Blood Bank

by Tanya Huff

  So, there was the Bouchard connection. Caught between the two men, Carmilla Amworth was being used by both. By Bouchard to gain access to Wyndham's yacht and therefore France. By Wyndham to gain access to her fortune. And that seemed to be all that Sir William was guilty of. Still frowning, Henry stepped back. "Well, if you didn't steal the document," he growled, "who did?"

  "I did." As he turned, Carmilla pointed a small but eminently serviceable pistol at him. "I've been waiting in Sir William's carriage these last few moments and when no one emerged, I let myself in. Stay right where you are, Mr. Fitzroy," she advised, no longer looking either fragile or waiflike. "I am held to be a very good shot." Her calm gaze took in the positions of the two men and she suddenly smiled, dimples appearing in both cheeks. "Were you fighting for my honor?"

  Lips pressed into a thin line, Henry bowed his head. "Until I discovered you had none."

  The smile disappeared. "I was raised a republican, Mr. Fitzroy, and I find the thought of that fat fool returning to the throne of France to be ultimately distasteful. In time..." Her eyes blazed. "...I'll help England be rid of her own fat fool."

  "You think the English will rise and overthrow the royal family?"

  "I know they will."

  "If they didn't rise when m..." About to say, my father, he hastily corrected himself. "...when King Henry burned Catholic and Protestant indiscriminately in the street, what makes you think they'll rise now?"

  Her delicate chin lifted. "The old ways are finished. It's long past time for things to change."

  "And does your uncle believe as you do?"

  "My uncle knows nothing. His little niece would come visiting him at his office and little bits of paper would leave with her." The scornful laugh had as much resemblance to the previous giggles as night to day. "I'd love to stand around talking politics with you, but I haven't the time." Her lavender kid glove tightened around the butt of one of Manton's finest. "There'll be a French boat meeting Sir William's yacht very early tomorrow morning, and I have information I must deliver."

  "You used me!" Scowling, Sir William got slowly to his feet. "I don't appreciate being used." He took a step forward, but Henry stopped him with a raised hand.

  "You're forgetting the pistol."

  "The pistol?" Wyndham snorted. "No woman would have the fortitude to kill a man in cold blood."

  Remembering how both his half-sisters had held the throne, Henry shook his head. "You'd be surprised. However," he fixed Carmilla with an inquiring stare, "we seem to be at a standstill as you certainly can't shoot both of us."

  "True. But I'm sure both of you gentlemen..." The emphasis was less than complimentary. "...will cooperate lest I shoot the other."

  "I'm afraid you're going to shoot no one." Suddenly behind her, Henry closed one hand around her wrist and the other around the barrel of the gun. He had moved between one heartbeat and the next; impossible to see, impossible to stop.

  "What are you?" Carmilla whispered, her eyes painfully wide in a face blanched of color.

  His smile showed teeth. "A patriot." He'd been within a moment of killing Sir William, ripping out his throat and feasting on his life. His anger had been kicked sideways by Miss Amworth's entrance and he supposed he should thank her for preventing an unredeemable faux pas. "Sir William, if you could have your footman go to the house of Captain Charles Evans on Charges Street, I think he'll be pleased to know we've caught his traitor."

  *

  "...so they came and took the lady away, but that still doesn't explain where you've been 'til nearly sunup."

  "I was with Sir William. We had unfinished business."

  Varney snorted, his disapproval plain. "Oh. It was like that, was it?"

  Henry smiled as he remembered the feel of Sir William's hair in his hand and the heat rising off his kneeling body.

  Well aware of what the smile meant, Varney snorted again. "And did Sir William ask what you were?"

  "Sir William would never be so impolite. He thinks we fought over Carmilla, discovered she was a traitor, drank ourselves nearly senseless, and parted the best of friends." Feeling the sun poised on the horizon, Henry stepped into his bedchamber and turned to close the door on the day. "Besides, Sir William doesn't want to know what I am."

  *

  "Got some news for you." Varney worked up a lather on the shaving soap. "Something happened today."

  Resplendent in a brocade dressing gown, Henry leaned back in his chair and reached for the razor. "I imagine that something happens every day."

  "Well today, that Carmilla Amworth slipped her chain and run off."

  "She escaped from custody?"

  "That's what I said. Seems they underestimated her, her being a lady and all. Still, she's missed her boat, so even if she gets to France, she'll be too late. You figure that's where she's heading?"

  "I wouldn't dare to hazard a guess." Henry frowned and wiped the remaining lather off his face. "Is everyone talking about it?"

  "That she was a French spy? Not likely, they're all too busy talking about how she snuck out of Lady Glebe's party and into Sir William's carriage." He clucked his tongue. "The upper classes have got dirty minds, that's what I say."

  "Are you including me in that analysis?"

  Varney snorted. "Ask your poet. All I say about you is that you've got to take more care. So you saved Wellington's army. Good for you. Now..." he held out a pair of biscuit-colored pantaloons. "...do you think you could act a little more suitable to your condition?"

  "I don't recall ever behaving unsuitably."

  "Oh, aye, dressing up so fine and dancing and going to the theater and sitting about playing cards at clubs for gentlemen." His emphasis sounded remarkably like that of Carmilla Amworth.

  "Perhaps you'd rather I wore grave clothes and we lived in a mausoleum?"

  "No, but..."

  "A drafty castle somewhere in the mountains of eastern Europe?"

  Varney sputtered incoherently.

  Henry sighed and deftly tied his cravat. "Then let's hear no more about me forgetting who and what I am. I'm very sorry if you wanted someone a little more darkly tragic. A brooding, mythic persona who only emerges to slake his thirst on the fair throats of helpless virgins..."

  "Here now! None of that!"

  "But I'm afraid you're stuck with me." Holding out his arms, he let Varney help him into his jacket. "And I am almost late for an appointment at White's. I promised Sir William a chance to win back his eleven hundred pounds."

  His sensibilities obviously crushed, Varney ground his teeth.

  "Now, what's the matter?"

  The little man shook his head. "It just doesn't seem right that you, with all you could be, should be worried about being late for a card game."

  His expression stern, Henry took hold of Varney's chin, and held the servants' gaze with his. "I think you forget who I am." His fingertips dimpled stubbled flesh. "I am a Lord of Darkness, a Creature of the Night, an Undead Fiend with Unnatural Appetites, indeed a Vampyre; but all of that..." His voice grew deeper and Varney began to tremble. "...is no excuse for bad manners."

  * * *

  Author's Note:

  The real Henry Fitzroy, Duke of Richmond, bastard son of Henry VIII, died at seventeen on July 22, 1536, of what modern medicine thinks was probably tuberculosis. Modern medicine, however, has no explanation for why the Duke of Norfolk was instructed to smuggle the body out of St. James's Palace and bury it secretly.

  All things considered, who's to say he stayed buried?

  The Cards Also Say

  *

  Surveying Queen Street West from her favorite perch on the roof of the six-story CITY TV Building, Vicki Nelson fidgeted as she watched the pre-theater crowds spill from trendy restaurants. Usually able to sit, predator-patient, for hours on end, she had no idea why she was suddenly so restless.

  Old instincts honed by eight years with the Metropolitan Toronto Police and two years on her own as a PI suggested there was something w
rong, something she'd seen or heard. Something was out of place, and it nagged at her subconscious, demanding first recognition then action.

  Apparently, observation wouldn't tell her what she needed to know; she had to participate in the night.

  Crossing to the rear of the building, she climbed swiftly down the art deco ornamentation until she could drop the last ten feet into the alley below. Barely noticing the familiar stink of old urine, she straightened her clothes and stepped out onto John Street.

  A dark-haired young man who'd been leaning on the side of the building straightened and turned toward her.

  Hooker, Vicki thought, then, as she drew closer and realized there was nothing of either sex or commerce in the young man's expression, revised her opinion.

  "My grandmother wants to see you," he said matter-of-factly as she came along beside him.

  Vicki stopped and stared. "To see me?"

  "Yeah. You." Running the baby fingernail on his right hand over the fuzzy beginning of a mustache, he avoided her gaze and in a bored tone recited, "Tall, fair, dressed like a man..."

  Brows raised, Vicki glanced down at her black corduroy jacket, faded jeans, and running shoes.

  "…coming out of the alley behind the white TV station." Finished, he shrugged and added, "Looks like you. Looks like the place. You coming or not?" His posture clearly indicated that he didn't care either way. "She says if you don't want to come with me, I've got to say night walker."

  Not night walker as he pronounced it, two separate words, but Nightwalker.

  Vampire.

  "Do you have a car?"

  In answer, he nodded toward an old Camaro parked under the NO PARKING sign, continuing to avoid her gaze so adroitly, it seemed he'd been warned.

  They made the trip up Bathurst Street to Bloor in complete silence. Vicki waited until she could ask her questions of someone more likely to know the answers. The young man seemed to have nothing to say.

  He stopped the car just past Bloor and Euclid and, oblivious to the horns beginning to blow behind him, jerked his head toward the north side of the street. "In there."

  At the other end of the gesture was a small storefront. Painted in brilliant yellow script over a painting of a classic horse-drawn Gypsy caravan were the words: Madame Luminitsa, Fortune Teller. Sees Your Future in Cards, Palms, or Tea Leaves. Behind the glass, a crimson curtain kept the curious from attempting to glimpse the future for free.

  The door was similarly curtained and held a sign that listed business hours as well as an explanation that Madame Luminitsa dealt only in cash, having seen too many bad credit cards. As Vicki pushed it open and stepped into a small waiting room, she heard a buzzer sound in the depths of the building.

  The waiting room reminded her of a baroque doctor's office, with, she noted, glancing down at the glass-topped coffee table, one major exception—the magazines were current. The place was empty not only of customers but also of the person who usually sat behind the official-looking desk in the corner of the room. There were two interior doors: one behind the desk, one in the middle of the back wall. Soft background music with an Eastern European sound, combined with three working incense burners, set the mood.

  Vicki sneezed and listened for the nearest heartbeat.

  A group in the back of the building caught her attention but couldn't hold it when she became aware of the two lives just behind the back wall. One beat slowly and steadily, the other raced, caught in the grip of some strong emotion. As Vicki listened, the second heartbeat began to calm.

  It sounded very nearly post-coital.

  "Must've got good news," she muttered, crossing to the desk.

  The desktop had nothing on it but a phone and half a pad of yellow legal paper. About to start searching the drawers, Vicki moved quickly away when she heard the second door begin to open.

  A slim man with a distinctly receding hairline and slightly protuberant eyes emerged first, a sheet of crumpled yellow paper clutched in one hand. "You don't know what this means to me," he murmured.

  "I have a good idea." The middle-aged woman behind him smiled broadly enough to show a gold- capped molar. "I'm pleased that I could help."

  "Help?" he repeated. "You've done more than help. You've opened my eyes. I've got to get home and get started."

  He rushed past Vicki without seeing her. As the outer door closed behind him, she took a step forward. "Madame Luminitsa, I presume?"

  Flowered skirt swirling around her calves, the woman strode purposefully toward the desk. "Do you have an appointment?"

  Vicki shook her head. Under other circumstances, she'd have been amused by the official trappings to what was, after all, an elaborate way to exploit the unlimited ability of people to be self-deluded. "Someone's grandmother wants to see me."

  "Ah. So you're the one." She showed no more interest than the original messenger had. "Wait here."

  Since it seemed to be the only way she'd find out what was going on, Vicki dropped down onto a corner of the desk and waited while Madame Luminitsa went back into the rear of the building. Although strange things seemed to be afoot, she'd learned to trust her instincts and she didn't think she was in danger.

  The Romani, as a culture, were more than willing to exploit the greed and/or stupidity of the gadje, or non-Rom, but they were also culturally socialized to avoid violence whenever possible. During the eight years she'd spent on the police force, Vicki had never heard of an incident where one of Toronto's extensive Romani communities had started a fight. Finished a couple, yes, but never started one.

  Still, someone here had named her Nightwalker.

  When the door opened again, the woman framed within it bore a distinct family resemblance to Madame Luminitsa. There were slight differences in height and weight and coloring—a little shorter, a little rounder, a little grayer—but a casual observer would have had difficulty telling them apart. Vicki was not a casual observer, and she slowly stood as the dark gaze swept over her. The Hunger rose in recognition of a challenging power.

  "Good. Now we know who we are, we can put it aside and get on with things." The woman's voice held a faint trace of Eastern Europe. "You'd best come in." She stepped aside, leaving the way to the inner room open.

  Curiosity overcoming her instinctive reaction, Vicki slipped a civilized mask back into place and did as suggested.

  The inner room was a quarter the size of the outer.

  The ceiling had been painted navy blue and sprinkled with day-glo stars. Multicolored curtains fell from the stars to the floor and on each wall an iron bracket supporting a round light fixture thrust through the folds. In the center of the room, taking up most of the available floor space, was a round table draped in red between two painted chairs. Shadows danced in every corner and every fold of fabric.

  "Impressive," Vicki acknowledged. "Definitely sets the mood. But I'm not here to have my fortune told."

  "We'll see." Indicating the second chair, the woman sat down.

  Vicki sat as well. "Your grandson neglected to give me your name."

  "You can call me Madame Luminitsa."

  "Another one?"

  The fortune teller shrugged. "We are all Madame Luminitsa if business is good enough. My sister, our daughters, their daughters..."

  "You?"

  "Not usually."

  "Why not?" Vicki asked dryly. "Your predictions don't come true?"

  "On the contrary." She folded her hands on the table, the colored stones in the rings that decorated six of eight fingers flashing in the light. "Some people can't take a dump without asking advice—Madame Luminitsa gives them a glimpse of the future they want. I give them the future they're going to get."

  Arms crossed, Vicki snorted. "You're telling me you can really see the future?"

  "I saw you, Nightwalker. I saw where you'd be this evening. I sent for you and you came."

  Which was, undeniably, unpleasantly, true. "For all that, you seem pretty calm about what I am."

  "I'm u
sed to seeing what others don't." Her expression darkened again for a moment as though she were gazing at a scene she'd rather not remember, then she shook her head and half-smiled. "If you know your history, Nightwalker—my people and your people have worked together in the past."

  Vicki had a sudden vision of Gypsies filling boxes of dirt to keep their master safe on his trip to England. The memory bore the distinctive stamp of an old Hammer film. She returned the half-smile, another fraction of trust gained. "The one who changed me said that Bram Stoker was a hack."

  "He got a few things right. The Romani were enslaved in that part of the world for many years and we had masters who made Bram Stoker's count seem like a lovely fellow." Her voice held no bitterness at the history. It was over, done; they'd moved on and wouldn't waste the energy necessary to hold a grudge. "I've seen you're no danger to me, Nightwalker. As for the others..." The deliberate pause held a clear warning. ". . . they don't know."

  "All right." It was an acknowledgment more than agreement. "So why did you send for me?"

  "I saw something."

  "In my future?"

  "Yes."

  Vicki snorted, attempting to ignore the hair lifting off the back of her neck. "A tall, dark stranger?"

  "Yes."

  Good cops learned to tell when people were lying. It wasn't a skill vampires needed; no one lied to them. So far, Vicki had been told only the truth—or at least the truth as Madame Luminitsa believed it. Unfortunately, truth tended to be just a tad fluid when spoken Romani to gadje.

  The other woman sighed. "Would you feel better if I said that I saw a short, fair stranger?"

  "Did you?"

  "No. The stranger that I saw was tall and dark, and he is dangerous. To you and to my family."

  Now this meeting began to make sense. Intensely loyal to their extended families and clans, the Romani would never go to this much trouble for a mere gadje, even, or especially, if that gadje was a member of the bloodsucking undead. Self-interest, however, Vicki understood. "I'm listening."

  "It isn't easy to always see, so I look only enough to keep my family safe. This afternoon I laid out the cards, and I saw you and I saw danger approaching as a tall, dark man. Cliche," she shrugged, "but true. If you fall, this stranger will grow so strong that when he turns his hate on other targets, he will be almost invincible."