4 Blood Pact (6 page)

“Yes, Doctor.”

My, my, my
. . . Dr. Burke gave the receiver a satisfied pat as it settled into its cradle. It sounded like they could actually have made a breakthrough with number nine.
Now, if we can only keep it from decomposing . . .

 

Breakfast dishes were still out on the drying rack and the chair with the quilted cushion sat out a little from the table. The makeup case lay open on the bathroom counter, the washcloth beside it slightly damp. The bed had been made neatly, but a pair of pantyhose with a wide run down one leg lay discarded in the center of the spread.

Vicki sat at the telephone table, her mother’s address book open on her lap, and called everyone she thought should know, her voice calm and professional as though she were speaking of someone else’s mother.
Mrs. Singh? I’m Constable Nelson, from the Metro Police. It’s about your son . . . I’m afraid your husband . . . The driver had no chance to avoid your wife . . . Your daughter, Jennifer, has been . . . The funeral will be at two tomorrow.

When the funeral home called, Mr. Delgado took her mother’s favorite blue suit from the closet and delivered it. When he returned, he forced her to eat a sandwich and kept insisting she’d feel better if she cried. She ate the sandwich without tasting it.

Now, there was no one left to call and Mr. Delgado had been convinced to go home. Vicki sat, one foot dangling over the arm of the old upholstered rocking chair, one foot pushing back and forth against the floor.

Slowly, the room grew dark.

 

“I’m telling you, Henry, she looked wrecked. Like
Night of the Living Dead.”

“And she didn’t hear you when you called to her?”

Tony shook his head, a long lock of pale brown hair falling into his eyes. “No, she just kept walking, and the guard wouldn’t let me go up the stairs after her. Said only ticket holders were allowed and wouldn’t believe me when I said I was her brother. The moth-erfucking bastard.” A year under Henry’s patronage hadn’t quite erased five years on the street. “But I copied down all the places the train was going.” He dug a crumpled and dirty piece of paper out of the front pocket of his skintight jeans and passed it over. “She was carrying a bag, so I guess when she gets there she’s gonna stay.”

The names of nine towns had been scrawled onto the blank spaces of a subway transfer. Henry frowned down at them. Why had Vicki left town without telling him? He thought they’d moved beyond that. Unless it had something to do with the fight they’d had on Saturday night. However great the temptation to prove his power, he knew he shouldn’t have coerced her as he had and he intended to apologize as soon as she cooled down enough to accept it. “Her mother lives in Kingston,” he said at last.

“You think you did something, don’t you?”

He looked up, startled. “What are you talking about?”

“I like to watch you.” Tony blushed slightly and dug his toe into the carpet. “I watch you all the time we’re together. You’ve got your Prince-of-Men face, and your Prince-of-Darkness face, and your sort of not-there writer face, but when you think about Victory . . . about Vicki . . .” His blush deepened but he met Henry’s gaze fearlessly. “Well then it’s like you’re not wearing a face, you’re just you.”

“All the masks are gone.” Henry studied the younger man in turn. A number of the hard edges had softened over the last year since Vicki and a demon had brought them together. The bruised and skittish look had been replaced by the beginnings of a calm maturity. “Does that bother you?”

“About you and Victory? Nah. She means a lot to me, too. I mean, without her, I wouldn’t have . . . I mean, we wouldn’t . . . And besides—” he had to wet his lips before he could continue—“sometimes, like when you feed, you look at me like that.” Abruptly, he dropped his gaze. “You going after her?”

There really wasn’t any question. “I need to know what’s wrong.”

Tony snorted and tossed his hair back out of his eyes. “Of course you do.” His voice returned to his usual cocky tones. “So call her mom.”

“Call her mother?”

“Yeah, you know. Like on the telephone?”

Henry spread his hands, willing to allow Tony this moment. “I don’t have the number.”

“So? Get it out of her apartment.”

“I don’t have a key.”

Tony snorted again. “
You
don’t really need one. But,” he laced his fingers together and cracked the knuckles, “if you don’t want to slip past the lock, there’s always our old friend Detective-Sergeant Celluci. I bet he has the number.”

Henry’s eyes narrowed. “I’ll get it from Vicki’s apartment.”

“I’ve got Celluci’s number right here, I mean if you . . .”

“Tony.” He cupped one hand around Tony’s jaw and tightened the fingers slightly, the pulse pounding under his grip. “Don’t push it.”

 

From the street, he saw the light on, recognized the shape visible between the slats of the blinds, and very nearly decided not to go in. Tony had seen Vicki leave the city in the early morning. Overnight case or not, she could very easily have returned and, if so, she obviously wasn’t spending the evening alone. Standing motionless in the shadow of an ancient chestnut, he watched and listened until he was certain that the apartment held only a single life.

That changed things rather considerably.

There were a number of ways he could get what he wanted. He decided on the direct approach.
Out of sheer bloody-mindedness,
honesty forced him to admit.

“Good evening, Detective. Were you waiting for someone?”

Celluci spun around, dropped into a defensive crouch, and glared up at Henry. “Goddamnit!” he snarled. “Don’t do that!”

“Do what?” Henry asked dryly, voice and bearing proclaiming that he did not in any way perceive the other man as a threat. He moved away from the door and walked into Vicki’s living room.

As if he has every right to.
Celluci found himself backing up.
Son of a bitch!
It took a conscious effort, but he dug in his heels and stopped the retreat.
I don’t know what game you’re playing, spook, but you’re not going to win it so easily.
“What the hell are you doing here?”

“I might ask you the same thing.”

“
I
have a key.”

“
I
don’t need one.” Henry leaned against the wall and crossed his arms. “My guess is, you’ve come back to apologize for slamming out of here on Saturday.” He read a direct hit in the sudden quickening of Celluci’s heartbeat and the angry rush of blood to his face.

“She told you about that.” The words were an almost inarticulate growl.

“She tells me about everything.” No need to mention the argument that followed.

“You want me to just back off right now, don’t you?” Celluci managed to keep a fingernail grip on his temper. “Admit defeat.”

Henry straightened. “If I wanted you to back off, mortal, you would.”

So if I’m a good eight inches taller than he is, why the hell do I feel like he’s looking down at me?
“Think pretty highly of yourself, don’t you. Look, Fitzroy, I don’t care what you are and I don’t care what you can do. You should’ve been dust four hundred years ago. I am
not
letting you have her.”

“I think that should be her choice, not yours.”

“Well, she’s not going to choose you!” Celluci slammed his fist down onto the table. A precariously balanced stack of books trembled at the impact and a small brown address book fell onto the answering machine.

The tape jerked into motion.

“Ms. Nelson? It’s Mrs. Shaw again. I’m so sorry to bother you, but your mother’s body has been moved over to the General Hospital. We thought you should know in case . . . well, in case . . . I expect you’re on your way. Oh, dear . . . It’s ten o’clock, April ninth, Monday morning. Please let us know if there’s anything we can do to help.”

Celluci stared down at the rewinding tape and then up at Henry. “Her mother’s body,” he repeated.

Henry nodded. “So now we know where she is.”

“If this call came in at ten, we can assume she got the original call about nine. She didn’t tell you . . .” Celluci broke off and pushed the curl of hair back out of his eyes. “No, of course, she couldn’t, you’d be . . . asleep. She didn’t leave a message?”

“No. Tony saw her boarding the 10:40 train for Kingston so she must have left the apartment just before that call. She didn’t leave a message for you either?”

“No.” Celluci sighed and sat back on the edge of the table. “I’m getting just a little tired of this ‘I can handle everything myself’ attitude of hers.”

Henry nodded again.
I thought we’d gone beyond this, she and I.
“You and me both.”

“Don’t get me wrong, her strength is one of the things I . . .”

The pause was barely perceptible. A mortal might have missed it. Henry didn’t.
Well, he’s hardly going to tell me he loves her.

“. . . admire about her, but,” his expression seemed more weary than admiring, “there’s a difference between strength and . . .”

“Fear of intimacy,” Henry offered.

Celluci snorted. “Yeah.” He reached behind him for the address book. “Well, she’s just going to have to put up with a little fucking intimacy because I’m not going to let her stand alone in this.” The binding barely managed to survive the force of his search. “Here it is, under M for Mother. Christ, her filing system . . .” Then, suddenly, he remembered who he was talking to. He wasn’t, however, prepared for how fast Henry could move—didn’t, in fact, see Henry move.

Henry looked down at the address and handed the book back to the detective. “I assume I’ll see you in Kingston,” he said and headed for the door.

“Hey!”

He turned.

“I thought you couldn’t leave your coffin?”

“You watch too many bad movies, Detective.”

Celluci bristled. “You’ve still got to be under cover by dawn. I can see to it that you aren’t. One phone call to the OPP and you’ll be in a holding cell at sunrise.”

“You won’t do that, Detective.” Henry’s voice was mild as he caught Celluci’s gaze with his own and let the patina of civilization drop. He played with the mortal’s reaction for a moment and then, almost reluctantly, released him. “You won’t do it,” he continued in the same tone, “for the same reason I don’t use the power
I
have on you.
She
wouldn’t like it.” Smiling urbanely, he inclined his head in a parody of a polite bow. “Good night, Detective.”

Celluci stared at the closed door and fought to keep from trembling. Patches of sweat spread out under each arm and his palms, pressed hard against the table, were damp. It wasn’t the fear that unnerved him. He’d dealt with fear before, knew he could conquer it. It was the urge to bare his throat that had him so shaken, the knowledge that in another instant he would have placed his life in Henry Fitzroy’s hands.

“Goddamnit, Vicki.” The hoarse whisper barely shredded the silence. “You are playing with fucking fire. . . .”

 

“Geez, Cathy, why’d you bring
them?”

“I thought they could carry the body.”

“Oh.” Donald stepped back as Catherine helped two shambling figures out of the back of the van. “The program I wrote for them is pretty basic; are you sure they can do something that complicated?”

“Well, number nine can.” She patted the broad shoulder almost affectionately. “Number eight may need a little help.”

“A little help. Right.” Grunting with the effort, he dragged a pair of sandbags out of the van. “Well, if they’re so strong, they can carry these.”

“Give them both to number nine. I’m not sure about eight’s joints.”

Although living muscles strained to lift a single bag off the ground, number nine gave no indication that it noticed the weight, even after both bags had been loaded.

“Good idea,” Donald panted. “Bringing them along, that is. I’d have killed myself getting those things inside.” Fighting for breath, he glanced around the parking lot. The light over by the garage barely illuminated the area and he’d removed the light over the delivery entrance that afternoon. “Let’s just make sure nobody sees them, okay. They don’t look exactly, well, alive.”

“Notices
them?
” Catherine moved number eight around to face the door, then turned and discovered number nine had moved without help. “We better be sure that no one notices us.”

“People don’t look too closely at funeral homes.” Still breathing heavily, Donald slipped his key into the lock. “They’re afraid of what they might see.” He shot a glance at number nine’s gray and desiccated face perched above the collar of a red windbreaker and snickered as he pushed the door open. “Almost makes you wish someone
would
stumble over Mutt and Jeff here, doesn’t it?”

“No. Now get going.”

Long inured to his colleague’s complete lack of a sense of humor, Donald shrugged and disappeared into the building.

Number nine followed.

Catherine gave number eight a little push. “Walk,” she commanded. It hesitated, then slowly began to move. Halfway down the long ramp to the embalming room, it stumbled. “No, you don’t . . .” Holding it precariously balanced against the wall, she bent and straightened the left leg.

“What took you so long,” Donald demanded as the two of them finally arrived.

“Trouble with the patella.” She frowned, tucking a strand of nearly white-blond hair back behind her ear. “I don’t think we’re getting any kind of cell reconstruction.”

“Yeah, and it’s starting to smell worse, too.”

“Oh, no.”

“Oh, yes. But hey—” he threw open both halves of the coffin lid—“let’s not stand around sniffing dead people all night. We’ve got work to do.”

Number eight’s fingers had to be clamped around the corpse’s ankles, but number nine took hold of the shoulders with very little prompting.