Blood Debt (Vicki Nelson #5)
Page 6"KEEP your ears open ..."
Tony stuffed another cartridge in the rewinder with more emphasis than was absolutely necessary. So far he'd overheard a totally unbelievable excuse about a destroyed tape, a conversation that could be used to script a bad made-for-TV movie, and three long-winded reviews from a retired office machinery sales?man who expressed opinions on his weekend rentals every Monday. Not exactly the buzz on the street.
"Vicki says you're the best..."
"Yeah, right," he muttered, staring out the window. While he wasn't stupid enough to wish himself back into cold and hunger and fear, he couldn't help feeling cut off from the one thing he did well.
On the other side of Robeson, two teenagers leaned against a bank building soaking up the sun. One was thin and black. The other, thin and white. Skin color their only visible difference. They both wore filthy army pants, old scuffed Doc Martens, and sleeveless black T-shirts-one faced with a red peace symbol, the other with an ivory skull. Steel rings glinted in both noses above moving mouths.
Eyes narrowed in irritation-lipreading was not as easy as it looked on TV-Tony started to ad-lib the words he couldn't hear. "You know about that gang selling organs? Yeah, man, like I'm droppin' off a kid?ney tomorrow."
"What the hell are you talkin' about, Foster?"
Tony jumped and whirled to face his boss who'd returned, unnoticed, from the store room. Squelching the lingering instinctive street response to growl, "None of your business," he muttered. "Nothing."
The older man shook his head and handed him a pile of boxes to reshelve. "I've said it before, and I'll say it again; you're a weird one. Get back to work."
"Vicki says you're the best..."
It wasn't so much that he was letting Vicki down, more that he'd lost a part of himself.
Scooping up the boxes, he came around the end of the counter just as one of the teenagers across the street held out his hand to the other. It was such an unusual gesture that it caught his attention and he stopped for a moment to watch. They shook hands formally, uncomfortably, then moved apart. As one of them turned to face the store, the ivory skull smiled.
Tony rubbed at his eyes with his free hand and looked again. It was a T-shirt, old and faded and noth?ing more.
Of course the skull was smiling, you idiot. Skulls always smile. Tony Foster, you have been hanging around with vampires too long. But a line of sweat dribbled icy cold down the center of his back, and the hand that set the video boxes on the shelves was shaking.
"You got my money?"
The driver's smile was so nonthreatening it was al?most inane. "It's in the bag."
The bag had been printed with a cheap rip-off of the Vancouver Grizzlies logo. There were at least a million of them around the city. After a brief struggle with a zipper that seemed intent on snagging, it opened to show several packets of worn tens and twenties.
"All right!" Considering how many dreams it held, the bag weighed next to nothing as it lifted off the floor. "Hey? What the fuck are you grinning about?"
The driver's smile broadened as he guided the dark sedan onto the Lion's Gate Bridge heading for North Vancouver. "I'm just happy when someone gets off the streets."
Thin arms tightened around the bag. "Yeah, like you're a real fucking Good Samaritan." He scowled at the dashboard. "Hey, weren't you in a gray car before?"
"You don't think I'm using my own car for this, do you?" The tone was mocking, superior.
"No. Guess not."
They drove in silence along the North Shore, the only sound the quiet hum of the air-conditioner fan. When the car turned off Mt. Seymour Parkway onto Mt. Seymour Road, the teenager in the passenger seat shifted nervously. "Shouldn't I be like blindfolded or something?"
"Why?"
"So I can't, you know, tell anyone about this."
"Tell who?" the driver asked quietly.
"No one, man. Fuck... " Contrary to romantic belief, those who lived on the street actually learned very little about life. The one and only lesson the sur?vivors learned was how to survive. If they failed to learn it, then by definition they were just another sad statistic. The boy in the car figured himself for a survi?vor. He knew a threat when he heard one. There was suddenly more to the gorilla behind the wheel than those big, friendly, doggy eyes.
Palms leaving damp prints on the cheap nylon bag, he stared unfocused through the tinted windshield and built a pleasant fantasy of beating the driver's smug, self-satisfied face in. His eyes widened a little as they passed a security gate and turned onto a private road. They widened further as the clinic came into view.
"This don't look like no hospital."
"That's right." A sign by the edge of the drive read Staff Only. "Our clients don't like to think they're in a hospital, and they pay big bucks to maintain the illusion they aren't."
"Fuck, what kind of clients you got?"
The driver smiled. "Rich ones."
Rich ones. His right hand patted the rectangular bulges stretching the side of the bag. Rich ones like him.
Standard police procedure maintained that a per?sonal visit elicited more information than a phone call. Not only were facial expressions harder to fake, but the minutiae of surrounding environmental clues were often invaluable. As Mike Celluci pushed open the door leading to the offices of the British Columbia Transplant Society, he recognized that no aspect of this "case" resembled standard police procedure, but when it came right down to it, he didn't have anything else to do.
"Can I help you?" The woman behind the reception desk at the BC Transplant Society fixed him with the steely-eyed, no-nonsense gaze of the professional vol?unteer. Celluci felt as though he were being assessed for potential usefulness and could almost hear her thinking: How nice, muscle. I'm sure we have some?thing around that needs moving.
"Is Ronald Swanson in?"
Her eyes narrowed. "Is this about that dreadful woman?"
"If you mean the cable interview... ?"
"Look, you're the fourteenth person who's asked about it since I came in-although the other thirteen were satisfied with a phone call." Two spots of color blazed through the powder on her cheeks. "I'll tell you the same thing I told them; there is absolutely no truth to anything Patricia Chou said, and she should be prosecuted for spreading such a horrible, horrible story. Donated organs go to the most needy person on the list. They are not ever sold to the highest bid?der. Ever."
Somewhat taken aback, Celluci spread his hands and arranged his features into his best information eliciting expression. "Not within the system, no, but if someone were to circumvent ..."
"That doesn't happen."
"But it could."
"I believe Mr. Swanson made it perfectly clear that such a horrific concept is impossible."
"No, ma'am. He merely said it would be difficult and expensive. Which is why I wanted to speak with him." He'd been half tempted to wander into one of the rougher sections of the city and see if he could find some gang action, but upon reflection decided he'd rather live a little longer. While he had no doubt he'd survive the gangs, Vicki'd kill him for taking the risk.
Her nostrils pinched shut, the receptionist laid both hands on the desk and leaned forward. "We are ex?tremely fortunate that a man of Mr. Swanson's wealth and social standing is willing to do so much work for the society, but given the demands on his time, he does not spend his days here. If you want to speak with him, you'll have to call his office. You'll find Swanson Realty in the Yellow Pages."
It was as efficient a dismissal as if she'd hung up on him. Thanking her for her time, Celluci turned and left the office.
I pity the fifteenth caller, he thought as he waited for the elevator.
Swanson Realty actually was in the book, and from the size of the accompanying ad, Ronald Swanson was indeed doing very well for himself. Unfortunately, there was no way a company that size would put through a call to the owner unless the caller identified himself as a homicide detective. Too bad he was just a guy on vacation.
Frowning, Celluci let the phone book fall back into its plastic case and left the booth. For the first time, he had a good idea of how Vicki'd felt when her dete?riorating eyesight pushed her off the force. He didn't much like the feeling.
Fortunately, it wasn't important he speak to Ronald Swanson. He'd mostly wanted the meeting for his own peace of mind. Since the man had obviously given some thought to the impossibility of setting up an organ-legging operation, Celluci'd hoped he could get him to expand on his reasoning.
Patricia Chou had almost convinced him Vicki was right about the organ-legging, and that meant-Ms. Chou's personal vendetta aside-Swanson was as much a suspect as the faceless crime lords of Vancouver.
But one body, one kidney, wasn't going to generate much in the way of profit.
So, somewhere, there had to be more bodies.
Or there were going to be more bodies.
He didn't much like either option.
The room was small with a single window up near the ceiling. The bottom four feet of the walls were a soft pink and so was the blanket on the bed. He guessed it was supposed to be soothing, but it made him think of Pepto Bismol and he didn't much like it.
He didn't much like the pajamas either, but the driver had made it perfectly clear he was expected to shower, then put them on.
He locked the bathroom door behind him before even unlacing his boots and got in and out of the shower as fast as he could, unable to cope with an extended vulnerability. Unfortunately, the pajamas left him feeling little safer.
At least they don't have a hole in the front for my dick to fall out of.
Bag of money clutched tight against his side, he tried the exit. Locked. But he'd expected that. They wouldn't want him roaming around bothering their rich patients.
When the handle began to turn under his fingers, he hurriedly released it and backed toward the bed, heart pounding. He relaxed only slightly when the fa?miliar form of the doctor entered the room pushing a stainless steel cart.
"Good afternoon, Doug. Are you comfortable?"
" 'S okay. What's that for?" He eyed the equipment laid out on the top shelf suspiciously.
"Donor specific blood transfusions enhance graft survival. So... " She ripped open a cotton swab with brutal efficiency. "... I'm going to need to take some blood."
Later, when it was over and he was lying in bed feeling weak and dizzy, his fingers plucked at the bag searching for reassurance. It wouldn't be so bad, he thought, refusing to acknowledge the fear that closed his throat and lay cold and clammy against his skin, if I could only see out the window....
Jerked out of sleep, Celluci scrambled across the king-sized bed toward the ringing phone. The clock beside it said 7:04 P.M. Forty minutes to sunset. He'd lain down at three for a half-hour nap but was obvi?ously more tired than he thought. The dainty, ladylike receiver almost disappeared in his hand, but eventu?ally he got the right end to his ear. A quick glance at the call display showed him a familiar number. "What've you got for me, Dave?"
On the other end of the line, his partner, Detective-Sergeant Dave Graham, sighed deeply. "I'm fine, Mike. How are you? I got the names and addresses you wanted."
"Thanks. How come you're calling from home?"
"Maybe I was on my way out of the office when you called. Maybe pulling these things off the system took a little time and I wanted to spend what was left of the evening with my family. Maybe I thought you didn't want the whole office wondering why you were suddenly interested in Vancouver gangs and real es?tate salesmen. You choose."
Celluci grinned. "What were those options again?"
"Fuck you, too, buddy. Got a pencil handy?"
"Hang on." He hit the hold button and headed into the kitchen where he'd seen a pad and a jar of pens beside an extremely expensive replica of an old-fash?ioned wall phone. "Okay. Go ahead."
"You'll notice I'm not asking why you want these things."
"And I appreciate that, Dave."
"I mean, I'm willing to believe that you're just mak?ing some exciting vacation plans and are not being drawn into one of Vicki's weirdo, made for Fox TV investigations.''
"Thanks, Dave."
"Yeah, well, I'm gullible that way. Try not to get yourself killed."
The first half of the list, from the firmly entrenched to the up-and-coming, was longer than he'd thought it would be. There was nothing about Ronald Swanson at all. The man didn't have so much as an outstanding parking ticket.
Henry woke angry, but that was to be expected as Vicki's scent-the scent of an intruder, a competing predator-still clung to the bedroom. He'd been lying with his upper lip half lifted in a snarl, and it took him a moment to peel the flesh off air-dried teeth.
"I bet Brad Pitt never has this problem," he mut?tered, reaching for the light.
The handless ghost waited impatiently at the end of the bed. The body in the morgue had been less disturbing-it was only dead. This spirit had moved beyond death, and shadows clung to it. Eldritch shad?ows, Henry found himself thinking and shook his head to dislodge the thought. Oh, that's just what I need-now I'm channeling adjectives from H.P. Lovecraft.
The ghost began to lift its mutilated arms, but be?fore it could open its mouth to scream, Henry snarled, "That was you at the morgue, wasn't it?"
Arms still uplifted, its expression bordered on petu?lance as it disappeared.
Alone again, Henry swung his legs out of bed, then, as they touched the carpet, he paused. The lingering scent of a second vampire had been acknowledged if not dealt with. The ghost had been banished for one more sunset. And yet, an uneasiness remained. There was something more.
Or more precisely, something less.
Tony.
Although he could hear the throbbing heartbeat of the surrounding city, no bloodsong called from within the limits of his sanctuary. With so many other things there, Tony's absence stood out in sharp relief.
Henry stared at his reflection and realized it felt surprisingly good to be alone.
"What're you looking so excited about?"
"Me? Nothing."
With the denial the gleam of antici?pation in Vicki's eyes switched off.
Celluci frowned. The things she thought she had to hide from him were never good-in fact, most of the time they were very not good. He watched her care?fully as she crossed the living room, pulled out a slat-backed chair, and straddled it but could see nothing that might give him any explanations. "That chair's a Stickley," he grunted as she tipped it forward on two legs and reached across the table for his notes. "Try not to break it."
"Chill, Michael. I don't know why you think you can't trust me with expensive furniture. What've you got?"
He pushed a sheet of paper toward her groping fin?gers. "The reasons Ms. Chou thinks the missing kid?ney is our motive."
Vicki scanned the familiar handwriting. "She's pretty convincing."
"I didn't know you needed convincing." Before she could answer, he handed her another page. "The rea?sons Mr. Ronald Swanson thinks it's impractical."
"You spoke to him?"
"No. It's what I remembered from the cable program."
"If Swanson works for the transplant programs, it's in his best interest to squash this kind of speculation, so his is not exactly an unbiased opinion."
"It's in Ms. Chou's best interest to promote scandal. Not exactly an unbiased opinion either."
"But it's the only possible motive we've got and so should be investigated."
"What about a simple gangland killing, take the hands to use later?"
"And leave the kidney out of it?" She flashed him a serene and totally false smile as she picked up a pencil and a blank piece of paper. "We have what; a dead body missing both hands and a kidney. We have where; thanks to Henry's ghost's wardrobe which indi-cates he's local. We have why... "
"We have a potential why," Celluci broke in.
"Fine. A potential why; missing kidney equals or?gans for profit. So... " Flicking the pencil into the air, she watched it rise toward the ceiling, then caught it as it tumbled down. "Next on the list, who. Our only clue is the missing hands, missing hands often mean gangs who are always looking for new profit and who can certainly find and finance crooked hackers, crooked doctors, and loyal thugs." The gleam of anticipation had returned. "I think that takes care of your Mr. Swanson's objections."
"And what about Mr. Swanson himself?"
"Why is Mr. Swanson chopping off the hands?"
"I hate it when you answer a question with a ques?tion," Celluci growled.
"I know. There're two reasons I can think of for the killer to remove the hands. One, the prints are on record, and dumping the hands will hide the identity- a belief which shows an appalling lack of knowledge of modern police forensics. If that body had a record, he'd have been identified by now. Or, two, the prints aren't on record and are useful because of that. Which brings us back to the gangs. We can have this sucker solved by morning."
"How?"
"I find out who's running the top gangs in this fair city." Her teeth showed, too long and too white. "And I ask them a few questions. The boss men always know what the other gangs are up to-that's how they stay the boss."
Celluci had a sudden vision of a great deal of blood spilled over very expensive suits. "How are you going to find out who the top men are?"
"I'll ask a few questions farther down the ladder."
"And why shouldn't I be?" Her tone was as much defensive as challenging. "You have no idea of how hard it is to always hold back. To be less than you're capable of being!"
"What? Less violent?" He leaned toward her, fore?arms flat on the table, biceps straining against the fab?ric of his golf shirt. "I hate to burst your bubble, Vicki, but we've all got to live with that. It's the price we pay for civilization."
"Give it up, Celluci." She leaned forward as well. "You can stop being so god-damned holier than fuck?ing thou! You can't possibly feel sorry for the type of lowlife I'm going to be... " As his eyes narrowed, she paused for a heartbeat. "... dealing with. What's that?" She stared suspiciously at the list he held out to her.
"It's an easier way. I had Dave pull the names and addresses of the people you want off the computer."
"Oh." The paper drooped between thumb and forefinger.
If he'd been willing to risk pandering to her desire for mayhem, he'd have reminded her that she still had to get to those people through what would no doubt be tight security. As he neither wanted to remind her of her potential for violence nor himself of her poten?tial danger, he said neutrally. "There're a lot of names for one night. Why don't you split them with Henry?"
"Henry?" Her eyes silvered. "No. No Henry. This is my hunt! Mine!"
"As much as I hate to say this, he's not totally in?competent. He's even done this kind of stuff for you before."
"Before," Vicki reminded him, the last syllable more growl than spoken word.
Celluci stared at her for a few seconds then sat back, shaking his head. "So he was right."
"About what?"
"About your childish inability to work with him." In spite of her sometimes tenuous control of what she'd become, Celluci'd always believed that Vicki would never hurt him. He'd wondered occasionally, as he prodded at the limits of her new nature, if he deliber?ately put that belief to the test. He wondered it now as she slowly stood. She seemed taller than he knew she was. The hair on his arms lifted, and he felt his chin begin to rise, an instinctive surrender bypassing his conscious control. He forced it back down.
Eyes blazing, Vicki stepped forward, closed her hands around the chair she had been sitting in, and ripped it into kindling, one handful of wood at a time. A moment later, breathing heavily-not from the de?struction but from the effort of regaining control-she snarled, "See what you made me do!"
"I made you do?" His heart beat so loudly even he could hear it. Considering how well attuned she was to that sort of sound, he was a little surprised she could hear his voice over it. "I don't think so."
"No." Her eyes were almost gray again. The silver remaining could have been a trick of the light. "I guess not." She reached across the table and brushed the curl of hair back off his face. "But you've got no right accusing me of living dangerously."
"No. I guess not." Capturing her hand, he laid his lips against the cool skin of her inner wrist, a mirror image of a position they'd held a hundred times. "Now what?"
"Now, I'm going to call Henry."
"Call?"
"Yeah. On the telephone." She pulled free of his grip and patted him lightly on both cheeks. "You're not the only one who can think of an easier way to get through this, sweet knees."
He frowned as she walked away. "Sweet knees?"
"... suppose one of them turns out to be the man we're looking for?" Henry asked as he folded the list and slipped it into his pocket. He'd tried to sound neither sarcastic nor superior and had been, all things considered, remarkably successful at both. But then, they'd always been able to manage over the phone.
"What? You mean suppose one of your... subjects says: Yeah, I'm the guy. I've been selling organs all up and down the West Coast. Usually we dump 'em at sea, but that body in the harbor must have got caught in the tides?"
With an effort, he kept his smile from showing in his voice-Vicki had sounded so incredibly indignant at the mere possibility he might discover the informa?tion before she did. "Yes. Suppose one of my... subjects says that. If you've given me half the list, the odds are fifty-fifty."
"You don't need to tell me the odds, Henry. I may be a childish vampire ..."
He heard Celluci protest in the background and was quite happy to have missed the earlier argument.
"... but I have been doing this living thing a lot longer than you did, and I've certainly been an investi?gator one hell of a lot longer."
"I hadn't intended to suggest you hadn't."
"Oh, no, you just intended to suggest you didn't need me here at all."
Frowning slightly, he went back over the conversa?tion and tried to determine how she'd arrived at that particular conclusion. "Vicki, I may be able to strong-arm crime lords, but it would never have occurred to me to do it."
"Oh."
"If I'm going to get rid of my nonblithe spirit, I do need you here."
"Oh." He heard her sigh. "I can't decide whether you're being mature or patronizing."
"Which would you prefer?"
"You know, that's a very Celluci question. I don't want you guys hanging around together any more." But he could hear the sound of her smile, so it was all right.
"I fully understand."
She snorted, a purely human sound. "You couldn't possibly. Whoever gets back first leaves a message on the other's machine."
"You don't think we should meet?" He had an un?expected memory of the pulse that beat at the base of her throat, her skin the soft, sun-kissed tan it would never be again and missed her reply in the sudden surge of loneliness. "I'm sorry, I ..."
Her voice was as gentle as he'd heard it since the change. "I'm sorry, too, Henry."
"Everything all worked out?"
Her hand still resting on the phone, Vicki turned to face Celluci and shrugged. "I gave Henry every other name. He knows what we need to find out. Like you said, he's not totally incompetent."
Celluci's brows drew in at the hint of melancholy in her voice. "And the phone thing went okay?"
"No reason why it shouldn't, is there? Across the country, across the hall, it's basically the same thing."
You miss him, don't you? But that was one question he wasn't stupid enough to ask. She didn't miss Fitz?roy-the undead royal bastard was still around-she missed what they'd had, and he didn't want to remind her of that because she could never, ever have it again, and while he reveled in the certainty, he had no inten?tion of coming across as an insensitive prick.
"Need to feed?" he asked instead.
Melancholy gone, she grinned and her eyes frosted. "No, thanks, I'm dining out."
"Yeah. Right." Actually, he found the thought of her gorging on the blood of Vancouver's crime lords less problematic than her gentler meals. Those were the nights he didn't want to think about. Standing sud?denly, he joined her on the way to the door. "Hang on and I'll go with you as far as the lobby. Tony's working till nine. I think I'll head over to the video store and see if he wants to join me for a bite." When both her brows rose, he sighed. "You know, eating never used to come with this many double entendres."
She'd half turned to answer him as he closed the door. By the time they became aware they weren't alone in the hall, it was too late to do anything that wouldn't seem like a retreat.
"Henry."
"Vicki."
Oh, shit. Still, they're sounding practically conversa?tional, so maybe this won't be a complete disaster. They both wore black jeans and black T-shirts. Vicki wore sneakers and a black cotton sweater. He knew it was cotton; he'd bought it for her. Fitzroy wore desert boots and a black linen blazer. He knew it was linen; he had one just like it, which he was going to get rid of the moment he got home. Celluci'd never noticed before how much alike they looked.
It wasn't the clothes. Thousands of vampire wanna?bes all over the world dressed with more undead style than these two.
It wasn't their coloring. Although both were fair, Fitzroy's hair had more red in it and Vicki was a defi?nite ash blonde. It said so on the box.
It was just, merely, simply, purely the way they were. They shared a belle morte-a deadly beauty. Celluci wasn't sure why the words came to him first in Italian; he was family-fluent only, and it wasn't a language he'd ever thought in, but somehow English- plain old workaday English-didn't seem sufficient.
And not only a deadly beauty; they also shared a complete and utter certainty in themselves and their place in the world.
Certainty, Vicki had never been short of, but her sheer, bloody-minded belief that she was as right as anyone had been refined during the moment she locked eyes with Henry Fitzroy; refined and sharpened to a razor's edge. Fitzroy, of course, had always had it. It was one of the things Celluci'd always hated. Always responded to.
His heart began to beat in time to the power that throbbed between them. That surrounded them. That surrounded him. In that hallway, at that instant, watching the two of them watch each other, he under?stood the declaration, I am.
As a musical chime shattered the silence, he lifted his right foot, put it down, and almost miraculously followed the movement with his left-walking directly through their line of sight. "I hate to break up a Kodak moment, kids, but the elevator's here."
For a heartbeat the power gained a new focus. He could feel it flaying his back, simultaneously hot and cold, and he had a brief vision of Vicki's pale fingers shredding that chair. A little amazed he was still able to move, he stepped over the threshold into the eleva?tor and turned around. As expected, they were both staring at him. Vicki's mouth twisted up in a half smile; her sense of the ridiculous overwhelming the melodrama. Fitzroy had on his Prince of Darkness face. Celluci squared his shoulders, resisting the pull. No one survived a relationship with Vicki Nelson- alive or undead-without an equally strong sense of self and he was not going to bend the knee to Henry Fucking Fitzroy. "You coming, Vicki?"
When she nodded and stepped toward the elevator, he stepped back to give her room.
She paused, just inside, and her smile sharpened. "Coming, Henry?"
Even Celluci could hear the challenge. Hell, a deaf man in the next building could've heard the chal?lenge. "Vicki ..."
One pale hand rose. A prince indicating there was no need for the masses to get involved. "I don't think so. No."
"Why not? Afraid of losing your vaunted control? Too old to cope?"
"Vicki!" He might as well have saved his breath. The words were thrown back with all the finesse of a school?yard taunt and were just as impossible to ignore.
His back against the wall, with Vicki between him and the exit, Celluci watched Henry advance toward the elevator. He wanted to grab her and shake her and demand to know what the hell she thought she was doing. Except he knew. Trust Vicki to drive her point home with a god-damned sledgehammer. I should've taken the fucking stairs....
When the doors closed, the fabric of Henry's blazer whispered against it. "Parking level one, please."
Head tilted slightly down, silvered eyes locked with shadow, Vicki pressed the button without looking at the panel.
It wasn't the elevator that lurched into motion, Cel?luci realized; it was his heart.
They shifted position simultaneously, too fast for a mere mortal to see them move. One moment they stood facing each other-Henry's back against the doors-the next Vicki stood to Celluci's left and Henry to his right. They continued to face each other but had gained what might be a survivable distance between them. A low, warning growl, felt not heard, vibrated through the enclosed space and lifted every hair on Celluci's body-not a pleasant sensation. Real?izing how little it would take to tip the balance into bloody chaos, he resisted the urge to scratch. Now if we can just make it to the lobby without anyone else getting...
The elevator stopped on the seventh floor.
The doors opened.
Both vampires whirled to face the intrusion.
Celluci didn't know exactly what the couple waiting at the seventh floor saw nor did he want to. Faces blanched of color and the spreading stain on the front of an expensive pair of silk pants gave his imagination information enough. Teeth clenched, he jerked for?ward and jabbed a finger at the panel.
The closing doors cut off a rising, mindless wail. All at once, he was no longer worried about either of his companions losing control. He lost it himself.
"That's it!" he snarled as he turned. "I've had it up to here ..." The edge of his hand chopped at the air over his head. "... with the two of you. You can both stuff that creature-of-the-night shit back where it be?longs! Did you see what you did to those two kids? Did you! Did either of you even notice they got in the way of your petty little power struggle?"
"Petty?" Vicki began, but he cut her off.
"Yeah. Petty. No one fucking cares which one of you's top ghoul except the two of you! And that'd be fine except there's a whole goddamned world around you and neither of you seems to give a fuck who gets hit with the shrapnel!"
"You're still alive.... "
He whirled toward Henry. "Well, whoop de fucking do!" Too furious to consider the consequences, he dared the dark gaze to do its worst.
Henry's lips drew off his teeth.
Vicki moved to deny him.
Celluci threw out both arms. Muscles strained as he held them apart, one hand on each chest, the utter audacity of the attempt allowing him to succeed for one heartbeat. Two. Three. Teeth clenched, he refused to give in. His vision started to blur.
Impossibly held, memory rose to overwhelm Hunger.
The three of them had just laid Vicki's mother to rest for a second time. The two men were physically wounded and emotionally flayed-but Vicki had been dying. Henry had done what he could, but he hadn't been strong enough to finish; he needed more blood. Michael Celluci had offered his, even though he be?lieved that it meant he'd lose everything.
In over four hundred and fifty years of living as an observer in humanity's midst, it had been the most amazing thing Henry Fitzroy had ever seen.
Until now.
Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci was very large and very strong; but it wasn't his physical strength that stopped the Hunger. It was the attitude that dared to announce, "I will not allow this!" even knowing he didn't stand, as he himself might say, a snowflake's chance in hell of being listened to.
Once again, Henry was shown the quality of the man, and he was ashamed that he had to be reminded.
Eyes still locked with Henry's, Vicki remembered what he remembered and felt what he felt. For the first time in his presence she was forced to think about someone else. Tearing her gaze away, staring in horror at the pulse throbbing among the corded muscle of Mike's neck, she replaced Henry's shame with her own.
Celluci felt their surrender and allowed his arms to drop. He didn't have much choice. Without the pres?sure against them, he couldn't hold them up. The air still held a certain frisson, but strangely it didn't seem to be coming from either Vicki or Henry.
"I think we've forgotten," said a quiet voice he al?most didn't recognize, "that with great power comes great responsibility."
"I think I forgot what mattered." No mistaking Vicki's voice, but it had a ragged edge he didn't often hear.
"Same thing." To his surprise, Henry, just Henry, a man Celluci suddenly remembered he'd come to re?spect and even like, held out a pale hand. "My apolo?gies, Detective. I wish I could promise that it won't happen again, but I can't. I can promise that I'll do better in the future."
His grip was cool, like Vicki's.
Then he was gone.
"Where . . ?"
"Parking level one. The van's on level two. I assume one of us is going to be using it?"
He blinked to clear the sweat from his eyes, and allowed her to slip her shoulder under his arm, taking most of his weight. "You can have it. I'll never find parking."
"I'll drop you off."
"Fine." The parking level had the damp, unair-conditioned coolness that came from being deep under?ground. Celluci found himself thinking of graves. "Vicki. What did I just do?"
"You leaped a tall building in a single bound."
"I don't mean the physical... "
She sighed. It wasn't something she did much any more; she'd lost the habit when she'd lost the need to breathe on a mortal scale. "You reminded us to be more, instead of less."
He stopped and looked down at her. "Try again."
"You told us to stop acting like idiots."
"Yeah, I know, but you don't usually listen."
"This time... " She paused, then reached up and pushed the curl of hair back off his face.
Henry listened.
Wrapping her arms around him, she laid her cheek against his chest and found what comfort she could in the steady beat of his life. "I love you, Mike."
"Hey, I believe you." His chin resting on the top of her head, he wondered just what it was she hadn't said.