1 Blood Price (9 page)

Henry handed the young man seated just inside the door a twenty. “What’s on for tonight?” He didn’t quite have to yell to make himself heard over the music but, then, the night was young.

“The usual.” Three rolls of tickets were pulled from the cavernous left pocket of the oversized suit jacket while the money slid into the right. A number of after-hours clubs had been switching to tickets so that if, or more likely when, they were busted they could argue that they hadn’t been selling drinks. Just tickets.

“Guess it’ll have to be a usual, then.”

“Right. Two trendy waters.” The pair of tickets changed hands. “You know, Henry, you’re paying a hell of a lot for piss and bubbles.”

Henry grinned down at him and swept an arm around the loft. “I’m paying for the ambience, Thomas.”

“Ambience my ass,” Thomas snorted genially. “Hey, I just remembered, Alex got a case of halfway decent burgundy. . . .”

It wouldn’t have taken a stronger man than Henry Fitzroy to resist. “No thanks, Thomas, I don’t drink . . . wine.” He turned to face the room and, just for a moment, saw another gathering.

Then the heavy metal beat of Anthrax drove “Greensleeves” back into the past. The velvet and jewels spun away into black leather, paste, and plastic. The brittle gaiety now covered ennui alone. Henry supposed it was an improvement.

I should be on the street,
he thought, making his way to the kitchen/bar, brushing past discussions of the recent killings and the creatures they had been attributed to.
I will not find the child up here.
. . . But the child hadn’t fed since Tuesday night and so perhaps had passed through the frenzy and moved to the next part of its metamorphosis.
But the parent. . .
. His hands clenched into fists, the right pulling painfully against the bandage and the blisters beneath it.
The parent must still be found.
That he could do up here. Twice before in Alex’s loft he had tasted another predator in the air. Then, he had let it go, the blood scent of so many people made tracking a competitor a waste of time. Tonight, if it happened again, he would waste the time.

Suddenly, he noticed that a path was opening before him as he made his way across the crowded room and he hastily schooled his expression. The men and women gathered here, with faces painted and precious metals dangling, were still close enough to their primitive beginnings to recognize a hunter walking among them.

That’s three times now; the guard, the sun, and this. You’ll bring the stakes down on yourself if you’re not more careful, you fool.
What was the matter with him lately?

“Hey, Henry, long time since you bin by.” Alex, the owner of the loft wrapped a long, bare arm around Henry’s shoulders, shoved an open bottle of water into his hand, and steered him deftly away from the bar. “I got someone who needs to see you, mon.”

“Someone who
needs
to see me?” Henry allowed himself to be steered. It was the way most people dealt with Alex, resistance just took too much energy. “Who?”

Alex grinned down from his six-foot-four vantage point and winked broadly. “Ah, now, that would be tellin’. Whach you do to your hand?”

Henry glanced down at the bandage. Even in the dim light of the studio it seemed to glow against the black leather of his cuff. “Burned myself.”

“Burns is bad stuff, mon. Were you cookin’?”

“You could say that.” His lips twitched although he sternly told himself it wasn’t funny.

“What’s the joke?”

“It’d take too long to explain. How about you explaining something to me?”

“You ahsk, mon. I answer.”

“Why the fake Jamaican accent?”

“Fake?” Alex’s voice rose above the music and a half a dozen people ducked as he windmilled his free arm. “Fake? There’s nothing fake about this accent, mon. I’m gettin’ back to my roots.”

“Alex, you’re from Halifax.”

“I got deeper roots than that, you betcha.” He gave the shorter man a push forward and, dropping the accent, added, “Here you go, shrimp, delivered as ordered.”

The woman sitting on the steps to Alex’s locked studio stood considerably shorter even than Henry’s five six. Her lack of height, combined with baggy jeans and an oversized sweater, gave her a waiflike quality completely at odds with the cropped platinum hair and the intensity of her expression.

Sliding out from Alex’s arm, Henry executed a perfect sixteenth century court bow—not that anyone in the room could identify it as such. “Isabelle,” he intoned gravely.

Isabelle snorted, reached out, grabbed his lapels, and yanked his mouth against hers.

Henry returned the kiss enthusiastically, skillfully parrying her tongue away from the sharp points of his teeth. He hadn’t been certain he was going to feed tonight. He was certain now.

“Well, if you two are going to indulge in such rampant heterosexuality, in
my
house yet, I’m going.” With an exaggerated limp-wristed wave, Alex sashayed off into the crowd.

“He’ll change personalities again before he gets to the door,” Henry observed settling himself on the step. The length of their thighs touched and he could feel his hunger growing.

“Alex has more masks than anyone I know,” Isabelle agreed, retrieving her beer bottle and picking at the label.

Henry stroked one finger along the curve of her brow. It had been bleached near white to match her hair. “We all wear masks.”

Isabelle raised the brow out from under his finger. “How profound. And do we all unmask at midnight?”

“No.” He couldn’t stop the melancholy from sounding in his voice as he realized the source of his recent discontent. It had been so long, so very long, since he’d been able to trust someone with the reality of what he was and all that meant. So long since he’d been able to find a mortal he could build a bond with based on more than sex and blood. And that a child could be created out of the deepest bond that vampire and mortal could share, then abandoned, sharpened his loneliness to a cutting edge.

He felt Isabelle’s hand stroke his cheek, saw the puzzled compassion on her face, and with an inward curse realized his mask had slipped for the second time that night. If he didn’t find someone who could accept him soon, he feared the choice would be taken from him, his need exposing him whether he willed it or not.

“So,” with an effort, he brought himself back to the moment, “how was the gig?”

“It was March. It was Sudbury.” She shrugged, returning to the moment with him, if that was how he wanted it. “Not much else to add.”

If you can’t share the reality, there are worse things than having someone to share the masks.
His gaze dropped to a faint line of blue disappearing beneath the edge of her sweater and the thought of the blood moving so close beneath the surface quickened his breath. It was hunger, not lust, but he supposed in the end they were much the same thing. “How long will you be in town?”

“Only tonight and tomorrow.”

“Then we shouldn’t waste the time we have.”

She twined her fingers in his. carefully ignoring the bandage, and pulled him with her as she stood. “I thought you’d never ask.”

Saturday night, at 11:15, Norman realized he was out of charcoal for the hibachi and the only local store he’d been able to find it in had closed at nine. He considered substitutions and then decided he’d better not mess with a system that worked.

Saturday night passed quietly.

Sunday night. . . .

“Damn. Damn! DAMN!”

Mrs. Kopolous clicked her tongue and frowned. Not at Vicki’s profanity, as she might have on any other day, but at the headline of the tabloid now lying on her counter.

“VAMPIRE KILLS STUDENT; Young man found drained in York Mills.”

“Good God, would you look at old Norman.”

“Why?” Roger pulled his head out of his locker and turned around. He could feel his jaw quite literally drop. “ ‘Good God’ doesn’t quite cover it, my man. I wish Bill were here to see this.”

“Where is he?”

Roger shrugged, not taking his eyes from the sartorial splendor of Norman Birdwell. “Beats me. But he’ll shit if he misses this.”

Norman, conscious of eyes upon him, threw a bit more of a swagger into his walk. The chain hanging from his new black leather jacket chimed softly against the small of his back. He squinted down at the sterling silver toe caps on his authentic style cowboy boots and wondered if maybe he shouldn’t have gotten spurs as well. His new black jeans, tighter than he’d ever worn before, made an almost smug shik shik sound as the inseams rubbed together.

He’d shown them. Thought he wasn’t cool, did they? Thought he was some kind of a nerd, did they? Well, they’d be thinking differently now. Norman’s chin went up. They wanted cool? He’d show them
cold.
Tonight he was going to ask for a red Porsche. He’d learn to drive later.

“What the hell is that?”

Roger grinned. “Now aren’t you glad you weren’t any later?” he asked, shoving a friendly elbow into Bill’s ribs. “Kinda takes your breath away, doesn’t it?”

“If you mean it makes me want to gag, you’re close.” Bill sagged against his locker and shook his head. “How the hell is he paying for all of that?”

“So go ask him.”

“Why not. . . .” Bill straightened and stepped away from his locker just as Norman passed by.

Norman saw him, allowed their eyes to meet for a second, then moved on, chortling silently to himself,
“Ha! Snubbed you. Let’s see how you like it.”

The question of payment dead in his mouth, Bill stood staring until Roger moved up beside him and slugged him in the arm.

“Hey, what’s wrong?”

Bill shook his head. “There’s something different about Birdwell.”

Roger snorted. “Yeah, new threads and an attitude. But underneath he’s the same old Norman the Nerd.”

“Yeah, I guess you’re right.” But he wasn’t. And it wasn’t something Bill could explain. He felt as though he’d reached under the bed and something rotten had squished through his fingers—a normal, everyday action gone horribly awry.

Norman, aware he’d made an impression—Norman, who in a fit of pique had decided he didn’t care if a stranger had to die—Norman strutted on.

“Victoria Nelson?”

“Yes?” Vicki peered down at the young woman—
girl, really, if she’s out of her teens it’s by hours only
—standing outside her apartment door. “If you’re selling something. . . .”