1 Blood Price (29 page)

Greg snorted. “I think there’s a better chance that Henry Fitzroy’s a vampire.” He waved the younger guard out of the building then came around the desk to hold the door open for Mrs. Hughes and her mastiff.

“Get down, Owen! He doesn’t want your kisses!”

Wiping his face, Greg watched as the huge dog bounded into the elevator, dragging Mrs. Hughes behind him. The lobby always seemed a little smaller after Owen had passed through. He checked that the lock on the inner door had caught—it was a little stiff, he’d have to have a word with maintenance—before returning to the desk and picking up his paper.

Then he paused, memory jogged by the smell of the ink or the feel of the newsprint, suddenly recalling the first night the vampire story had made the paper. He remembered Henry Fitzroy’s reaction to the headline and he realized that Tim was right. He’d never seen the man before sunset.

“Still,” he shook himself, “man’s got a right to work what hours he chooses and sleep what hours he chooses.” But he couldn’t shake the memory of the bestial fury that had shone for a heartbeat in the young man’s eyes. Nor could he shake a feeling of disquiet that caressed the back of his neck with icy fingers.

As the light released its hold on the city, Henry stirred. He became aware of the sheet lying across his naked body, each thread drawing a separate line against his skin. He became aware of the slight air current that brushed his cheek like a baby’s breath. He became aware of three million people living their lives around him and the cacophony nearly deafened him until he managed to push through it and into the silence once again. Lastly, he became aware of self. His eyes snapped open and he stared up into the darkness.

He hated the way he woke, hated the extended vulnerability. When they finally came for him, this was when it would happen; not during the hours of oblivion, but during the shadow time between the light and dark when he would feel the stake and know his death and be able to do nothing about it.

As he grew older, it happened earlier—creeping closer to the day a few seconds at a time—but it never happened faster. He woke the way he had when he was mortal—slowly.

Centuries ago, he’d asked Christina how it was for her.
“Like waking out of a deep sleep—one moment I’m not there, the next I am.”

Occasionally, in the seconds just after he woke, he thought he heard voices from his past, friends, lovers, enemies, his father once, bellowing for him to get a move on or they’d be late. In over four hundred years, that was as close as he’d come to what the mortal world called dreaming.

He sat up and paused in mid-stretch, suddenly uneasy. In absolute silence he moved off the bed and across the carpet to the bedroom door. If there was a life in the apartment, he’d sense it.

The apartment was empty, but the disquiet remained.

He showered and dressed, becoming more and more certain that something was wrong—worrying at the feeling, poking and prodding at it, trying to force an understanding. When he went down to the desk to pick up his package, the feeling grew. The civilized mask managed to exchange pleasantries with Greg and flirt a little with old Mrs. McKensie while the rest of him sorted through a myriad of sensations, searching for the danger.

Heading back to the elevator, he felt the security guard’s eyes on him so he turned and half smiled as the doors opened and he stepped inside. The closing slabs of stainless steel cut off Greg’s answering expression. Whatever was bothering the old man, he’d have to deal with later.

“Private Investigations. Nelson.” As she had no way of knowing what callers were potential clients, she’d decided to assume they all were. Her mother objected, but then her mother objected to a number of things she had no intention of changing.

“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.

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.