by Tanya Huff
“So much. . . for tha.” She pulled Donald’s jacket off the desk and onto her lap. “I really feel. . . awful’bout thish, Donald. I’m gonna make it up. . . to you. You’ll see.” An idea somehow forced its way through a bottle and a half of single malt. “You know, if the iso-lation box is running then the re-frigeration is running and you’re prob-ly cold.” With a desperate grip wrapped around the arm of her chair, she managed to get to her feet. “If you’re cold, you’re gonna want your jacket.” Finishing the mouthful of Scotch in the mug nearly knocked her over. She swayed, steadied, and started for the door. “I’m gonna take you your . . . jacket.”
Somewhere, far behind the layers of insulation provided by the alcohol, a terrified voice shrieked, “No!”
Dr. Burke ignored it.
“How many electrical rooms can one lousy building have?” Breathing heavily, Vicki backed out into the hall, trying to shine her flashlight in all directions at once. Her voice scraped across her teeth in a strained whisper. “Every time we open a door, I expect to see my mother behind it.”
Celluci reached out and closed one hand over her shoulder, the other catching her wrist and directing the beam of light away from his eyes. The last thing they needed was for both of them to be wandering around blind. “Let me open the doors,” he suggested quietly, turning her to face him.
“No.” She shook her head. “You don’t understand. She’s my mother.”
“Vicki . . .” Then he sighed because there really wasn’t anything he could say that would change things and if the thought of opening a door and finding Marjory Nelson staring at them out of a corpse’s eyes had him scared spitless, God only knew what it was doing to Vicki. Donald Li had been bad enough, but Marjory Nelson was, as Dr. Burke had so kindly reminded them, up and walking. Up and walking and dead. But if Vicki had the guts to face it, he’d face it beside her. Besides, as much as he might wish that Henry Fitzroy had never appeared on the scene, he couldn’t abandon him to the kind of living death that Donald had been trapped in. “Let’s shut that power off, find Fitzroy, and get out of here.”
She nodded, head barely moving, the motion more intent than actuality, and twisted out from under Celluci’s hands. The shadows pressed against her, trying to undermine the precarious balance she maintained. We’re going to find Henry. To do that, we’re going to confine him to one floor. So we’re going to shut the power off. Then we’re going to tear this place apart, one floor at a time. We’re going to find Henry. I will not fail him. Like I failed my mother. As long as she clung to that, she could function. Let the shadows push as they would.
The air in the subbasement tasted of damp concrete and rust and disuse and the building itself—creaking, settling, hiding secrets—made more noise than both of them; although the sound of their breathing seemed to linger where they passed. The rooms to the right of the corridor were up against the outside wall and so every one of them had to be checked; the door opened, the light shone in, the potential horror realized. They’d found two small electrical substations with panels labeled “labs three” “labs four” and “lecture one” but hadn’t touched the breakers. “All at once, ” Vicki had growled. “So we don’t warn her.”
One door remained before the comer; one door, one room and they’d finished the north side of the building. Celluci checked his watch as they hurried toward it. 11:17? Is that all? They still had over half the night. Not so long, he amended as he realized it was probably all the time they had.
A square shadow of darker paint at eyelevel, metal dimpling all four comers, indicated a missing sign. A security bar resting loosely over a steel eye suggested that the room had once held something worth guarding.
“This could be it.” Jerking the bar free, Vicki hauled the heavy door open. Stiff hinges shrilled a clichéd protest that scraped against the inside of her skull like nails on a blackboard. She gritted her teeth and scythed the flashlight beam across the darkness.
Something moved just beyond the edge of the light.
She froze. The circle of illumination froze with her.
Just past it, something moved again.
All she had to do was direct the flashlight less than a meter to the left. All she had to do . . .
The single, naked bulb hanging caged from the ceiling cut black silhouettes around a complex arrangement of pipes. About four feet off the ground, a humped brown body and naked tail disappeared down an impossibly narrow crevice.
Vicki remembered how to breathe. “Rat,” she said, because she had to say something.
“Or a mouse trying out for the Olympics,” Celluci allowed, his hand still covering the light switch. He wet his lips and tried to push his heart down out of his throat. “I’m beginning to think that finding her would be better than the constant fear that we will.”
Wiping at her streaming eyes, Vicki battled the knot in her stomach. You will not puke! she commanded herself, swallowing bile. After a moment, she lifted her head and muttered, “I’m beginning to think you’re right.” She jabbed her glasses back into place. “This is obviously the sprinkler room. Not what we’re looking for.”
Out in the hall, she paused and said, before he could follow, “Leave the light on.”
He caught up to her as she was about to check the first room on the west wall. Frowning, he squinted down the length of the corridor, attempting to isolate the sheen of polished metal that had caught his eye. “Vicki, there’s a padlock on that door down there.”
Vicki turned. The cone of light stretching out from her hand didn’t quite stretch far enough. Not only could she not see a lock, she only had Celluci’s word for it that there was a door.
“In my experience,” he continued, “you lock rooms you don’t want people to go into.”
“Or get out of,” Vicki added. “Come on.”
Unlike the entrance to the room they’d just left, this door retained its sign. Danger. High Voltage. Keep out.
“Odds are good this is the electrical room.” Handing Celluci the flashlight—“Here. Hold this. I’m going to need both hands.”—Vicki rummaged her lockpicks out of her purse. “Keep it steady.” Dropping to one knee, she flicked open the case and drew out the two largest picks.
Her hands were shaking so violently, she couldn’t get either of them into the lock.
Her second attempt was no more successful.
On the third attempt, she dropped one of the probes. It bounced off her knee, chimed against the tile, and came to rest with the hooked end over the toe of Celluci’s shoe. Vicki stared down at it. Then she scowled at the remaining pick, so tightly gripped that her fingertips had gone white behind the nails, spun suddenly, and flung it down the hall.
“Goddamnit!”
She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. There was no way she was going to be able to pick that lock. So much for finding the fucking electrical room. They were going to turn off the power. Prevent Henry from being moved from floor to floor. They were going to tear the building apart one floor at a time. They were going to find Henry. She had to hold onto that. It was all she had. Except that it’s all falling apart! She wanted to beat her head against the door and scream with fear and frustration.
As if he’d read her mind, Celluci reached out and cupped her chin, gently drawing her around to face him. “Let me try.”
Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded and stood, holding out the remaining picks.
“No. Not quite my style.” Passing her back the flashlight, he added, “Wait here.”
He disappeared before she could object and for one terrifying moment it seemed that the darkness had devoured him. By the time she’d swung the light around, he’d gone beyond its range. All at once, with a familiar squeal of metal, the far end of the hall leapt, if not into focus, at least into sight.
What the hell is he doing in the sprinkler room?
A moment later, not bothering to close the door behind him, he came back around the corner, both hands holding. . .
; . . . a length of pipe?
She moved out of his way as he returned, jammed one end of the pipe down through the loop of the padlock and braced it against the metal covering the door. Taking a deep breath, he threw his weight against the other end.
The pipe bit into the door, metal buckling.
Face darkening, Celluci growled an inarticulate challenge, grateful for a place to finally throw all the terror-produced adrenaline of the night.
The security bar slowly bowed.
“Mike? . . .”
“Not. Now.”
Bit by bit the screws dragged free.
“Just. A little. Fur. . .”
The sudden surrender flung him backward as the entire assembly crashed to the floor. He staggered, nearly fell, and leaned panting on the pipe.
Vicki stepped forward and retrieved her fallen lockpick from under the mess. “Obviously, your break-and-enter specialist was a little more direct than mine,” she muttered dryly.
Celluci gulped for air. “Obviously.”
Caught by the sheer normalcy of the exchange, they stared at one another for a moment, then Vicki’s mouth curved into almost a smile as she reached up and pushed the curl of hair back off his forehead. “Well, then,” she stretched the words out, feeling some of the desperation go with them, “let’s hear it for testosterone.”
Celluci snorted, straightened, and let the pipe drop. “Personally, I’m amazed you didn’t pull a package of plastique out of that suitcase you carry.” Shoving the junked security bar out of the way, he pulled open the door and fumbled around the comer for the light.
They’d definitely found the electrical room.
And something else.
“Vicki . . .”
She struggled for command of her voice. “I see it.”
The bloodscent drew him out of the pit where exhaustion had flung him and threw the Hunger loose again.
Someone, something, was banging on the inside of the box.
“Henry?” Vicki called, one foot moving in front of the other through no conscious decision she could remember.
There was no answer—only the continued banging.
She couldn’t call for the other. In case there was an answer.
“Vicki, let me . . .”
“No. This is something I have to do.”
“Of course it is,” Celluci growled, fighting the paralysis that the sight of the stainless steel box invoked and moving up behind her left shoulder. Goddamnit, Vicki, why can’t you turn and run? So I can turn and run.
She watched her reflection grow larger as she approached. The closer she got, the more distance her mind insisted on until, not quite touching the box, she stopped, stared into her own eyes, and straightened her glasses feeling as though the whole experience had slid out of reality.
I don’t even watch horror movies, she told herself. What the hell am I doing starring in one?
She watched her arm come up, her hand cover the latch, her fingers twist slightly sideways. . . .
The lid flew open, slapping her hand aside.
She caught a glimpse of a pale face under red-gold hair. Then, before she could react, something black and heavy swooped down upon her and she stumbled back, blind. Cold and clammy, it wrapped tightly around her head and draped over her shoulders with obscene familiarity. Her throat pumping out shrill sounds of incoherent terror, she tore at it in panicked frenzy.
Finally, as terror began to pick up some of the shading of rage, she wrenched it loose and flung it to the floor. Her glasses, secured over only one ear, began to fall, and the greater fear their loss roused brought her back to sanity as she shoved them back into place.
At her feet lay a pile of black leather.
Henry’s trench coat.
All at once, as if recognition had thrown a switch, she became aware of snarling, cursing, and the impact of flesh on flesh. Looping the strap of her bag over her wrist—it was the only weapon she had—she whirled in time to see Celluci get a leg between his body and Henry’s and use it to fling the smaller man across the room.
Naked to the waist, Henry’s torso gleamed like alabaster, amethyst bruises marking the inside of both arms. He used the momentum of the blow to roll up onto his feet and, snarling, charged again.
Celluci grunted under the impact and slammed his elbow into the side of Henry’s head—to no apparent effect.
Once or twice over the last year, Vicki had been given a glimpse of what lay behind the mask of civilization Henry wore. Had—even while cold sweat beaded her skin and common sense screamed “Run!”—been aroused by so much deadly power so lightly held in control.
He had warned her once, “The beast is much closer to the surface in my kind.”
The beast was loose.
Celluci had barely registered that the box was open when he found himself flat on his back and fighting for his life. He’d hit the floor with Henry Fitzroy’s hands around his throat and had only survived those first few seconds because one hand, swollen and nearly useless, had not been able to maintain its grip.
With his left forearm shoved up under Fitzroy’s chin and his right hand trying to rip the crushing fingers from his windpipe, Celluci had a sudden, unavoidable epiphany about vampires.
He’d caught a glimpse of the reality last August when Mark Williams had died, but that had been easy to bury in the tangled mix of reaction that Henry evoked. Even through his jealousy, he’d recognized and responded to Fitzroy’s personal power. Respect had been inevitable when stopping Anwar Tawfik had thrown them together. Other emotions, less easily defined, had been, for the most part, ignored.
Now, it all distilled down to survival.
He’s stronger. Faster. The frenzy of the attack gave him an opening. Hooking his foot into the top of Fitzroy’s pelvis, Celluci heaved the smaller man across the room. Less than a heartbeat later, the vampire charged him again.
“Fuck!”
Nails gouged into his cheek. He knew the skin had been broken by the intensity of Fitzroy’s response. Frantically twisting his head to one side, he heard teeth snap beside his ear. I never noticed his fucking teeth were so god-damned long!
I’m meat to him.
I’m a dead man.
This isn’t something they did to him. He’s after the blood! Emotional response insisted she throw herself into the battle, ripping Henry off Celluci’s throat. A more visceral reaction suggested she run for her life. She stomped down hard on both and stood trembling where she was. Goddamnit, Vicki, think! Remember what he’s told you!
He’d talked about his desire to feed like it was a force separate from the rest of him—a force over which he had to exert a certain amount of conscious control.
All right. He’s lost control. He’s hungry. It wasn’t a difficult deduction; his need was a tangible presence, beating against the walls of the small room. Those bastards have probably been drawing blood for tests all day. Blood’s all Henry has. He has to replace it. He’ll rip Mike’s throat out to get to it.
So I give him an easier source. One he doesn’t have to fight for.
Dropping to her knees, Vicki upended her purse, searching for her knife.
Mike Celluci was a large man in excellent physical condition, speed and strength enhanced by the certain knowledge that if he lost, he died.
Fortunately for him, Henry Fitzroy had been not only weakened by blood loss but also exhausted and injured by the Hunger’s fight to get free.
Which only delayed the inevitable.
Bleeding from half a dozen small wounds, breath burning in his throat, joints popping as Fitzroy’s teeth slowly descended in spite of everything, Celluci knew with cold certainty that he was losing. And there wasn’t a damned thing he could do about it.
Blood trickling down into her hand, Vicki dove across the room, buried her fingers in Henry’s hair and yanked his head up.
Celluci felt lips peel back against his skin and the lightest kiss of pain. Then the heated contact jerked away and teeth
sheared the air in the hollow between jaw and neck.
Vicki straddled both men and yanked again, harder.
Howling, Henry reared back onto his knees.
Without the grip on his hair she would have lost her balance, but she managed to bring her arm around, blood soaking her cuff and dripping to the floor, and shove the wound against his face.
She cried out as his teeth cut deeper into flesh and the fingers of his good hand clutched almost to the bone. Then she cried out again as he began to suck, mouth working desperately at her wrist.
Vaguely aware of Celluci scrambling clear, she half slid down Henry’s body until she knelt behind him, free hand moving from his hair to his shoulder. Eyes closed, she could feel the blood leave her body for his, feel his urgency catch her up and sweep her along, feel herself begin to be lost in his Hunger. He’d been a passive recipient the last time she’d forced her blood on him. While his need might be no greater now, it was far from passive.
This had a reality that burned, that consumed the memories of all the other times Henry had fed.
Her eyes snapped open as, snarling with frustration, he thrust her wrist aside and whirled to face her. She rocked back. He followed, lips and teeth stained crimson, eyes compelling her to offer her throat, to submit.
She felt her chin begin to rise and forced it back down. “Fuck that!” The hoarse whisper traveled just far enough. “You feed where I allow.” She brought her left hand up between them, trailing scarlet streamers in the air.
It wasn’t enough. The blood came too slowly.
He batted the wound aside, laid his teeth against the soft flesh of the throat, and breathed in the rich scent of life.
Life. . .
He knew this life.
Then the Hunger roared forward, out of control, and his teeth pierced skin.