1 Blood Price (23 page)

“Yes, Sarge.” If anyone else had been on duty, she probably wouldn’t have been able to manage it without pulling in favors from higher up.

“And we both know that you’re blatantly trading on the reputation you built as a hotshot miracle worker to get around those regs.”

“Yes, Sarge.” Iljohn had been the first to recommend her for an advanced promotion and had seen her arrest record as proof of his assessment. When she’d left the force, he’d called her, grilled her on her plans, and practically commanded her to make something of her life. He hadn’t exactly been supportive, but his brusque goodwill had been something to lean on when Mike Celluci had accused her of running away.

“And if I catch shit over this, I’m going to tell them you used the unarmed combat you private investigators are supposed to be so damned good at to overpower me and you read the reports over my bleeding body.”

“Should I slap you around a little?” Although he stood barely over minimum height for the force, rumor had it that Stanley Iljohn had never lost a fight. With anything.

“Don’t be a smart ass.”

“Sorry, Sarge.”

He tapped one square finger against the clipboard lying on his desk and his face grew solemn. “Do you really think you can do something about this?” he asked.

Vicki nodded. “Right now,” she told him levelly, “I have a better chance than anyone in the city.”

Iljohn stared at her for a long moment. “I can draw lines on a map, too,” he said at last. “And when you line up the first six deaths, x marks the spot just north of here. Every cop at this station is watching for something strange, something that’ll mark the killer, and you can bet these reports,” a short, choppy wave indicated the occurrence reports of the last couple of weeks which were hanging on the wall by the desk, “have been gone through with several fine toothed combs. Gone through by everyone here and by the boys and girls from your old playground.”

“But not by me.”

He nodded acknowledgment. “Not by you.” His palm slapped down on the papers on his desk. “This last death, this was in my territory and I’m taking it personally. If you know something you’re not telling, spit it out now.”

She looked him right in the eye, and lied.

“Everything I know, I’ve told Mike Celluci. He’s in charge of the case. I just think it’ll help if I look myself.”

Iljohn’s eyes narrowed. She could tell he didn’t believe her. Not completely.

Slowly, after a moment that stretched into all the time they’d ever worked together, he pushed the clipboard across the desk. “I want this to be the last death,” he growled.

Not as much as I do
, Vicki thought.

How many deaths in a demon’s name?

She bent her head to read.

 

“Victims one and seven were both students at York University. Not much of a connection to base an investigation on.”

Celluci sighed. “Vicki, at this point I’d base an investigation on ties a lot more tenuous. Did you call to give me a hard time or did you have something constructive to say?”

Vicki twisted the phone cord around her fingers. Late in the afternoon, arriving at 52 Division, her search had actually turned something up. One of the uniforms coming in off shift change had overheard her talking to the duty sergeant about unusual cases and had filled her in on one he’d taken the call for. Trouble was, she couldn’t figure out how to present the information to Celluci. “So you’ll be concentrating the search at York?” she asked instead.

He sighed again. “Yeah. For now. Why?”

She took a deep breath. There really wasn’t an easy way to do this. “Don’t ask me how I know, because you wouldn’t believe me, but there’s a very good chance the person you’re looking for will be wearing a black leather jacket. A nine hundred dollar black leather jacket.”

“Jesus Christ, Vicki! It’s a university. Half the fucking people there will be in black leather jackets.”

“Not like this one. I’ve got a full description for you.”

“And where did you get it? Out of a fortune cookie?”

Vicki opened her mouth then closed it again. This was just too complicated. “I can’t tell you,” she said at last. “I’d be compromising my sources.”

“You hold back information on me, Vicki, and I’ll compromise sources you never knew you had!”

“Listen, asshole, you can choose to believe me or not, but don’t you dare threaten me!” She spit out the description of the jacket and slammed the receiver down. All right. She’d done her duty by telling the police what she knew. Fine. They could act on it or not. And Mike Celluci could go straight to hell.

Except that was what she was desperately trying to prevent.

Grinding her teeth in frustration, she kicked a kitchen chair into the living room and, panting slightly, stood looking down at the twisted piece of furniture.

“Life used to be a lot simpler,” she told it, sighed, and went back to the phone. York University was the only connection they had and Coreen Fergus was a student there. She probably wouldn’t be able to help-Celluci was right, the irritating s.o.b., finding one leather jacket on campus would be like finding one honest politician—but it certainly couldn’t hurt to check.

“Coreen Fergus, please.”

“I’m sorry, but Coreen’s not in right now. Can I take a message?”

“Do you know when she’ll be back?”

“ ’Fraid not. She left this morning to stay with friends for a few days.”

“Is she all right?” If that child had gotten herself hurt going up to some strange man’s apartment. . . .

“Well, she’s a little shook; she was like really good friends with the girl whose body they found last night.”

Bad enough, coming so soon after Ian, but thank God that was all it was. “When she comes home, could you tell her Vicki Nelson called?”

“Sure thing. That all?”

“That’s all.”

And that was all, unless Henry had come up with something concrete.

 

“This one, this one, or this one.” Henry looked from the map to the page of symbols.

“Can you find the next point in the pattern?” Vicki bent over the table, as far away as possible from the grimoire. She hesitated to say the ancient book exuded an aura of evil—that sounded so horror novel cliché—but she noticed that even Henry touched it as infrequently as possible.

Henry, busy with protractor and ruler, laughed humorlessly. “The next three points in three possible patterns,” he pointed out.

“Great.” Vicki straightened and shoved her glasses up her nose. “More complications. Where do we do first?”

“Where do I go first,” Henry corrected absently. He straightened as well, rubbing his temples. The bright light that Vicki seemed to need to function was giving him a headache. “It had better be this area here.” He tapped the map just east of the Humber River between Lawrence and Eglinton Avenues. “This pattern continues the least complicated of the three. Theoretically, it will be the first finished.”

“Theoretically?”

Henry shrugged. “This is demon lore. There aren’t any cut and dried answers. Experts in the field tend to die young.”

Vicki took a deep breath and let it out slowly. There were
never
any cut and dried answers. She should know that by now. “So you’ve never actually done this sort of thing before.”

“Not actually, no. ‘This sort of thing’ doesn’t happen very often.”

“Then if you don’t mind my asking,” she flicked a finger at the grimoire, still carefully keeping her distance, “why do you own one of these?”

Henry looked down at the book although Vicki could tell from his expression he wasn’t really seeing it. “I took it from a madman,” he said harshly. “And I don’t wish to speak of it now. ”

“All right.” Vicki fought the urge to back away from the raw anger in Henry’s voice. “You don’t have to. It’s okay.”

With an effort, he put the memory aside and managed what he hoped was a conciliatory smile. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to frighten you.”

She stiffened. “You didn’t.”

The smile grew more genuine. “Good.”

Well aware she was being humored, Vicki cleared her throat and changed the subject. “You said the other night we had no way of knowing if these were all the demonic names.”

“That’s right.” He’d been trying not to think of that.

“So these deaths might be spelling out a name that’s not in the book.”

“Right again.”

“Shit.” Arms wrapped around herself, Vicki walked over to the window and rested her forehead against the cool glass. The points of light below, all she could see of the city, looked cold and mocking. A thousand demonic eyes in the darkness. “What are we supposed to do about it?”

“Exactly what we are doing.” It could have been a rhetorical question, but sometimes Henry felt even they needed answering and he wanted to give her what comfort he could. “And we hope and we pray and we don’t give up.”

Vicki’s head rose and she turned to face him. “I never give up,” she said testily.

He smiled. “I never thought you did.”

He really does have a phenomenal smile,
Vicki thought, appreciating the way his eyes crinkled at the comers. She felt her own lips begin to curl in answer and gave herself a mental shake, forcing her face to give no indication of a sudden strong wave of desire.
Four hundred and fifty years of practice, a body in its mid-twenties, supernatural prowess. . . .

Henry heard her heart speed up and his sensitive nose caught a new scent. He hadn’t fed for forty-eight hours and he would need to soon.
If she wants me, it would be foolish to deny her. . . .
Having long since outgrown the need to prove himself by forcing the issue—he knew he could take what he wanted—he would allow her to make the first move.
And what of vows to stay uninvolved until after the demon has been dealt with?
Well, some vows were made to be broken.

Her heartbeat began to slow and, while he applauded her control, he didn’t bother to hide his disappointment.

“So.” The word caught and Vicki cleared her throat.
This is ridiculous.
I’m thirty-one years old.
I’m not seventeen.
“I learned a few things up at 31 Division that might have some bearing on the case.”

“Oh?” Henry raised a red-gold brow and perched on the edge of the table.

Vicki, who would have given her front teeth to be able to raise a single brow without her entire forehead getting involved, frowned at the picture he made. To give him credit, she didn’t think he was aware of how the light from the chandelier burnished his hair, and how the position stretched the brown corduroy pants he wore tight over muscular thighs. With an effort, she got her mind back on track. This was
not
the time for that sort of thing; whatever sort of thing it might end up to be later on. “Several people, mostly employees of the local MacDonald’s, reported a foul smell lingering around the parking lot at the Jane-Finch Mall. Sulfur and rotting meat. The gas company sent someone around, but they found no leaks.”

“The demon?” Henry bent over the map, trying to ignore his growing hunger. It was difficult with her so close and physically, at least, so willing. “But the body was found. . . .”

“There’s more. Someone reported a bear running along the shoulder of Jane Street. The police didn’t bother investigating because the caller said he’d only caught a glimpse of it as it passed his car doing about a hundred kilometers an hour.”

“The demon.” This time it wasn’t a question.

Vicki nodded. “Odds are good.” She returned to the table and the map. “My best guess is that it picked up the body here and carried it over here to kill it. Why? There had to be people closer.”

“Perhaps this time it was told who to kill.”

“I was afraid you were going to say that.”

“It’s the only logical answer,” Henry said, standing. “But look at the bright side.”

“There is no bright side,” Vicki snarled. She’d finished her day with the coroner’s report.

“At the risk of sounding like a Pollyanna,” Henry told her dryly, “there’s always a bright side. Or at least a side that’s less dark. If the demon was instructed to kill this young woman, perhaps the police can find the link between her and its master.”

“And if it was just indulging in demonic perversity?”

“Then we’re no farther behind than we were. Now, if you’ll excuse me, with the timetable shattered, I’d better get out to the Humber in case the demon is recalled tonight.”

At the door, Vicki stopped, a sudden horrific thought bleaching the color from her face. “What’s stopping this thing from showing up inside someone’s house? Where you can’t see it? Where you can’t stop it?”

“Demons,” Henry told her, smiling reassuringly as he secured the belt of his trenchcoat, “are unable to enter a mortal’s home unless expressly invited.”

“I thought that referred to vampires?”

With one hand in the small of her back, Henry moved her firmly out into the hall. “Mr. Stoker,” he said, as he locked the door to the condo, “was indulging in wishful thinking.”

 

Henry leaned against the cemetery fence and looked out over the small collection of quiet graves. They were old stone slabs for the most part, a uniform size and a uniform age. The few marble monuments looked pretentious and out of place.

To the west, the cemetery butted against the Humber River park system, and the muttering of the swollen river filled the night with sound. To the north lay residential areas. To the east and south, vacant land. He wondered if the cemetery had something to do with the lack of development. Even in an age of science, the dead were often considered bad neighbors. Henry couldn’t understand why; the dead never played Twisted Sister at 130 decibels at three in the morning.