the elevator, Greg slapped the two and a half foot length against his leg. He didn’t really believe Henry Fitzroy was a vampire, not really, but then, he didn’t really believe Mrs. Hughes was dead and she undeniably was. Belief, he had come to realize over the course of a long life, had little to do with reality.

  At the fourteenth floor, he squared his shoulders and stepped out into the corridor, determined to do his duty. He didn’t consider himself to be a particularly brave man but he did have a responsibility to the tenants in his building. He hadn’t faltered against the Nazis, he hadn’t faltered in Korea, he wouldn’t falter now.

  At Henry Fitzroy’s door, he checked to be sure his pant leg covered the stake—he wouldn’t use it if he didn’t have to—and knocked.

  “Damn!” Vicki glanced from Henry to the door. It didn’t sound like the police—a police knock was unmistakable—but ignoring it might still be the worst thing to do. If someone on the street had seen the demon on Henry’s balcony. . . .

  The fisheye showed her a distorted view of the old security guard from the front desk. As she watched, he raised his hand and knocked again. She didn’t know what he wanted, she didn’t really care. He couldn’t talk to Henry and she had to get rid of him without allowing him to see the battlefield in the living room. If the guard had suspicions—and from his expression he certainly wasn’t happy about something—she had to leave him no doubt as to what Henry’d spent the last couple of hours doing. And if the guard had no suspicions, it was important he not acquire any.