Blood Debt (3 page)

“
All
I am?”

“Henry!”

Henry graciously indicated he should continue although his lip remained curled.

“Look, there's a whole shitload of myth about you. Okay, not you specifically, but about your kind. It's all around you . . .” He spread his arms. “. . . like a kind of metaphysical fog. I bet that's what the ghost is attracted to. I bet that's what pulls him to you.”

“Metaphysical fog,” Henry repeated. Shaking his head, he leaned back in his chair. “Did you talk like that in Toronto?”

“You needn't get so damned superior!” His relaxed posture gone, Tony jabbed a finger in Henry's direction. “It's a perfectly valid theory. Or have you got a better one?”

Surprised by the young man's vehemence, Henry admitted he didn't, but before Tony could continue, he cut him off with an uplifted hand. “Something's happening in the hall.”

Tony's scowl deepened. “I don't hear any . . . shit.” There was no point in continuing. Henry was already at the door.

He'd heard the ambulance attendants. As he stepped out into the hall, they were rolling the stretcher out of apartment 1404. The tiny figure under the straps lay perfectly still, one thin hand dangling limply off the side. The attendants were performing CPR even as they rushed toward the elevator, but Henry knew Lisa Evans was irretrievably dead.

He barely managed to keep himself from leaping back and snarling as Mrs. Munro clutched at his arm.

A few moments later, after bundling the sobbing companion into his car, he was speeding toward St. Paul's Hospital after the ambulance while Tony passed Mrs. Munro tissue after tissue from the box in the glove compartment.

The emergency room doctors took very little time before they agreed with Henry's diagnosis. They, too, had seen death too often to mistake it.

“She was very old,” Dr. Zvane told them softly.

“There's older!” Mrs. Munro protested. Tony handed her another tissue.

“True.” The doctor shrugged, and knuckled weary eyes. “All I can say is that it was her time. We did everything we could, but she'd gone on and had no intention of coming back.”

Gripping Henry's hand hard enough to crack merely mortal joints, Mrs. Munro sniffed. “That's just like her. You could never get her to change her mind once she'd made it up.”

She'd stopped crying by the time she got back into the car. Although Henry had offered to drive her wherever she wanted to go, she'd asked to be taken back to the condo. “I have to get my things. My daughter will pick me up there.

“We were watching
Jeopardy
,” she continued, able to talk about what had happened now that it was officially over. “It was the championship round. Miss Evans had just shouted out, ‘
Who is Captain Kirk?
' when all of a sudden, she sort of whimpered and clapped her hands over her ears. She looked like she'd heard something horrible except I didn't hear anything at all. The next thing I knew, she was . . . gone.”

Henry met Tony's eyes in the rearview mirror. It was obvious they were thinking the same thing.

“I don't think he's doing it deliberately.”

“I don't care. He is responsible for that old lady's death, and I say he can go handless into hell.”

Back in his circle of light, Tony shivered. Henry's voice had cut through the distance between living room and bedroom like the distance didn't exist, and every word had held an edge. When he appeared a moment later, Tony took in his change of clothes—his face and hair seemed luminescent above all that black—and asked, although he didn't really need to, “Where are you going?”

“Hunting.”

It was almost impossible not to respond to the ghost's anticipation.

“You can stand there as long as you like,” Henry growled, “but I am
not
going to help you.”

The ghost threw back its head and screamed.

An unseen, unheard chorus of the dead screamed with it.

“I thought you weren't going to ask it any more questions!”

“I didn't.” Henry stared down at the city, listening for the sound of a siren, his lingers splayed against the glass, the muscles rigid across his back. “I told it, it could expect no help.”

“It didn't seem to like that.”

“No. It didn't.”

They stood together in silence, waiting for the sounds of another death.

Finally Tony sighed and threw himself down on the sofa. “Looks like we got lucky; nobody old enough, close enough. Tomorrow night, why don't you say nothing at all.”

It waited. And it waited. When Henry tried to leave the room, it screamed.

They watched the ambulance arrive. They learned that the Franklins' baby died in its sleep.

“Babies. Man . . .” Two years ago, Tony had watched an ancient Egyptian wizard devour the life force of a baby. The parents walked on, completely unaware that their child was dead. He still had nightmares about it. “This is blackmail.”

“Yes. And it has made me angry.” The plastic cracked in his grip as he picked up the phone.

Swallowing nervously—Henry's anger could be as terrifying as silent ghostly screams—Tony managed a partial smile and asked, “Calling the Ghostbusters?”

“Not quite. I've decided this is not a job for a romance writer.”

“Well, I guess not, but . . .” He let his next question trail off when Henry activated the external speaker on the phone. After two rings, an answering machine clicked on.

“Victory Nelson, Private Investigations. There's no one here to take your call right now. Please leave a message after the tone. . . .”

Two

DETECTIVE-Sergeant Michael Celluci closed the heavy metal door quietly behind him and stepped cautiously into the shadowed apartment. A dim fan of light that spilled out from the office under the loft was swallowed up by the sixteen-foot ceiling in the main room. The building had been a glass factory before a recession had emptied it and urban renewal had filled it again with barely serviceable living space for the fashionable fringe of Toronto. The majority of the tenants dressed exclusively in black and most were involved in some way with “the arts”—although some of those ways were pretty peripheral in Michael Celluci's not at all humble opinion.

His soft-soled shoes making no sound on the rug that defined a right-of-way along one wall, he moved toward the light.

“So what about the guy you can see? What's he, the union representative?” The silence defined the response. “I'm sorry. I
am
taking this seriously. No, I am. Ask it innocuous questions until I get there.” The old wooden office chair creaked alarmingly as it was tipped back on two legs. “Ask it things you
know
it'll have to answer yes to.”

Just under the edge of the loft, an arm's length from the chair, Celluci stretched out a hand to grab a sweatshirt-clad shoulder. Just before his fingers closed on fabric, they were captured in an unbreakable grip.

The woman holding him flashed him a disdainful
nice try
and kept talking into the phone. “Look, how hard can it be? Did you used to be a man? Are you dead now? Were you once alive?”

Were
you alive?
Celluci mouthed as she pulled him around the edge of her chair and pushed him down onto a corner of the cluttered desk.

Brows lowered, she acknowledged he'd heard correctly with a single nod, then tried to reassure her caller. “It doesn't matter that they're stupid questions as long as it answers yes. I'll be there as soon as I can. I'll . . .” Sighing, she settled back with an expression Celluci recognized—the first time he'd seen it, they'd both been in uniform, and it had been aimed at him. There could be only one explanation for it now; the person on the other end of the line was actually daring to give Vicki Nelson advice.

She'd never taken advice well. Not when she'd been in uniform and considered herself God's gift to the Metropolitan Toronto Police. Not when she'd made detective. Not when retinitis pigmentosa had forced her to quit a job she'd both loved and excelled at. Not during the time she'd been a private investigator. And not since the change.

If I didn't know
, he thought, watching her features shift from impatience to irritation,
I'd never realize what she was
.

She looked much the same, only a little thinner and a lot paler. She acted much the same, having always been overbearing, arrogant, and opinionated.

All right, so she didn't used to drink blood.
 . . .

“That's enough!” Irritation had become annoyance and, from her tone, she'd cut off a continuing monologue. “I'll be there as soon as I can, and if you're not home when I arrive, I'm heading straight back to Toronto.” Hanging up as the last “oh” left her mouth, she turned her attention to Celluci and said, “Henry has a ghost and would like me to get rid of it for him.”

Cold fingers touched the back of Celluci's neck. “Henry Fitzroy?”

“Himself.”

“Isn't he still in Vancouver?”

Silver-gray eyes narrowed as she gazed up at him. “He is.”

“And you've just agreed to travel clear across the country to take care of his . . .” In spite of everything they'd been through—in spite of demons, werewolves, mummies, and the reanimation of the dead, in spite of vampires—his lip curled. “. . . ghost?”

“I have,”

“And since you've presented it to me as a
fait accompli
, can I assume anything I have to say becomes irrelevant?”

Her brows drew in slightly. “This ghost is scaring people to death, Mike, and it's going to keep doing it until someone finds out why and stops it. Henry isn't trained for that kind of an investigation.” When he opened his mouth, she lifted a hand in warning. “And don't you dare say I'm not either. I'll be stopping a killer. It doesn't matter that he's dead.”

No. It wouldn't. But the ghost had little or nothing to do with his reaction. He leaped to his feet and pushed past her, out of the office and into the main room where he'd have floor enough to pace. “Do you know how far it is to Vancouver?”

“About 4,500 kilometers.”

He stomped to the door and back again. “Do you realize how short the night is at this time of the year?”

“Less than nine hours.” Her voice added a clear indication that she wasn't pleased about it either.

“And do you remember what happens when you're caught out in the sun?”

“I barbecue.”

Hands spread, he rocked to a stop in front of her. “So you're going to go 4,500 kilometers, in less than nine-hour shifts, with no sanctuary from the sun? Do you have any idea how insanely dangerous that is?”

“I've been thinking about buying a used van and making a few minor modifications.”

“A few minor modifications,” he repeated incredulously, trying to bury fear with anger. “You'll be a sitting duck all day, no matter where you park—a charcoal briquette just waiting to happen!”

“So come with me.”

“Come with you? As a favor to Henry-fucking-Fitzroy?”

She got slowly to her feet and glared up at him through narrowed eyes. “Is that what this is really about? Henry?”

“No!” And it wasn't; not entirely. “This is about you putting yourself in unnecessary danger. Don't they have PI's in British Columbia?”

“Not ones who can deal with something like this and no one Henry trusts.” She smiled, a little self-mockingly, then spread one hand against his chest and added, her words slowed to the rhythm of his heartbeat, “I don't want to become a charcoal briquette. I could use your help, Mike.”

His mouth snapped shut around the remainder of the diatribe. The old Vicki Nelson had never been able to ask for help. When Henry Fitzroy had given her his blood, he'd changed her in more than just the obvious ways. Celluci hated the undead, romance-writing, royal bastard for that.

“Let me think about it,” he muttered. “I'm going to make coffee.”

Vicki listened to him stomp into the tiny kitchen and begin opening and closing cupboard doors with more force than was strictly necessary. She drew in a deep breath, savoring the scent of him. He'd always smelled terrific; a kind of heated, male smell that used to make her incredibly horny whenever she got a whiff of it. Okay, it still made her horny, she corrected with a grin. But now it also made her hungry.

“Don't you ever throw your garbage out,” he snarled.

“Why should I? I don't create any of it.”

He hadn't needed to raise his voice. She could've heard him if he'd whispered. She could hear his blood pulse through his veins. Sometimes she thought she could hear his thoughts. Although he might be honestly concerned about the dangers of travel, when it came right down to it, he didn't want to go to Vancouver with her because he didn't want to do Henry Fitzroy any favors. Neither did he want her to go to Vancouver, and thus to Henry Fitzroy, without him.

Finishing off the bit of bookkeeping she'd been doing when Henry'd called, Vicki saved the file and waited for Mike to make up his mind, wondering if he realized she had no intention of going without him.

That Henry was being haunted by a ghost who played twenty questions with deadly results didn't surprise her. Nothing much surprised her anymore.
There are more things in heaven and earth
 . . . She'd had it printed on her business cards. Mr. Shakespeare had no idea.

That Henry had called, wanting to hire her to solve his little mystery,
had
surprised her. He'd been so definite when they'd parted that they'd never see each other again, that they couldn't see each other again.

As though he'd been reading
her
thoughts, Celluci chose that moment to come back into the office and growl, “I thought vampires were unable to share a territory.”

Vicki's chin rose. “I refuse to be controlled by my nature.”

Celluci snorted. “Yeah. Right.” He took a swallow of steaming coffee. “Tell that to the vampire who used to live here.”

“I was willing to negotiate,” Vicki protested, but she felt her lip curling up off her teeth. The
other
vampire had taunted her with the death of a friend and claimed downtown Toronto. When Vicki had finally killed her, she'd felt no regret, no guilt, and no need to tell Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci the full details of what had happened. Not only because of what he was—not only because he was human—but because of who he was. He wouldn't have understood, and she didn't think she could stand it if he looked at her the way he'd sometimes looked at Henry.

So she'd told him only that she'd won.

Now she changed her incipient snarl into something closer to a smile. “Henry and I will manage to get along.”

Celluci hid his own smile behind the coffee mug. He recognized the tone and wondered if Henry had any idea of how little choice he was about to have in the matter. He didn't want Vicki going to Vancouver, but since she'd already made up her mind, he couldn't stop her—nor was he suicidal enough to try. Since she was going, regardless, he didn't want her going alone. Besides, he'd enjoy watching his bloodsucking, royal bastardness get run over by Vicki's absolute refusal to do what was expected of her.

“All right. You win. I'm going with you.”

“. . . things are slow right now, and I've got the time.”

Inspector Cantree snorted. “You've always got the time, Detective. I'm just amazed you actually want to use some of it.”

Celluci shrugged. “Something came up with a friend of Vicki's out west.”

“A friend of Vicki's. Ah.” The inspector stared into the oily scum on top of his coffee, the heavy stoneware mug looking almost delicate in his huge hand. “And how is ‘Victory' Nelson these days? I hear she's been dealing with some strange cases since she got back in town.”

Celluci shrugged again. “Someone has to. At least if they're calling her, they're not calling us.”

“True.” Cantree's eyes narrowed, and the look he shot at the other man was frankly speculative. “She never struck me as the type to get involved in this paranormal, occult bullshit.”

Celluci only just stopped himself from shrugging a third time. “Most of her work's the same old boring crap. Cheating spouses. Insurance fraud.”

“Most,” Cantree repeated. It wasn't quite a question, so Celluci didn't answer it.

Inspector Cantree had narrowly escaped becoming the enchanted acolyte of an ancient Egyptian god. The others who'd been caught up in the spell had created their own explanations, but he'd insisted on hearing the truth. As he'd never mentioned it again, Celluci remained unsure of how much he'd believed.

The memory hung in the air between them for a moment, then Cantree brushed it aside, the gesture stating as clearly as if he'd said it aloud:
Forty-seven homicides so far this year; I've enough to deal with
. “Take your vacation, Detective, but I want your butt back here in two weeks ready to work.”

“Vicki, we will never make it to Vancouver in
that
.”

“I know it doesn't look like much . . .” Hands on her hips, Vicki swept her gaze over the grimy blue van and decided not to mention that it'd probably look worse in daylight. It looked bad enough under the security light in Celluci's driveway. “. . . but it's mechanically sound.”

“Since when do you know anything about
mechanically sound?”

“I don't.” She turned and grinned at him, meeting his eyes and allowing power to rise momentarily in hers. “But nobody lies to me anymore.”

Because it had been used for deliveries, the van box had no windows to cover. Vicki'd had a partition with wide rubber gaskets installed behind the seats and another just inside the rear doors.

“You got it done fast enough, didn't you?” Celluci brushed at a dusting of sawdust at the base of the front barrier and frowned at the inner bolts that ensured there'd be no unwelcome visitors. “What happens if there's an accident and I have to get you out?”

“Wait until sunset and I'll get myself out.”

“There's no ventilation, and it's likely to get hotter than hell in there,”

She shrugged. “I doubt I'll notice.”

“You doubt?” His voice started to rise, and he forced it back down, the dark windows in the surrounding houses reminding him that the neighbors were still asleep and very likely wanted to remain that way. “You're not sure?”

“I'm sure that I won't feel it. Other than that . . .” There were a number of things about being a vampire she was having to discover as the situation came up. Henry had taught her how to feed without causing harm, how to gently change the memories of those who provided nourishment, and how to blend with the mortals who walked the day, but he'd never taught her that swimming was out of the question because increased bone density caused her to sink like a rock—scaring the shit out of the lifeguard at the “Y.” Nor had he mentioned what traveling all day in the back of an enclosed van might do. “The SPCV suggests leaving a rear window rolled down a bit and parking out of the sun.”

Celluci stared at her in confusion. “The what?”

“The society for the prevention of cruelty to vampires. It was a joke.” She patted his arm. “Never mind. What do you think of the bed?”

He peered past her shoulder. The bed had padded sides ten inches high. “It looks like a coffin without a lid. I'm not using it.”