Blood Debt (7 page)

“And that . . .” Teeth snapped shut around the words. “. . . is exactly why I'm staying where I am.”

It was a petty resolution—he'd long grown past the need to lie to himself—but it effectively derailed the circling arguments.

The walk-in closet off the master bedroom had, unfortunately, been lined with cedar. Breathing shallowly through his mouth, wishing he'd brought some of Tony's laundry to cut the scent, Henry secured the door with a piece of two-by-one and lay down on the camp cot he'd set up earlier. As an added precaution, he'd draped a theatrical blackout curtain over the garment rack to fall around the cot like an opaque mosquito net.

The last time he'd spent the day in a closet had been right after the death and disappearance of Vicki's mother. Then, as now, he'd made it as risk free as possible.

All at once he frowned, trying to remember the last risk he'd taken.

He was vampire.

Nightwalker.

Prince of Darkness.

So why did life suddenly seem so middle class? So safe and bland?

Every risk he'd taken in the last few years could be directly linked to Vicki Nelson.

The bedding had been changed, but Henry's scent still coated the room. Instinct battled the need for sanctuary, and need won although her hands were shaking as she bolted the door. This wasn't the first time Vicki'd spent the day in another's sanctuary, but as her last experience had occurred right after she'd used a bank of tanning lights to turn the previous occupant into charred bone and ash, she didn't feel she had much basis for comparison.

The memories Henry's scent evoked warred with the reactions instinctive to her, to their, nature. She attempted to calm the latter by thoroughly searching the room.

“See?” It took an effort, but she kept her voice low—there was no point, after all, in yelling at her own subconscious. “There's no one here. No one in the closet. No little tiny competitor in the drawers. No one under the bed.”

With sunrise reaching out for her, she put the bed down and slid between the sheets. Listening for the comforting sound of Celluci's heartbeat, she . . .

Celluci slept soundly until just after eleven and stayed in bed for another hour after that because he could. In spite of Henry Fitzroy, this
was
his vacation. When he finally got up, his head throbbed and he ached in places he couldn't remember using. A comfortable bed seemed to have given the four nights of abuse on the road a chance to catch up.

Another long hot shower helped.

The coffeemaker and coffee he found on top of the fridge helped more.

“You want to bring North America to a stop?” he snorted as the aroma began to fill the kitchen. “Kidnap Juan Valdez.”

He filled a mug from a Seattle PBS station, lifted the stack of newspapers out of the recycling box, and carried everything into the living room where he made himself comfortable in one of the two huge leather armchairs.

The sooner they got rid of the ghost, the sooner he and Vicki could spend some time actually vacationing. At the very least—the sooner they could go home.

“And where there's a ghost,” he muttered, snapping open the oldest of the papers, “somewhere, there's got to be a body.”

“Cedar?”

It took a moment for Henry to realize where he was. When he did, he grimaced. Up until this moment, cedar had been a scent he'd enjoyed. “No wonder moths stay away from this stuff.”

Awakening hadn't brought new insight. The mortal mind might find solutions during sleep but, with eternity before them, vampires were forced to deal with their problems night after night. During the day, their subconscious minds shut off with everything else.

Even before he extracted himself from the folds of the blackout curtain, Henry knew his problem hadn't changed. Anger propelling him up and off the cot, he pulled the chain that turned on the closet light.

With so little space, they were nose-to-nose.

Eyes watering in the sudden glare, Henry snarled, “Are you following me?”

The ghost silently disappeared.

Four

SENSES extended, Vicki sifted the darkness for some indication of a ghostly presence. According to Henry, she should be feeling a chill and a distinct sense of unease. It was supposed to be impossible to miss.

“So why am I missing it,” she muttered, propping herself up on an elbow and reaching for the light.

The room was empty of everything but Henry's scent.

Out in the apartment, the phone rang.

“Who was that?”

Celluci very carefully set the flat, almost featureless, high-tech receiver back into its cradle. “Fitzroy,” he said without turning.

“Well if he wants to know what I asked the ghost, he's s.o.l.” Vicki dropped a shoulder against the living room wall and crossed her arms over her breasts. “Our spectral friend didn't show.”

“It snowed.” Celluci drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. Things had just gotten a lot more complicated. “It followed Fitzroy. Appeared to him this evening just like always.”

“Shit. Now what?”

“He's coming back.”

“Here?”

“Here.”

Vicki straightened and her voice rose. “And what does he expect me to do?”

“He didn't say.” Hands spread, Celluci finally turned to face her. She'd thrown on an oversized shirt but hadn't bothered doing up the buttons. Momentarily sidetracked, he forced himself past his immediate reaction and added gruffly, “The way I see it, we've got two choices. We go home, or we stay and you get another chance to prove your point.”

Her eyes narrowed. “If you'll remember, it was Henry's point we proved. We can't be together without fighting.”

Celluci sighed and propped his right thigh on the dining room table. “Vicki,
we
can't be together without fighting, but that doesn't seem to stop us. If you can't leave Fitzroy to take care of his own problem—a course of action which gets my vote, by the way—then the two of you are going to have to work something out.”

“How do we
work out
a biological imperative?”

“You're the one who said you wouldn't be ruled by your nature.”

After a moment, she stared down at the floor and growled, “I was wrong.”

It had never been difficult for Michael Celluci to figure out what Vicki was thinking, and her recent metamorphosis hadn't changed that. For her to actually admit she was wrong without a three-hour argument and half-a-dozen pieces of irrefutable evidence could only mean that losing the fight to Fitzroy had upset her world view more than he'd realized. Time to put it right. “Fitzroy provoked that fight, Vicki. He had no intention of giving the two of you a chance to work it out.”

Vicki's gaze snapped up off the pattern of pieced hardwood and locked onto his face, her eyes silvering. “You know this for a fact?”

“He admitted it before he left.”

“And you're just telling me now!”

“Hey!” Celluci lifted both hands to chest height, a symbolic defense at best. “I'm not the bad guy here.”

“No . . .” Teeth clenched, Vicki fought to free the memory of the actual fight from the cloud of mixed emotions obscuring it.

“You insisted we could work together,” he reminded her mockingly.

“We could if you'd stop this Prince of Darkness bullshit and back off!”

“Why that lousy son of a . . .” Profanity somehow seemed inadequate. Fingers curled into fists, she spun around on one bare heel and headed back toward the bedroom.

“Where are you going?”

“To get dressed!”

An innocuous statement on its own, but the way Vicki spat it out, it sounded very much like a threat. With the strong feeling he was going to need the caffeine, Celluci headed into the kitchen for another cup of coffee.

“Sorry I'm late. I almost got clipped by a Caddie on the way over, and . . .” Tony's voice trailed off as Celluci came into the entryway and he got a look at his face. “What's wrong?”

“Fitzroy's coming back. It seems the ghost is appearing only to him.”

Tony stared down at his helmet. A hundred tiny reflections in beads of rain stared back at him. “Coming back here?” When the detective didn't answer right away, Tony looked up to meet a speculative gaze. “What?”

“You don't want him coming back here?”

“That's not what I said.” He tossed the helmet down beside his roller blades and shrugged out of his damp jacket. “I mean, jeez, it's his condo, isn't it? What's Victory gonna do?”

“Victory's going hunting.”

The two men turned toward the voice, their motion almost involuntary.

Tony, who'd been expecting a variation on Henry's Prince of Darkness attire, was surprised to see her in jeans, sneakers, and a bright, not-even-remotely vampiric cotton jacket. Except that she no longer wore glasses and she'd left her shoulderbag back in the bedroom, she looked no different than she had on a hundred summer nights in Toronto when he'd still been living on the street.

And then she looked very different.

And then she didn't again.

He blinked. Looking at her was like looking at one of those pictures that could be either a vase or two people. “Uh, Victory, your vampire's showing.”

She looked startled, and then she laughed. With a subtle shift in emphasis, she fitted the civilized mask more firmly in place. “Better?”

“Yeah. But, uh, if Henry's coming, shouldn't you . . .” He glanced over at Celluci who was obviously going to be no help at all. “. . . shouldn't you be here?”

“Are you warning me against hunting in Henry's territory?”

He knew this mood. He'd seen Henry wear it a hundred nights. “Do I look stupid?”

“No.” When she smiled at him, he barely resisted the urge to lift his chin and he released a thankful breath when she turned her attention to Celluci. “If Henry gets here before I get back, make my excuses, would you?

“Vicki.” He placed his hand on her arm and Tony thought he saw the edges soften as she looked up at him. “Be careful.”

“I'm always careful.”

“Bullshit.” But he let her go.

She paused at the door. “Trendy people still gather on Denman, Tony?” He'd barely begun to nod when she was gone.

Henry liked to hunt on Denman. Tony chewed on a corner of his lip and turned toward the detective. “I thought you were going to ask her not to go.”

Celluci snorted. “Not likely. It's safer not to have her around when she's in that mood.”

“Yeah, but . . .” He spread his hands, unsure of the words.

“I know what she is, Tony.” Celluci's voice was surprisingly gentle. “I don't always like it, but I like the alternative even less.” He cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed by the spontaneous shared confidence. “Have you eaten?”

After Tony pointed out that Henry didn't like the apartment smelling of food, Celluci ordered a pizza.

“Give him something else to think about.”

“Besides Vicki?”

“Besides Vicki.”

Expecting to be uncomfortable, Tony was astonished to find himself relaxing. They were just two guys thrown together by mutual friends, age the biggest difference between them. They even argued over which toppings to order.

Halfway through a large double cheese, mushrooms, tomatoes, and pepperoni, Celluci sat back, wiped sauce off his chin, and said, “You want to tell me what's wrong?”

“Nothing's . . .” Tony let the protest hang half said. He could tell from the expression on the other man's face there was no point in finishing it. “You wouldn't understand.”

“Tony, if it has to do with Henry, the odds are I'm the only person in the world who
would
understand.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He chewed and swallowed, unsure if he was trying to think of what to say or if he was avoiding the question entirely. He could feel Celluci waiting, not impatiently but like he really wanted to know. After a moment, he put down the half-eaten slice and scrubbed at the grease on his fingers. “This is just between you and me?”

“If that's what you want.”

After a few minutes of expectant silence, he sighed. “When I first met Henry, I wasn't anything, you know? And I wouldn't be what I am now without him. I mean, he sort of made me go back and finish high school just because, well, he believed I could, and . . .” He poked at a congealing piece of cheese. “I guess that sounds pretty dumb.”

“No.” Celluci shook his head, remembering how he'd fallen into position by Henry Fitzroy's side on more than one occasion. “The little shit has a way of making you live up to his expectations.”

“Yeah, that's it exactly. He just expects.” Tony ripped his napkin into greasy squares before he continued. “Trouble is, sometimes he doesn't really see me in those expectations. I mean, he didn't choose for me to know about him, Vicki just kinda dumped me on him and he never really felt about me like he did about her.” Realizing who he was speaking to, he colored. “Sorry.”

“It's okay. I know how he felt.”
But it's my life she's a part of, not his
, his tone added smugly. “It seems to me, it's time for you to get out and find a life of your own.”

“I guess.” He lifted his head and met Celluci's eyes. “But how do you just leave someone like Henry?”

Vicki had the taxi drop her off in front of the Sylvia Hotel on English Bay. Her memory of the three nights with Henry in the vine-covered, Victorian building, learning to manipulate the world she was no longer a part of, was one of the few memories she had of her “childhood” in Vancouver not drenched in blood. She stood for a few moments in front of the building, remembering how Henry had taught her to survive, then she drew in a deep breath of night-scented air and walked the two blocks to Denman Street.

Bisecting the West End, running vaguely southwest to northeast, Denman was a lovely walking street—and that made it prime hunting territory.

The rain had stopped and well-lit sidewalk cafés, still glistening from the last shower, had filled. Vancouverites never let a little rain bother them—since it rained so frequently, there wasn't much point—and they were serious about their cafés. Scanning the crowds, Vicki noted certain similarities in the mix as the young and trendy rubbed elbows with the old and somehow still trendy, all dressed in what could only be called a sporty and health-conscious style—very unlike the Gothic punk so prevalent in trendy Toronto. In spite of the hour, everyone seemed to have an “I'm going roller blading/mountain biking/sea kayaking after I finish my cappuccino” look. In any other mood, Vicki might have found it amusing. Tonight, it pissed her off.

Denman
, she mused, glaring a pair of young men in chinos out of her way,
might have been a mistake.
She wanted something with an edge, something to definitively establish her presence in Henry's territory.
There's never a motorcycle gang around when you need one
.

Then she saw him.

He was sitting inside one of the cafés, alone, all his attention focused on the notebook in front of him. A slender shadow amid the surrounding proto-jocks, he looked disturbingly familiar.

He looked remarkably like Henry.

A closer examination proved the resemblance purely superficial. The clothes were black, the skin pale, but the blond hair was too long, and the face more angular than Tudor-curved. Were he standing, he'd probably be significantly taller.

Still . . .

When he glanced up, Vicki met his gaze through the glass, held it for a moment, then vanished into the night. Safely hidden in the darkness between two buildings, she watched the front of the café and smiled. She knew the kind of man he was. The kind who, against all urgings of common sense, wanted to believe there was something more. The kind who wanted to believe in mystery.

Wanted to believe, but didn't quite.

The door opened, and he stood on the sidewalk. Vicki could hear his heart pounding, and when he closed his eyes she knew he was searching for the moment they'd shared, searching for the mystery. An older man, with a strong Slavic accent and his arm across the back of a well-dressed woman, asked him to move away from the door. Visibly returning to reality, the young man apologized and started along Denman, a slightly rueful smile twisting his mouth, one hand trailing in the planters that separated the sidewalk café from the sidewalk proper.

Vicki allowed the Hunger to rise.

She followed the song of his blood at a safe distance until he started up the broad steps of a four-story, Victorian brownstone on Barclay Street. When he put his key in the lock, she moved out of the night, laid a hand on his shoulder, and turned him around. Somewhere, down in the depths of eyes almost as silver-gray as her own, he was expecting her.

He wanted to believe in mystery.

So she gave him a mystery to believe.

“Who do you think'll be back first?”

“Fitzroy.” Celluci surfed a few more channels, wondering why someone with Fitzroy's money didn't buy a better TV—from the looks of it, he'd spent a fortune on the stereo system. “It's Monday night, won't be much traffic in from the mountains, so he'll make good time.”

“He'll probably want to feed before he gets here, though. So that he's not overreacting to things.”

“Things meaning Vicki? Well, my guess is she's taken that into account. He's going to expect her to be here when he arrives, so she's not going to be—not even if she has to hide across the street and wait for him to drive up.” He flicked past three syndicated sitcoms, two of them from the seventies, an episode of classic
Trek
he'd seen a hundred times and the same football game on four channels. “Five hundred channels and four hundred and ninety-nine of them still show crap. What's this?”

Tony stuck his head out of the kitchen where he was cleaning up the debris from their meal. “Local talk show,” he said after watching for a moment. “The woman is Patricia Chou. She's really intense. One of my night school teachers says she does kamikaze reporting and thinks she's trying for a big enough story to get her a network job. At least half of City Council is terrified of her, and I heard she was willing to go to jail once to protect a source. I don't know who the old guy is.”