4 Blood Pact (34 page)

As the fear faded, anger rose to take its place.

All at once, the dead man’s eyes widened and just for an instant his expression changed to one of incredulous joy.

Then his face held no expression at all.

Vicki released a breath she didn’t remember holding. “You see that?”

“Yeah.”

“Any doubts that we did the right thing?”

“Not one.”

Together they reached up and pulled the lid closed.

 

Alone in the dark, Henry wondered how much of the night he had left. Surely he’d endured a dozen hours or more since sunset.
Why can’t I feel
the dawn?
With the Hunger clawing for freedom and steel wrapped about him like a shroud, he yearned for oblivion even as he dreaded it.

He’d run through all the moments of Vicki he had.
Unfair that a year slips through memory so fast
. While some of what they’d shared had added to the Hunger, most had helped to force it back. Vicki had given him her life, not just her body and blood. Had forged friendship out of circumstance. Had helped him when he needed it. Had come to him for help. Had trusted him. Been trusted in return.

Passion. Friendship. Need. Trust.

Together, love
. Considered in that light, he supposed it wasn’t actually necessary for Vicki to say she loved him.
Although it would have been good to hear. . . .

He tried to remember how many times he had heard the words. A hundred voices cried out; women’s voices, men’s voices—he quieted them all, searching the past for the glint of gold among the dross. A thousand nights slipped by, a hundred thousand, and out of all the shared passion and friendship and need there were only four, three women and a man, with whom there had also been trust enough for love.

“Ginevra. Gustav. Sidonie. Beth.” He murmured their names into the darkness. So many others he’d let go of, forgotten, but those he still held. “Only four in all those years. . . .”

Two had been taken from him by violence, one by accident, one by time.

He could feel the melancholy gathering into a tangible presence, threatening to crush him under its weight.

“Vicki.” A fifth name. A living name. “And as they say . . .” Although he knew it would do no good, Henry pressed his uninjured hand up against the lid as hard as exhaustion and pain allowed. “. . . where there’s life, there’s hope.”

Muscles strained, the darkness developed a reddish hue, then the arm collapsed down across his chest and he was nearly deafened by the sound of his heart slamming up against his ribs. He had no idea what he’d been trying to prove.

One last effort for the sake of love?
He shifted slightly, changing his position as much as he could, the plastic padding beneath him tugging at the bare skin of his back.
At least this time I won’t be the one left behind to mourn.

Melancholy turned to despair and closed icy fingers around him.

It would be so easy to surrender.

He was too tired. It just wasn’t enough anymore.

Christina had come. She had birthed him from the darkness, nourished him, guarded him, taught him, and finally let him go.

“And that,” he told the darkness as despair’s grip tightened, “is not helping.” Surely there were pleasanter times to use as weapons against the knowledge that he was trapped, and alone. . . .

“No. There have been prisons and prisoners before,” he snarled. “I can survive it.”

You can survive the nights,
despair whispered
, but what of the days? So much blood has been taken. How much more will they take? How much more can you lose and still have a night to return to? What else will they do that you will be unable to prevent?

Lips drawn back from his teeth, Henry tried to twist away from the voice. It surrounded him, sounded within him, echoed against the metal that enclosed him. “Vicki . . .”

“NO!”

He released his hold on the Hunger and let the Beast take him as it clawed its way free.

It was all he had left to fight with.

 

“As long as these are working, we have no guarantee that she’s going to leave Henry in one place.” Vicki squinted in the brightly lit interior of the elevator and switched off her flashlight. “She can keep rolling him around this building with us two steps behind like some kind of bad Marx Brothers movie.”

“So we jam them?” Celluci asked, stepping over the threshold and matching his companion’s don’t-fuck-with-me tone. That either of them was still functioning at all, he considered to be some sort of miracle.
Let’s hear it for the human animal’s ability to cope.

Vicki shook her head and hit the button for the subbasement with enough force to nearly crack the plastic cover. “Not good enough. The elevators are in opposite ends of the building. She can unjam them as fast as we can jam them. We’re going to shut them off.”

“How?”

“By shutting off the power supply to the building.”

“I repeat, how?”

Vicki turned to stare at him through narrowed eyes. “How the hell should I know? Do I look like an electrician? We’ll find the electrical room and pull the plug.”

“Metaphorically speaking.”

“Don’t give me any of your fucking attitude, Celluci.”

“My attitude? Nelson, you’ve got one hell of a nerve.”

“Nerve!”

“You want attitude?”

Their voice overlapped, the sound slamming up against the confining walls and crashing back. Words got tangled in the noise and were stripped of meaning. Toe to toe, they stood and screamed invective at each other.

The elevator reached the subbasement. Stopped. The door opened.

“. . . patronizing asshole!”

The echoes changed. The words shot into the darkness and didn’t come back.

They realized it together and together fell silent.

Vicki was trembling so violently, she wasn’t sure she could stand. Her legs felt like cooked pasta and there was a metal band wrapped so tightly around her throat that breathing hurt and swallowing was impossible. Her glasses had slid so far down her nose they were almost useless. She peered over them, through the tunnel the disease had pared her vision down to, and tried to focus on the face just inches from her own. Her hand came up to push them back into place but instead continued moving until it brushed the curl of hair off Celluci’s forehead. She heard him sigh.

Slowly, he raised his arm and, with one finger against the bridge, slid her glasses back into place. “We okay?”

His breath was warm against her cheek. She nodded jerkily and stepped back, out of the range of that comfort.

“What about the tracks?” he asked.

She switched on her flashlight and walked out into the subbasement, a little amazed her legs would obey even such basic commands. “We look for tracks
after
we immobilize Catherine.”

Celluci paused for a moment on the threshold of the elevator, his presence preventing the door from closing. “We turn off the power to the building,” he said, “and we’ll turn off any other experiments she might be running.”

Vicki stopped and half turned to face him. “Yes.”

He recognized the raw anger that spit the word out. Recognized it because he felt it himself. It had nothing to do with the contest in vitriol they’d held in the elevator—that had been nothing more than tension given voice—and everything to do with the horror they’d found in the lab. He wanted to find whoever had been responsible, take them by the throat and. . . Words didn’t exist for what he wanted to do.

Over the last week, layer after layer of Vicki’s control, of her protection, had been stripped away. He was afraid there was nothing left to keep her anger from being acted on.

He was afraid that if they found Henry the way they’d found Donald Li, she’d go right over the edge and he wouldn’t be able to stop her.

He was more afraid that he wouldn’t even try.

 

On the second floor, in a utility cupboard that shared a wall with the elevator shaft, Marjory Nelson worked the muscles of her face into the closest she could come to a frown. She heard voices.

Voices.

Voice.

She knew that voice.

She had been told to stay. It was one of the commands enforced by the neural net. One of the commands that had worn a rutted passage into memory.

Stay
.

Trembling, she stood. . .

. . .shuffled toward the door. . .

. . . opened it and lurched out into the hall.

There was something she had to do.

“Radio room. Constable Kushner.”

“This the police. . . stashun?”

“Yes, ma’am, it is.”

Dr. Burke took a deep breath and, enunciating very carefully, said, “I’d like to speak to De-tective Fergusson, plead. . . please.”

“I’ll put you through to homicide.”

“You do that.” Eyes nearly closed, Dr. Burke sagged against the receiver.

“Homicide. Detective Brunswick.”

“Right. De-tective Fer-gusson, please.”

“Detective Fergusson’s not here right now, can I help?”

“Not here?” She pivoted the receiver around on her mouth, just far enough so she could glare blearily at it. “Whadda you mean, not here?”

By the time she remembered that the other half had to stay against her ear, she’d missed the first part of Detective Brunswick’s reply. “. . . but can I take a message?”

“A meshage?” Sipping at her Scotch, she took a moment to think about it. “Well, I was gonna . . . confesh. Theories say confeshun is necess . . . ary. But if he’s not. . . there, maybe I won’t.”

Detective Brunswick’s voice picked up a distinct, let’s-humor-the-crazy-person inflection. “If you give me your name, I can tell him you called.”

Heaving herself more-or-less erect in the chair, Dr. Burke declared in ringing tones,
“I
am the Director of. . . Life Sciencesh. He knows who I am. Everyone knows. . . who
I
am.” Then she hung up.

“So much. . . for tha.” She pulled Donald’s jacket off the desk and onto her lap. “I really feel. . . awful’bout thish, Donald. I’m gonna make it up. . . to you. You’ll see.” An idea somehow forced its way through a bottle and a half of single malt. “You know, if the iso-lation box is running then the re-frigeration is running and you’re prob-ly cold.” With a desperate grip wrapped around the arm of her chair, she managed to get to her feet. “If you’re cold, you’re gonna want your jacket.” Finishing the mouthful of Scotch in the mug nearly knocked her over. She swayed, steadied, and started for the door. “I’m gonna take you your . . . jacket.”

Somewhere, far behind the layers of insulation provided by the alcohol, a terrified voice shrieked,
“No!”

Dr. Burke ignored it.

 

“How many electrical rooms can one lousy building have?” Breathing heavily, Vicki backed out into the hall, trying to shine her flashlight in all directions at once. Her voice scraped across her teeth in a strained whisper. “Every time we open a door, I expect to see my mother behind it.”

Celluci reached out and closed one hand over her shoulder, the other catching her wrist and directing the beam of light away from his eyes. The last thing they needed was for both of them to be wandering around blind. “Let
me
open the doors,” he suggested quietly, turning her to face him.

“No.” She shook her head. “You don’t understand. She’s
my
mother.”

“Vicki . . .” Then he sighed because there really wasn’t anything he could say that would change things and if the thought of opening a door and finding Marjory Nelson staring at them out of a corpse’s eyes had him scared spitless, God only knew what it was doing to Vicki. Donald Li had been bad enough, but Marjory Nelson was, as Dr. Burke had so kindly reminded them, up and walking. Up and walking and dead. But if Vicki had the guts to face it, he’d face it beside her. Besides, as much as he might wish that Henry Fitzroy had never appeared on the scene, he couldn’t abandon him to the kind of living death that Donald had been trapped in. “Let’s shut that power off, find Fitzroy, and get out of here.”