4 Blood Pact (35 page)

She nodded, head barely moving, the motion more intent than actuality, and twisted out from under Celluci’s hands. The shadows pressed against her, trying to undermine the precarious balance she maintained.
We’re going to find Henry. To do that, we’re going to confine him to one floor. So we’re going to shut the power off. Then we’re going to tear this place apart, one floor at a time. We’re going to find Henry. I will not fail him. Like I failed my mother.
As long as she clung to that, she could function. Let the shadows push as they would.

The air in the subbasement tasted of damp concrete and rust and disuse and the building itself—creaking, settling, hiding secrets—made more noise than both of them; although the sound of their breathing seemed to linger where they passed. The rooms to the right of the corridor were up against the outside wall and so every one of them had to be checked; the door opened, the light shone in, the potential horror realized. They’d found two small electrical substations with panels labeled “labs three” “labs four” and “lecture one” but hadn’t touched the breakers.
“All at once,
” Vicki had growled.
“So we don’t warn her.”

One door remained before the comer; one door, one room and they’d finished the north side of the building. Celluci checked his watch as they hurried toward it.
11:17? Is that all?
They still had over half the night. Not so long, he amended as he realized it was probably
all
the time they had.

A square shadow of darker paint at eyelevel, metal dimpling all four comers, indicated a missing sign. A security bar resting loosely over a steel eye suggested that the room had once held something worth guarding.

“This could be it.” Jerking the bar free, Vicki hauled the heavy door open. Stiff hinges shrilled a clichéd protest that scraped against the inside of her skull like nails on a blackboard. She gritted her teeth and scythed the flashlight beam across the darkness.

Something moved just beyond the edge of the light.

She froze. The circle of illumination froze with her.

Just past it, something moved again.

All she had to do was direct the flashlight less than a meter to the left. All she had to do . . .

The single, naked bulb hanging caged from the ceiling cut black silhouettes around a complex arrangement of pipes. About four feet off the ground, a humped brown body and naked tail disappeared down an impossibly narrow crevice.

Vicki remembered how to breathe. “Rat,” she said, because she had to say something.

“Or a mouse trying out for the Olympics,” Celluci allowed, his hand still covering the light switch. He wet his lips and tried to push his heart down out of his throat. “I’m beginning to think that finding her would be better than the constant fear that we will.”

Wiping at her streaming eyes, Vicki battled the knot in her stomach.
You will not puke!
she commanded herself, swallowing bile. After a moment, she lifted her head and muttered, “I’m beginning to think you’re right.” She jabbed her glasses back into place. “This is obviously the sprinkler room. Not what we’re looking for.”

Out in the hall, she paused and said, before he could follow, “Leave the light on.”

He caught up to her as she was about to check the first room on the west wall. Frowning, he squinted down the length of the corridor, attempting to isolate the sheen of polished metal that had caught his eye. “Vicki, there’s a padlock on that door down there.”

Vicki turned. The cone of light stretching out from her hand didn’t quite stretch far enough. Not only could she not see a lock, she only had Celluci’s word for it that there was a door.

“In my experience,” he continued, “you lock rooms you don’t want people to go into.”

“Or get out of,” Vicki added. “Come on.”

Unlike the entrance to the room they’d just left, this door retained its sign.
Danger. High Voltage. Keep out.

“Odds are good this is the electrical room.” Handing Celluci the flashlight—“Here. Hold this. I’m going to need both hands.”—Vicki rummaged her lockpicks out of her purse. “Keep it steady.” Dropping to one knee, she flicked open the case and drew out the two largest picks.

Her hands were shaking so violently, she couldn’t get either of them into the lock.

Her second attempt was no more successful.

On the third attempt, she dropped one of the probes. It bounced off her knee, chimed against the tile, and came to rest with the hooked end over the toe of Celluci’s shoe. Vicki stared down at it. Then she scowled at the remaining pick, so tightly gripped that her fingertips had gone white behind the nails, spun suddenly, and flung it down the hall.

“God
damn
it!”

She couldn’t stop her hands from shaking. There was no way she was going to be able to pick that lock.
So much for finding the fucking electrical room.
They were going to turn off the power. Prevent Henry from being moved from floor to floor. They were going to tear the building apart one floor at a time. They were going to find Henry. She had to hold onto that. It was all she had.
Except that it’s all falling apart!
She wanted to beat her head against the door and scream with fear and frustration.

As if he’d read her mind, Celluci reached out and cupped her chin, gently drawing her around to face him. “Let me try.”

Not trusting herself to speak, she nodded and stood, holding out the remaining picks.

“No. Not quite my style.” Passing her back the flashlight, he added, “Wait here.”

He disappeared before she could object and for one terrifying moment it seemed that the darkness had devoured him. By the time she’d swung the light around, he’d gone beyond its range. All at once, with a familiar squeal of metal, the far end of the hall leapt, if not into focus, at least into sight.

A moment later, not bothering to close the door behind him, he came back around the corner, both hands holding. . .

. . .
a length of pipe?

She moved out of his way as he returned, jammed one end of the pipe down through the loop of the padlock and braced it against the metal covering the door. Taking a deep breath, he threw his weight against the other end.

The pipe bit into the door, metal buckling.

Face darkening, Celluci growled an inarticulate challenge, grateful for a place to finally throw all the terror-produced adrenaline of the night.

The security bar slowly bowed.

“Mike? . . .”

“Not. Now.”

Bit by bit the screws dragged free.

“Just. A little. Fur. . .”

The sudden surrender flung him backward as the entire assembly crashed to the floor. He staggered, nearly fell, and leaned panting on the pipe.

Vicki stepped forward and retrieved her fallen lockpick from under the mess. “Obviously, your break-and-enter specialist was a little more direct than mine,” she muttered dryly.

Celluci gulped for air. “Obviously.”

Caught by the sheer normalcy of the exchange, they stared at one another for a moment, then Vicki’s mouth curved into almost a smile as she reached up and pushed the curl of hair back off his forehead. “Well, then,” she stretched the words out, feeling some of the desperation go with them, “let’s hear it for testosterone.”

Celluci snorted, straightened, and let the pipe drop. “Personally, I’m amazed you didn’t pull a package of plastique out of that suitcase you carry.” Shoving the junked security bar out of the way, he pulled open the door and fumbled around the comer for the light.

They’d definitely found the electrical room.

And something else.

“Vicki . . .”

She struggled for command of her voice. “I see it.”

 

The bloodscent drew him out of the pit where exhaustion had flung him and threw the Hunger loose again.

 

Someone, something, was banging on the inside of the box.

“Henry?” Vicki called, one foot moving in front of the other through no conscious decision she could remember.

There was no answer—only the continued banging.

She couldn’t call for the other. In case there was an answer.

“Vicki, let me . . .”

“No. This is something
I
have to do.”

“Of course it is,” Celluci growled, fighting the paralysis that the sight of the stainless steel box invoked and moving up behind her left shoulder.
Goddamnit, Vicki, why can’t you turn and run? So I can turn and run.

She watched her reflection grow larger as she approached. The closer she got, the more distance her mind insisted on until, not quite touching the box, she stopped, stared into her own eyes, and straightened her glasses feeling as though the whole experience had slid out of reality.

I don’t even watch horror movies,
she told herself.
What the hell am I doing starring in one?

She watched her arm come up, her hand cover the latch, her fingers twist slightly sideways. . . .

The lid flew open, slapping her hand aside.

She caught a glimpse of a pale face under red-gold hair. Then, before she could react, something black and heavy swooped down upon her and she stumbled back, blind. Cold and clammy, it wrapped tightly around her head and draped over her shoulders with obscene familiarity. Her throat pumping out shrill sounds of incoherent terror, she tore at it in panicked frenzy.

Finally, as terror began to pick up some of the shading of rage, she wrenched it loose and flung it to the floor. Her glasses, secured over only one ear, began to fall, and the greater fear their loss roused brought her back to sanity as she shoved them back into place.

At her feet lay a pile of black leather.

Henry’s trench coat.

All at once, as if recognition had thrown a switch, she became aware of snarling, cursing, and the impact of flesh on flesh. Looping the strap of her bag over her wrist—it was the only weapon she had—she whirled in time to see Celluci get a leg between his body and Henry’s and use it to fling the smaller man across the room.

Naked to the waist, Henry’s torso gleamed like alabaster, amethyst bruises marking the inside of both arms. He used the momentum of the blow to roll up onto his feet and, snarling, charged again.

Celluci grunted under the impact and slammed his elbow into the side of Henry’s head—to no apparent effect.

Once or twice over the last year, Vicki had been given a glimpse of what lay behind the mask of civilization Henry wore. Had—even while cold sweat beaded her skin and common sense screamed “Run!”—been aroused by so much deadly power so lightly held in control.

He had warned her once,
“The beast is much closer to the surface in my kind.”

The beast was loose.

 

Celluci had barely registered that the box was open when he found himself flat on his back and fighting for his life. He’d hit the floor with Henry Fitzroy’s hands around his throat and had only survived those first few seconds because one hand, swollen and nearly useless, had not been able to maintain its grip.

With his left forearm shoved up under Fitzroy’s chin and his right hand trying to rip the crushing fingers from his windpipe, Celluci had a sudden, unavoidable epiphany about vampires.

He’d caught a glimpse of the reality last August when Mark Williams had died, but that had been easy to bury in the tangled mix of reaction that Henry evoked. Even through his jealousy, he’d recognized and responded to Fitzroy’s personal power. Respect had been inevitable when stopping Anwar Tawfik had thrown them together. Other emotions, less easily defined, had been, for the most part, ignored.

Now, it all distilled down to survival.

He’s stronger. Faster.
The frenzy of the attack gave him an opening. Hooking his foot into the top of Fitzroy’s pelvis, Celluci heaved the smaller man across the room. Less than a heartbeat later, the vampire charged him again.

“Fuck!”

Nails gouged into his cheek. He knew the skin had been broken by the intensity of Fitzroy’s response. Frantically twisting his head to one side, he heard teeth snap beside his ear.
I never noticed his fucking teeth were so god-damned long!

This isn’t something they did to him. He’s after the blood!
Emotional response insisted she throw herself into the battle, ripping Henry off Celluci’s throat. A more visceral reaction suggested she run for her life. She stomped down hard on both and stood trembling where she was.
Goddamnit, Vicki, think! Remember what he’s told you!

He’d talked about his desire to feed like it was a force separate from the rest of him—a force over which he had to exert a certain amount of conscious control.

All right. He’s lost control. He’s hungry.
It wasn’t a difficult deduction; his need was a tangible presence, beating against the walls of the small room.
Those bastards have probably been drawing blood for tests all day. Blood’s all Henry has. He has to replace it. He’ll rip Mike’s throat out to get to it.