3 Blood Lines (5 page)

Henry’s fingers curled against the glass, forming slowly into a fist. She was with Celluci tonight. She’d as much as warned him of it when they’d last spoken. All right. Maybe he was getting a bit possessive.
It was easier in the old days.
She’d have been his then, no one else would have had a claim on her. How
dared
she be with someone else when he needed her?

The sun burned down in memory, an all-seeing yellow eye.

He frowned down at the city. He was not used to dealing with fear, so he fed the dream to his anger and allowed, almost forced, the Hunger to rise. He
did not
need her. He would hunt.

Below him, a thousand points of light glowed like a thousand tiny suns.

 

Reid Ellis preferred the museum at night. He liked being left alone to do his work, without scientists or historians or other staff members asking him stupid questions. “You’d think,” he often proclaimed to his colleagues, “that a guy with four degrees would know when a floor was wet.”

Although he didn’t mind working the public galleries, he preferred the long lengths of hall linking offices and workrooms. Within the assigned section, he was his own boss; no nosy supervisor hanging over his shoulder checking up on him; free to get the job done properly, his way. Free to consider the workrooms his own private little museums where the storage shelves were often a hell of a lot more interesting than the stuff laid out for the paying customers.

He rolled his cart out onto the fifth floor, patted one of the temple lions for luck, and hesitated with his hand on the glass door to the Far East Department. Maybe he should do Egyptology first? They usually had some pretty interesting things on the go.

Maybe he should do their workroom first. Now.

Nah, that’d leave the heelmarks on the floor outside Von Thorne’s office for end of shift and I’m not up to that.
He pulled out his passkey and maneuvered his cart through the door.
As my sainted mother used to say, get your thumb out
of your butt and get to work. I’ll save the good stuff for last. Whatever they’ve got out isn’t going anywhere.

 

 

On a Sunday night in Toronto the good, the streets were almost deserted, municipal laws against Sunday shopping forcing the inhabitants of the city to find other amusements.

Black leather trench coat billowing out behind him, Henry made his way quickly down Church Street, ignoring the occasional clusters of humanity. He wanted more than just a chance to feed, his anger needed slaking as much as his Hunger. At Church and College, he paused.

“Hey, faggot!”

Henry smiled, turned his head slightly, and tested the breeze. Three of them. Young. Healthy. Perfect.

“What’s the matter, faggot, you deaf?”

“Maybe he’s got someone’s pecker stuffed in his ear.” Hands in his pockets, he pivoted slowly on one heel. They were leaning against the huge yellow bulk of Maple Leaf Gardens, suburban boys in lace-up boots and strategically ripped jeans downtown for a little excitement. With odds of three to one, they’d probably be after him anyway, but just to be certain . . . the smile he sent them was deliberately provocative, impossible to ignore.

“Fuckin’ faggot!”

They followed him east, yelling insults, getting braver and coming closer when he didn’t respond. When he crossed College at Jarvis Street, they were right on his heels and, without even considering why he might be leading them there, they followed him into Allen Gardens Park.

“Faggot’s walking like he’s still got a prick shoved up his ass.”

There were lights scattered throughout the small park, but there were also deep pockets of shadow that would provide enough darkness for his needs. Hunger rising, Henry led them away from the road and possible discovery, fallen leaves making soft, wet noises under his feet. Finally, he stopped and turned.

The three young men were barely an arm’s length away. The night would never be the same for them again.

They moved to surround him.

He allowed it.

“So, why aren’t you fucking dead like the rest of the fucking queers?” Their leader, for all packs have a leader of sorts, reached out to shove a slender shoulder, the first move in the night’s entertainment. He looked surprised when he missed. Then he looked startled as Henry smiled. Then he looked frightened.

A heartbeat later, he looked terrified.

 

The double doors to the Egyptology workroom had been painted bright orange. As Reid Ellis put his passkey into the lock, he wondered, not for the first time, why. All the doors in this part of the hallway had been painted yellow or orange and while he supposed it looked cheerful it didn’t exactly look dignified. Not that the folks in the Egyptology Department were exactly sticklers for dignity. Three months ago, when the Blue Jays had lost six ball games in a row he’d gone in to find one of the mummified heads set up on the table with a baseball cap perched jauntily on its desiccated brow.

Now that baseball season was over, he wondered if anyone in the department owned a hockey helmet,
rest in peace
being the kindest epitaph one could give the Leafs even this early in the season.

“And what’ve you got for me tonight?” he asked as he hooked one of the doors open to make way for his cart—they weren’t actually scheduled to have the floors done, but he liked to keep up with the high traffic areas by the desk and the sink—then he turned and got his first look at the new addition to the room. “Holy shit.”

Palms suddenly wet, mouth suddenly dry, Reid stood and stared. The head had been unreal, like a special effect in a movie, evoking a shudder but easy to laugh at and dismiss. A coffin though, with a body in it, was another thing altogether. This was a person, a dead person, lying there shrouded in plastic and waiting for him.

Waiting for me
? His nervous laugh went no further than his lips, doing nothing to displace the silence that filled the huge room like fog.
Maybe I should just go, come back another night.
But he stepped forward; one pace, two. He’d forgotten to turn on the lights and now the switch was behind him. He’d have to turn his back on the coffin to reach it and he couldn’t, he just couldn’t. The spill of light from the hall would have to be enough even though it barely chased the shadows from around the body.

The breeze created by his approach stirred the edges of the plastic sheet, setting it fluttering in anticipation.

“Jesus, this is too weird. I’m out of here.”

But he kept walking toward the coffin. Eyes wide, he watched his fingers grab the plastic and drag it off the artifact.

Man, I am going to be in deep shit.
Maybe if he put the plastic back the way it had been, no one would ever know that he . . . that he . . .
What the fuck am I doing?

He was bending over the coffin, breath slamming faster and faster against the back of his throat. His eyes stung. He couldn’t blink. His mouth opened. He couldn’t scream.

And then it started.

He lost his most recent self first: the night’s work, all the other nights of work before it, his wife, their daughter, her birth, red-faced and screaming—“
Honestly,
Doc, is she
supposed to look like that? I mean, she’s beautiful but she’s kind of squashed . . .
”—the wedding where he’d gotten pissed and almost fallen over while dancing with an elderly aunt. He lost nights drinking with his buddies, cruising up and down Yonge Street—“
Lookit the melons on that one!”—
The Grateful Dead blaring out of the car speakers, the smell of beer and grass and sweat soaking into the upholstery.

He lost his high school graduation, a ceremony he’d made by the skin of his teeth—“
Think maybe now you can get off your ass and get a job? Now you got your fancy piece of paper with your name on it?” “I think so, Dad. ”
He lost the humiliation of not making the basketball team—
They’re not
going to call my name. I’m the only guy who tried out they didn’t want. Oh, God, I wish I could sink through the floor
.—and he lost the pain when football broke his nose. He tasted again his first kiss and felt again for the first time the explosive results of masturbation, which did not grow hair on his palms or make him blind. And then he lost them.

In quick succession he lost his mother, his father, too many siblings, the house he’d grown up in, the smell of a winter’s worth of dog turds melting on the lawn in the spring, a teddy bear with all the fur chewed off, the sweet taste of a nipple clutched between frantically working lips.

He lost his first step, his first word, his first breath.

His life.

 

 

With iron control, Henry drew his mouth back from the soft skin of the young man’s wrist and laid the arm down almost gently, pulling the jacket cuff forward until it covered the small wound. Although he preferred to feed from desire—it had natural parameters for the Hunger that anger lacked—it was, on occasion, good to remember his strength. He rose slowly to his feet, brushing at the decayed leaves on his coat. The coagulant in his saliva would ensure that the bleeding had stopped and all three would regain consciousness momentarily, before the damp and cold had time to do any damage.

He glanced down to where they sprawled in the darker shadow of a yew hedge and licked a drop of blood from the comer of his mouth. As well as the bruises, he’d given them a reason to fear the night, a reminder that the dark hid other, more powerful hunters and that they, too, could be prey. He was in no danger of discovery for their memories of the incident would be of essence, not appearance, and intensely personal. Whether or not he’d changed their attitudes or opinions, he neither knew nor cared.

His mood broke under the weight of that pronouncement and he left the quiet oasis of the park, smiling at the newsreel quality of the voice in his head—
And thanks to the vampire vigilante, the streets are safe to walk again—
the dream and his earlier disquiet washed away by the blood.

 

Celluci sighed and stuffed the parking ticket into his jacket pocket. From midnight to seven the street outside Vicki’s apartment building was permit parking only. The time on the ticket said five thirty-three; if he’d gotten up five minutes earlier, he could have avoided a twenty dollar fine.

It had been hard to drag himself away. He must’ve lain in the darkness for a good twenty minutes listening to her breathe. Wondering if she was dreaming. Wondering if she was dreaming about him. Or about Henry. Or if it mattered.

So it had been from the beginning. . . .

He scratched at his stubble and got into the car. Their friendship was solid, he knew that, the scars they’d both inflicted when she’d left the force had faded into memory. The sex was still terrific. But lately, things had gotten complicated.

“Henry’s not competition, Mike. Whatever happens between him and me, doesn’t affect us. You’re my best friend.
”

He’d believed her then, he believed her now. But he still thought Henry Fitzroy was a dangerous man for her to get involved with. Not only was he physically dangerous, and that had been proven last August beyond a doubt, but he had the kind of personal power it would be easy to get lost in.
Christ
, I
could get lost in it
. No one with that kind of power should be, could be, trusted.

He trusted Vicki. He didn’t trust Henry. That’s what it came down to. Henry Fitzroy made up the rules as he went along, and for Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci that was the sticking point. More than supposedly supernatural, undead, powers of darkness. There were a number of very definite rules surrounding his and Vicki’s relationship, and Celluci knew damned well Fitzroy wouldn’t honor them.

Except he had so far . . .

“Maybe what it all comes down to,” he mused, maneuvering through the maze of one-way streets south of College, “is that I’m ready to settle down.”

It took a few seconds for the implications of that to sink in, and he had a sudden vision of what Vicki’s response would be if he brought up marriage. He couldn’t stop himself from ducking. The woman was more commitment shy than any man he’d ever met.

He frowned as he guided the car around the Queen’s Park circle. It was too early in the morning for deep philosophical questions on the nature of his relationship with Vicki Nelson—things were going well, he shouldn’t fuck with that. Gratefully noticing the ambulance and the police car pulled up in front of the museum, he made a U-turn across the empty six-lane road and dumped the problems of his love life for more immediate concerns.

“Detective-Sergeant Celluci, homicide.” He flipped his badge at the approaching constable as he got out of the car, forestalling a confrontation about the less than legal U-turn. “What’s going on?”

The young woman snapped her mouth shut around what she’d been about to say and managed, “Constable Trembley, sir. They sent homicide? I don’t understand.”

“No one sent me, I was just driving past.” The attendants were loading a body into the ambulance, face covered. Obviously D.O.A. “Thought I’d stop and see if there was anything I could do.”