3 Blood Lines (25 page)

When Vicki finally saw Henry’s face in the harsh fluorescent glare of the elevator lights, it gave nothing away. Absolutely nothing. He might as well have been carved from alabaster for all the expression he wore.
This isn’t good . . .

Three teenagers—in what might or might not have been costumes—got on in the lobby, took one look at Henry and stood quietly in their comer, not a word, not a giggle until they got off on five.

And every cloud has a silver lining,
Vicki mused as they filed silently out.

The last, finding courage in leaving, paused in the doorway and stage-whispered back. “What’s he supposed to be?”

Why not?

“A vampire.”

Hennaed curls bounced on sequined shoulders. “Not even close,” was the disdainful judgment as the elevator door slid closed.

Vicki used her keys to let them into the condo, then followed close on Henry’s heels as he strode down the hall and into the bedroom. She flicked on the light as he flung himself on the bed.

“I can feel the sun,” he said softly.

“But it’s hours until dawn.”

“I know.”

 

“Colonel Mustard, in the library, with a mummy. . . . ”

Henry glared at her from under knotted brows. “What are you talking about?”

“Huh?” Vicki started and lowered her arm. She’d been doing a painful fingertip investigation of the goose egg on the back of her head. Fortunately, it appeared that her little meeting with the pavement outside the Solicitor General’s house had done no lasting damage.
And a concussion would be just what I need right now.
“Oh. Nothing. Just thinking out loud.” The party had put them ahead only in that they now
knew
what they’d only suspected before; the mummy was ensorcelling the people who controlled the police forces of Ontario, acquiring its own private army. No doubt it intended to set up its own state with its own state religion. It had, after all, brought its god along.

They had a name, Anwar Tawfik, the man she’d helped out of the elevator at the Solicitor General’s office. She couldn’t prevent a twinge of sympathy, after three thousand years in a coffin, she’d be violently claustrophobic, too.
Still, I should’ve dropped the son of a bitch down the elevator shaft when I had the chance.

She banged her fist against her thigh. “I don’t think it can succeed at what it’s attempting, but a lot of people are going to die proving that. And no one’s going to believe us until it makes its move.”

“Or a good while after it makes its move.”

“What do you mean?”

“Who does the average citizen call when there’s trouble?” Henry pointed out.

“The police.”

“The police,” Henry agreed.

“And it controls the police. Shit, shit, shit, shit.”

“
Very
articulate.”

Vicki’s smile was closer to a snarl as she shifted position on the edge of the bed. “It looks like it’s up to us.”

Henry threw his forearm up over his eyes. “A lot of help I’ll be.”

“Look, you’ve been dreaming about the sun for weeks now and you’re still functioning fine.”

“Fine? Diving through that library window wasn’t what I’d call fine.”

“At least now you know you’re not going crazy.”

“No. I’m being cursed.”

Vicki pulled his arm off his face and leaned over. The spill of light from the lamp just barely reached his eyes but, in spite of the masking shadows, she thought they looked as mortal as she’d ever seen them. “Do you want to quit?”

“What?” His laugh had a hint of bitter hysteria. “Life?”

“No, you idiot.” She wrapped one hand around his jaw and rocked his head from side to side, hoping he couldn’t read through her touch how frightened she was for him. “Do you want to quit the case?”

“I don’t know.”

The absence of shadows against the wall told him he had slept late, his body trying vainly to regain some of the energy spent on spell-casting the night before. His tongue felt thick, his skin tight, and his bones as though they had been rough cast in lead.
Soon, a slave will wait at my bedside, a glass of chilled juice ready upon my awakening.
But
soon,
unfortunately, did him no good at the moment. He looked over at the clock—eleven fifty-six, oh three, oh four, oh five—and then tore his glance away before it could trap him further in the progression of time. Only half the day remained for him to feed and find the ka that burned so brightly.

Moving stiffly, he swung out of bed and made his way to the shower. The late Dr. Rax, who over the course of a varied career had been familiar with the sanitary facilities, or lack thereof, along the banks of the Nile, had considered North American plumbing to be the eighth wonder of the world. As gallons of hot water pounded the knots from his shoulders, he was inclined to agree.

By the time he finished a large breakfast and was lingering over a cup of coffee—an addiction every adult ka he had absorbed seemed to share—he no longer felt the weight of his age and was ready to face the day.

For a change, a cloudless blue sky arced up over the city, and, although the pale November sun appeared to shed little warmth, it was still a welcome sight. He took his cup to the wall of windows that prevented the other, more solid walls from closing in around him and looked down at the street. In spite of laws that forced most businesses to remain closed on the day known as Sunday, a number of people were taking advantage of the weather and spending time outside. A number of those people had small children in hand.

The series of individually tailored spells he had worked last night, each with its own complicated layering of controls, had drained him and the power he had remaining would barely be enough to keep him warm as he chose the child whose ka would replenish his. He was using power in a way he would never have dared when unsworn souls were few and even slaves had basic protections but, with nothing to stand in the way of his feeding, he saw no reason to hold back. Not one of the deaths could be traced to him—necessity had taught him millennia ago to take the mundane into account—and very shortly even that would cease to be a consideration. When the police and their political masters gave themselves to Akhekh, he, as High Priest, would be inviolate.

He had no idea how many sworn acolytes his lord needed in order to gain the strength to create another such as he. Forty-three had been the greatest number he had ever been able to gather in the past but, as that had been just before Thoth’s priests had been instructed to intervene, he suspected that forty-four or forty-five would be enough. That the thirty ka to be gathered up in this time had been coerced would make only a minimal difference. He had used the smallest pieces of their ka necessary to convince them—in two cases those had been very small pieces indeed—and enough truth had been spoken during the spellbinding that their pledges would hold. The thirty coerced would be equivalent to no less than twenty free; a respectable beginning.

After the ceremony, he would not need to be as magically involved and would, therefore, need to feed less often.

“And when I find you, my bright and shining one . . .” He placed his empty cup down with the rest of the breakfast dishes and scooped up the opera cloak the Solicitor General had found outside the library door. “. . . I may never need to feed again.” As the satin folds slid across his fingers, he basked in the remembered glow. This ka would stand out like a blaze of glory against the others in this city; now that he had touched it, it would not be able to hide from him. He was mildly curious about what kind of a man—for it had been only a man, there had been no mark of god or wizard about the presence—would carry such a ka, but curiosity paled beside his desire.

The opera cloak pooled about his feet. Perhaps he would return the young man’s forgotten garment, and as their fingers touched he would look into his eyes and . . .

With such power at his command there would be nothing he could not do.

 

Tony wasn’t sure what had driven him from his basement room this morning, but something had nagged him up out of sleep and onto the street. Two coffees and a double chocolate chip muffin in Druxy’s had brought him no closer to an answer.

Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, he stood on the corner of Yonge and Bloor and waited for the light, effortlessly eavesdropping on the conversations around him, filtering out the yuppie concerns, paying close attention to a cluster of street kids complaining about the cold. At this time of the year, those who lived in parks and bus shelters worried first about surviving the coming winter and then about their next meal, their next smoke, their next bit of cash. They talked about the best places to panhandle, to turn tricks, what doorways were safe, what cop would cut a little slack, who’d been picked up, who’d died. Tony had survived on the street for almost five years and knew what talk had substance behind it and what talk was just wind. No one seemed to be saying anything that would clue him into whatever it was that had him so jumpy.

He walked west on Bloor, thin shoulders hunched high. The new jacket he wore, bought with money from a real honest-to-God steady job, kept him plenty warm enough, but old habits took time to break. Even after two months, he was still a little unsure about the job, afraid that it would vanish as suddenly as it had appeared and with it the room, the warmth, the regular meals . . . and Henry.

Henry trusted him, believed in him. Tony didn’t know why, didn’t really care why. The trust and the belief were enough. Henry had become his anchor. He didn’t think it had anything to do with Henry being a vampire—although he had to admit that was pretty fucking awesome and it certainly didn’t hurt that the sex was the best he’d ever had and just remembering it made him hot—he thought it had more to do with Henry just being a . . . well, being Henry.

The feeling that had driven him out and onto the street had nothing to do with Henry, not specifically at least. Henry feelings, he could always recongize.

Dropping down onto the low wall in front of the Manulife Center, Tony rubbed at his temples and wished the feeling would go away. He had better things to do with his Sunday afternoon than wander about trying to find where the ants between his ears came from.

He kicked his heels against the concrete and watched the parade of people pass by. A baby in a backpack, barely visible under a hat and mittens and a scarf and a snowsuit, caught his attention and he grinned up at it, wondering if it could even move.
Jeez, the kid gonna spend the first few years of its life only seeing where it’s been. Probably grow up to be a politician.

The baby appeared to be gazing in happy fascination at the man who walked along behind its parents although, as far as Tony could tell, he wasn’t doing anything to attract its attention. He wasn’t a bad looking man either; quite a bit of gray in the hair and a nose that hooked out into tomorrow but with a certain something that Tony found attractive.

Under the pale blue hat with its row of square-headed yellow ducks, the baby’s face had gone suddenly slack. The bulk of its clothing held it upright, arms reaching out over the carrier but Tony knew, without the shadow of a doubt, that the baby was dead.

Cold fingers closed around his heart and squeezed. There was now no gray in the hair of the man who followed.

He killed it.
Tony was more certain of that than he’d ever been of anything in his life. He didn’t know how it had been done, nor did he care.
Jesus God, he killed it.

And then the man turned, looked right at him, and smiled.

Tony ran, instinct guiding his feet. Horns sounded. A voice yelled protest after a soft collision. He ignored it all and ran on.

When even terror could no longer keep him moving, he collapsed in a shadowed doorway and forced great lungfuls of air past the taste of iron in the back of his throat. His whole body trembled and every breath drove a knife blade, barbed and razor sharp, up under his ribs. Exhaustion wrapped itself shroudlike around what he’d seen, dulling the immediacy, allowing him the distance to look at it again.

That man, or whatever he was, had killed the baby just by looking at it.

And then he turned and looked at me. But I’m safe. He can’t find me here. I’m safe.
No footsteps sounded in the alley, nothing threatened, but his scalp prickled and the flesh between his shoulder blades twisted into knots.
He didn’t need to follow. He’s waiting for me. Oh, God. Oh, Jesus. I don’t want to die.

The baby was dead.

He scrubbed his palms across his cheeks.

Except that sunset wouldn’t be for hours and he couldn’t stop thinking of the baby’s parents arriving home and finding . . . He couldn’t just let that happen. He had to tell someone.

The card he pulled from his pocket had seen better days. Limp and stained, the name and number on it barely legible, it had been for years his link to another world. Clutching it tightly in a sweaty hand, Tony moved cautiously from his hidey-hole and went looking for a pay phone. Victory would know what to do. Victory always knew what to do.

 

“Nelson Investigations. No one is available to take your call, but if you leave your name and number, as well as a brief reason for your call, after the tone, I’ll get back to you as soon as possible. Thank you.”

“Shit.” Tony slammed the receiver down and laid his forehead against the cool plastic of the phone. “Now what?” There was always the number scrawled on the back of the card, but somehow Tony doubted that Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci would appreciate having this kind of thing dumped in his lap. “Whatever kind of thing it is. Jesus, Victory, where are you when I need you?”