Blood Debt (18 page)

It could be anything.

The odds of it being a body with only one kidney were astronomical.

“But life's a crap shoot, and sometimes you get lucky.” He tracked the truck as it moved down the drive, tossed the binoculars onto the passenger seat, and put the van into gear. Still apparently studying the map, he let the man in the red T-shirt drive by, then pulled out to follow a safe distance behind. Their route led directly into Mt. Seymour Provincial Park.

When his quarry turned onto a logging road, Celluci went on by. Even he couldn't be expected to blend into traffic when there was no traffic to blend into. An illegal u-turn later, he parked as far over on the shoulder as seemed safe, hoping the bushes would hide the van should the car suddenly reemerge.

It wasn't exactly sudden. An hour and ten minutes later, the truck nosed back out onto Mt. Seymour and headed toward the city.

“All right, wherever he went, it's no more than thirty-five minutes in.”

Fourteen minutes in, Celluci began to realize that, for all they were so close to a major metropolitan area, there was a whole lot of nothing out here. He didn't do well with nothing. Concrete and glass he understood, but trees were a mystery to him.

Sixteen minutes in, another logging road angled into the first. There were definite tire tracks in the ruts, obviously laid since the last rain. He flipped a mental coin and went up the new road; the tracks had to be recent, the last rain had fallen over lunch, the skies opening, emptying, and clearing between ordering the food and eating it.

Eight minutes in, he stopped at what seemed to be an abandoned logging camp.

“Jesus H. Christ, you could bury an army in this mess.” Bodies buried in the wilderness were usually found because the area had been disturbed. This particular area couldn't get more disturbed—the men who'd hacked their living space out of this piece of forest had not been gentle. Tire tracks, old and new, crisscrossed the artificial clearing, and the boot marks told him nothing. “Great. Where's the ident crew when you need them—I want some plaster molds of those treads, and I want this whole place dusted for prints.”

He snorted and shook his head. He could dig up every patch of fresh dirt he found, or he could . . .

“You lookin' for me?”

Grinning broadly, Celluci turned. “I'm looking for anyone who can get me unlost.” The man in the red shirt was a little bigger than he was. That didn't happen often.
And doesn't it just figure that it's happening now.
He had the familiar proportions of men who spent their time in prison lifting weights—an impressively muscular upper body on regular guy type legs. Big brown eyes seemed out of place in the midst of his belligerent expression although the nine millimeter semiautomatic pistol he held, almost engulfed by one huge fist, matched perfectly. Still hoping he could talk his way out of whatever he'd gotten into, Celluci stared in astonishment. “Hey! What's with the gun?”

“You were parked watching the clinic. You followed me here. You tell me.”

“I don't know what you're talking about. I'm just a guy from Ontario who got lost looking for the park lodge.”

“Toss me your wallet.”

“Oh. Oh, I see. I'm in the middle of fucking nowhere and I'm being mugged.” Celluci jerked his wallet out of his back pocket and threw it on the ground at the other man's feet. The leather folder holding his police ID was still in his pocket. He had a chance. “You want the keys to the van, too? It gets lousy gas mileage, so be my guest.”

“Shut up.” Mild eyes never leaving Celluci's face, the gunman squatted and scooped up the billfold. He flipped through the compartments, peered at all the credit cards, never quite distracted enough for Celluci to make a move.

Then he stopped and shoved one finger deep into an inner recess and hooked out a photograph. His lips rearranged themselves into a triumphant sneer, and something glittered deep in the puppy-dog eyes. “This your granny standing next to you, Officer Celluci?”

Nine

EVEN before the day had fully released him, Henry could feel the cold tracing frosted patterns on his skin in a macabre parody of a lover's caress. Opening his eyes, he almost thought he could see the icy currents drifting in the air like winter fog.

It knew he was awake. He could feel it waiting.

Brows drawn down in annoyance, he turned on the lamp, and sat up.

It wasn't waiting. They were.

The second ghost was a little younger; late teens rather than early twenties. A metal ring glinted in one nostril. The ivory skull printed on the sleeveless black T-shirt grinned at Henry as though it appreciated the irony of a death's head worn by the dead. As far as Henry could tell, he was anatomically correct—this second specter had retained his hands.

“Blessed Jesu . . .” At the last instant, he realized he shouldn't have spoken aloud, but by then it was too late.

No audible sound emerged from either mouth stretched open far beyond the boundaries skin and bone would have allowed. As they howled, the soul heard the torment the ears could not.

Henry's heart began to race until it beat at nearly mortal speed, but a sudden anger provided a barrier against the waves of despair. How dared they make him responsible for the lives around him! How dared they buy his help with blackmail! How dared they . . .

A strangled moan from outside his sanctuary broke through where the spirits couldn't. It dragged him off the bed and across the room.
Tony
 . . . Henry fumbled with the bolts, amazed to find his hands shaking, more affected by the shrieking dead than he was willing to admit. He spun around to face them, but they were gone; only the effect of their cry remained.

Ripping the last lock right out of the wood, he yanked open the door.

“Tony!”

Curled into a fetal position in the center of the hall, Tony slammed his forehead over and over into his knees and whimpered, the shrill noise pulsing to the rhythm of the action. Dropping down beside him, Henry wrapped both hands around the younger man's head and forced him to be still. “Tony, it's over. Listen to me, it's over.” Gently, but inarguably, he turned Tony's head until he could look down into the wildly staring eyes. He didn't realize how frightened he'd been of what he might see until relief turned his muscles to jelly and he sagged back on bare heels. Insanity would have been no surprise, had, in fact, been almost expected. “You're all right. I have you.”

“H . . . Henry?”

“Yes. It's me.” Sliding an arm under shaking shoulders, Henry pulled him up against his chest.

“It was darker . . .”

He laid a cheek against sweat-damp hair. “I know.”

Tony sighed and pushed against Henry's body—as though to test its strength as a shield—then he wet his lips and leaned back just far enough to meet the worried gaze. “Henry?”

“Yes?”

“What the hell did you ask it?”

“I was wondering that myself.”

Henry managed to stop the snarl but only because he felt Tony's reaction when he tensed. “Not it,” he said, lifting his head, his expression warning Vicki to come no closer. “Them.”

“Your Greek chorus of backup screamers?” When he shook his head and the implications sank in, she smashed her fist through the drywall. “Fucking, goddamned shit!”

Tony winced at the impact.

Henry tightened his grip. “That's not helping,” he growled.

“I know. I'm sorry.” She drew in a deep breath and visibly fought for calm. “You okay, Tony?”

He swallowed and shrugged, still within the circle of Henry's arms. “I've been better.”

The wail of distant sirens drawing closer cut off Vicki's reply. Tony closed his eyes and added, “Could be worse.”

When the sirens stopped and the sounds of the emergency teams were lost in the building's soundproofing, Henry cradled Tony against one shoulder and met Vicki's gaze. “Was Celluci affected?”

“No. Fortunately, he's not back yet.”

“Back from where?”

“How the hell should I know? You can ask him yourself when he shows.”

“With him or without him, we have to talk.”

She nodded and turned away.

“Vicki!”

A step forward became a pivot.

“Where are you going?”

“To get dressed.” One hand held closed a ruffled pink robe, at least two sizes too small and obviously borrowed from the wardrobe Mrs. Munro had left behind. The other, knuckles white with plaster dust, she waved in his general direction. “An idea you might also consider.”

Which was when he remembered he was naked. “We'll join you in about half an hour.”

“I thought it was safer if we only used your place.”

“We're not the only people involved.” He watched her expression soften as she worked through his reasoning. Glancing down at Tony, who'd need to put some distance between himself and the terror, she nodded, and left.

Tony waited until he heard the door close before he began to free himself from Henry's embrace. “Henry, I can't . . .”

It took a moment for understanding. “I didn't expect you to,” he said gently, wondering if he'd ever given Tony cause to assume his needs could be so inconsiderate.

“But you said . . . you told Victory half an hour.”

“I know.” He stood and all but lifted the other man to his feet. “I thought you might want to shower.”

Tony glanced down at the darker stain on the front of his bicycle shorts, suddenly aware of what it meant. His cheeks flushed. “Oh, man . . . You think Victory noticed?”

It would serve no purpose to remind him that Vicki had a predator's sense of smell, so Henry lied.

“He's still not back?”

Vicki snorted as she led the way into the apartment. “You know he isn't. And the sun's well and truly down; he has to know I'm awake.”

“He's probably following a lead.”

“I
know
that, Henry.”

Henry stopped at one end of the couch, allowing her to put the length of the living room between them. The events of the previous night aside, distance was still their best defense. “Are you concerned?”

“No. I'm annoyed. The bastard didn't even leave a fucking note.” Behind her back, Henry and Tony exchanged a speaking glance. Vicki turned in time to catch the end of it. “What?”

“Your use of profanity always increases when you're worried,” Henry reminded her.

Vicki flipped him the finger. “Increase this.”

“Vicki . . .”

“I'm sorry.” She turned and rested her forehead against the window, her right hand crushing a fistful of antique satin drapes. “Your ghosts have got me jumpy, that's all. There's no reason he has to be here at sunset. He's almost forty years old, for chrisakes; it's not like he can't take care of himself.”

“I should imagine that he's very good at taking care of himself.”

“I wasn't
asking
for reassurance,” she snarled.

Tony opened his mouth, but Henry raised a cautionary hand, and he closed it again.

A heartbeat later, Vicki sighed. “All right. Yes, I was.” Releasing the drapes, she glanced around for her notes, found them on the end table by Henry's knees, stepped forward, and stopped.

Henry's gaze dropped to the spiral-bound notebook, then rose to lock with Vicki's.

She shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet, ready for whatever he chose to do but unwilling to make the first move. The unexpected conclusion to last night's carnage had reminded her of what she'd arrived in Vancouver believing. If they were willing to try, they could get along.
All right, if we're willing to kill a dozen people we can get along
, she amended silently at memory's prod.

Without looking down again, Henry bent, picked up the notebook, and held it out.

The hair lifted off the back of Tony's neck and continued lifting until it felt as though every hair on his head stood on end.
Jeez, you could play “Dueling Banjos” on the tension between them.
He fought the completely irrational urge to reach out and pluck at the air as he waited and wondered what, if anything, he should do. He knew what he wanted to do; he wanted to turn on another lamp.
They
never considered that the people around them found shadows frightening.

Slowly, each step stiff-legged and graceless, Vicki crossed the room. Her fingers closed around the book.

Cue the ominous music.
Too emotionally abraded to cope, Tony closed his eyes.

“Tony? Are you okay.”

He opened his eyes. Vicki was sitting in an overstuffed chair by the window, notebook on her knee. Henry'd propped one thigh on the arm of the couch. He looked from one to the other and back again. More than ever, they reminded him of cats; smug, self-righteous, and wearing identical, guarded expressions.

“We both fed heavily last night,” Henry said when Tony turned a questioning glance toward him. “It seems to be helping.”

“Feeding makes you less territorial?” That didn't sound right. They'd both fed the first night; it hadn't helped.

“
Heavy
feeding,” Vicki reiterated, without looking up.

Tony had the uncomfortable feeling that, had she been able, she would have been blushing. While curious about what could possibly embarrass Victory Nelson, Tony decided not to press the point. The eleven bodies found in the Richmond warehouse had been front-page news, the press dwelling lovingly on the gory details, and if either Vicki or Henry were responsible, he didn't want to know. Some days, he could barely contain the knowledge that vampires existed—the fewer details he had to lock away with that knowledge, the better.

“I don't even know why I'm here,” he sighed, rubbing his hand over his hair and dropping onto a stool.

“You're a part of this, Tony.”

“Am I?” He wiped his hands on his jeans and stared down at the damp imprints of his palms. “Yeah, I guess I am.”

Henry stood and took a step forward. Tony'd showered and changed and insisted he was fine, that the ghosts' shriek had done no actual damage, but obviously he wasn't and it had.

“So what's the story on the new spook?” Vicki demanded before he could speak.

Amazed that she could be so insensitive to what Tony was going through, Henry turned to glare at her. She met his gaze and shook her head. His brows dipped down over the bridge of his nose. How dared she.
Stay out of this. Tony is mine, not yours.
The words were in his mouth, ready to be spoken aloud when he looked in Tony's direction and realized it was no longer true.

Worst of all, it came as no great surprise.

Four-hundred-and-fifty-odd years of living masked among mortals allowed him to hide his reaction. “The second specter,” he said slowly, answering her question because there wasn't really anything else he could say, not there, not then, “is a younger man, with hands. He looks like a street kid, pierced nose, lace-up boots . . .”

“A grinning skull on a sleeveless black T-shirt.” A reprise of the scream threaded through the cadences of Tony's voice.

“You know him?” Eyes gleaming, Vicki leaned forward. Henry growled low in his throat and she whirled around, her own teeth bared. “What is your problem? If Tony knows him, it'll break the case.”

“If Tony knows him, he's just lost a friend.”

“And we're in a position to make sure he doesn't lose any more friends!”

“I didn't know him, and he wasn't a friend! All right?” Elbows on his knees, Tony buried his face in his hands. “I just saw him on the street. That's all. I didn't know him.”

“It's not exactly a unique look.” Keeping part of his attention on Vicki, Henry crossed the room and dropped to one knee by Tony's side. So things were changing—had changed—between them; they hadn't changed enough to keep him from offering comfort. “Maybe it wasn't him.”

“It was.”

“You're sure?”

He was as sure of it as he'd ever been of anything in his life. He wouldn't have been at all surprised had Henry said the skull joined in the screaming. “Yeah, I'm sure. He was saying good-bye to one of his buddies across from the store. They shook hands—that's why I remember. There's not a lot of hands get shook when you're living on the street.” He found himself strangely reluctant to tell them about the way the skull had grinned at him. They'd seen stranger things—
Hell, they
were
stranger things
—and the odds were good they'd believe him, but it'd been just too weird and he'd had enough weird for one night.

“Do you think you could find his buddy?” Vicki asked before Henry could speak again.

“I don't know.” He lifted his head. “I guess I'd recognize him if I saw him. You think he knows where it . . . where the dead guy went?”

“I think it's worth a shot.”

“If it causes you pain,” Henry began, gripping Tony's shoulder, “you don't . . .”

“I do.” Shifting position on the stool, he looked into Henry's eyes. “I have to do
something.
I can't just sit around and wait for it to go away.”

Vicki felt the fabric of the couch begin to tear under her fingers and hurriedly forced her hand to relax. Henry on his knees had always affected her strongly.
Maybe this is why we Hunt alone
, she thought, as he stood and lightly touched Tony's cheek.
Together there's a constant reminder that the intoxicating intimacy shared before the change is forever after denied you
. Every
other vampire becomes your ex.
“I hate to interrupt,” she snarled, looked a little surprised at her tone, and attempted to modulate it, “but the night is short, and we've got a lot to do.”

“Do we?” Henry let his hand fall back to his side.