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One

Ian shoved his hands deep in his pockets and scowled down the length of the empty subway platform. His hands were freezing, he was in a bitch of a bad mood, and he had no idea why he'd agreed to meet Coreen at her apartment. All things considered, neutral ground might have been a better idea. He shifted his scowl to the LED clock hanging from the ceiling. 12:17. Thirteen minutes to get from Eglinton West to Wilson Station, six blocks worth of bus ride, and then a three block run to Coreen's. It couldn't be done.

I'm going to be late. She's going to be pissed. And there goes our chance to make up. He sighed. It had taken two hours of arguing on the phone to get her to agree to a meeting. Maintaining a relationship with Coreen might be time-consuming, but it sure as hell wasn't boring. Lord, but the woman had a temper. . . . His lips curled up into a smile almost without him willing the motion; the flip side of that temper made all the effort of staying on the roller coaster worthwhile. The smile broadened. Coreen packed a lot of punch for a woman barely five foot two.

He glanced up at the clock again.

Where the hell was the train?

12:20.

Be there by 12:30 or forget it, she'd said, completely ignoring the fact that on Sunday the Toronto Transit Commission, the ubiquitous TTC, drastically cut back on the number of trains and at this hour he'd be lucky to get the last one they ran.

Looking at the bright side, when he finally got there, given the time of night and the fact that they both had an eight o'clock class, he'd have to stay over. He sighed. If she'll even let me into her apartment.

He wandered down to the southernmost end of the platform and peered into the tunnel. No sign of lights, but he could feel wind against his face and that usually meant the train wasn't far. He coughed as he turned away. It smelled like something had died down there; smelled like it did at the cottage when a mouse got between the walls and rotted.

Big mother of a mouse, he muttered, rubbing his fist against his nose. The stench caught in his lungs and he coughed again. It was funny the tricks the mind played; now that he was aware of it, the smell seemed to be getting stronger.

And then he heard what could only be footsteps coming up the tunnel, out of the darkness. Heavy footsteps, not at all like a worker hurrying to beat the train after a day's overtime, nor like a bum staggering for the safety of the platform. Heavy footsteps, purposefully advancing toward his back.

Ian gloried in the sharp terror that started his heart thudding in his chest and trapped his breath in his throat. He knew very well that when he turned, when he looked, the explanation would be prosaic, so he froze and enjoyed the unknown while it remained unknown, delighted in the adrenaline rush of fear that made every sense more alive and made the seconds stretch to hours.

He didn't turn until the footsteps moved up the half dozen cement stairs and onto the platform.

Then it was too late.

He almost didn't have time to scream.

Tucking her chin down into her coat-it might be April but it was still damp and cold, with no sign of spring- Vicki Nelson stepped off the Eglinton bus and into the subway station.

Well, that was a disaster, she muttered. The elderly gentleman who had exited the bus right behind her made an inquiring noise. She turned a bland stare in his general direction, then picked up her pace. So I'm not only lousy company, and so uptight 1 squeak, but I also talk to myself. She sighed. Lawrence was pretty, but he wasn't her type. She hadn't met a man who was her type since she'd left the police force eight months before. I should've known this was going to happen when I agreed to go out with a man significantly better looking than I am. I don't know why I accepted the invitation.

That wasn't exactly true; she'd accepted the invitation because she was lonely. She knew it, she just had no intention of admitting it.

She was halfway down the first set of stairs leading to the southbound platform when she heard the scream. Or rather the half-scream. It choked off in mid-wail. One leap took her to the first landing. From where she stood, she could see only half of each platform through the glass and no indication of which side the trouble was on. The south was closer, faster.

Bounding down two, and then three steps at a time she yelled, Call the police! Even if no one heard her, it might scare off the cause of the scream.

Nine years on the force and she'd never used her gun. She wanted it now. In nine years on the force she'd never heard a scream like that.

What the hell do you think you're doing? the more rational part of her brain shrieked. You don't have a weapon! You don't have backup! You don't have any idea of what's going on down there! Eight months off the force and you've forgotten everything they ever taught you! What the hell are you trying to prove?

Vicki ignored the voice and kept moving. Maybe she was trying to prove something. So what.

When she exploded out onto the platform, she immediately realized she'd chosen the wrong side and for just an instant, she was glad of it.

A great spray of blood arced up the orange tiles of the station wall, feathering out from a thick red stream to a delicate pattern of crimson drops. On the floor below, his eyes and mouth open above the mangled ruin of his throat, lay a young man. No: the body of a young man. The dinner she'd so recently eaten rose to the back of Vicki's throat, but walls built during the investigations of other deaths slammed into place and she forced it down.

The wind in the tunnel began to pick up and she could hear the northbound train approaching. It sounded close.

Sweet Jesus, that's all we need. At 12:35 on a Sunday night it was entirely possible that the train would be nearly empty, no one would get off, and no one would notice the corpse and the blood-spattered wall down at the southernmost end of the northbound platform. Given the way of the world, however, it was more likely that a group of children and a little old lady with a weak heart would pile out of the last carriage and come face-to-face with the staring eyes and mutely screaming mouth of a fresh corpse.

Only one solution presented itself. The roar of the train filled the station as, heart pounding and adrenaline singing in her ears, Vicki leapt down onto the southbound tracks. The wooden step over the live rail was too far away, almost centered in the line of concrete pillars, so she jumped, trying not to think of the however many million volts of electricity the thing carried turning her to charcoal. She tottered for a moment on the edge of the divider, cursing her full-length coat and wishing she'd worn a jacket, and then, although she knew it was the stupidest thing she could do, she looked toward the oncoming train.

How did it get so close? The light was blinding, the roar deafening. She froze, caught in the glare, sure that if she continued she'd fall and the metal wheels of the beast would cut her to shreds.

Then something man-height flickered across the northbound tunnel. She didn't see much, just a billowing shadow, black against the growing headlight, but it jerked her out of immobility and down onto the track.

Cinders crunched under her boots, metal rang, then she had her hands on the edge of the platform and was flinging herself into the air. The world filled with sound and light and something brushed lightly against her sole. Her hands were sticky, covered with blood, but it wasn't hers and at the moment that was all that mattered.

Before the train stopped, she'd flung her coat over the body and grabbed her ID.

The center-man stuck his head out.

Vicki flipped the leather folder in his direction and barked, Close the doors! Now!

The doors, not quite open, closed.

She remembered to breathe again and when the center-man's head reappeared, snapped, Have the driver get the police on the radio. Tell them it's a 10-33 . . . never mind what that means! She saw the question coming. They'll know! And don't forget to tell them where it is. People had done stupider things in emergencies. As he ducked back into the train, she looked down at her card case and sighed, then lifted one gory finger to push her glasses back up her nose. A private investigator's ID meant absolutely nothing in a case like this, but people responded to the appearance of authority, not the particulars.

She moved a little farther from the body. Up close, the smell of blood and urine-the front of the boy's jeans was soaked-easily overcame the metallic odors of the subway. A lone face peered out through the window of the closest car. She snarled at it and settled down to wait.

Less than three minutes later, Vicki heard the faint sound of sirens up on the street. She almost cheered. It had been the longest three minutes of her life.

She'd spent them thinking, adding together the spray of blood and the position of the body and not liking the total.

Nothing that she knew of could strike a single blow strong enough to tear through flesh like tissue paper and fast enough that the victim had no time to struggle. Nothing. But something had.

And it was down in the tunnels.

She twisted until she could see into the darkness beyond the end of the train. The hair on the back of her neck rose. What did the shadows hide, she wondered. Her skin crawled, not entirely because of the cold. She'd never considered herself an overly imaginative woman and she knew the killer had to be long gone, but something lingered in that tunnel.

The distinctive slam of police boots against tile brought her around, hands held carefully out from her sides. Police called to a violent murder, finding someone covered in blood standing over the body, could be excused if they jumped to a conclusion or two.

The situation got chaotic for a few minutes, but fortunately four of the six constables had heard of Victory Nelson and after apologies had been exchanged all around, they got to work.

. . . my coat over the body, had the driver call the police, and waited. Vicki watched Police Constable West scribbling madly in his occurrence book and hid a grin. She could remember being that young and that intense. Barely. When he looked up, she nodded at the body and asked, Do you want to see?

Uh, no! After a second he added, a little sheepishly, That is, we shouldn't disturb anything before homicide gets here.

Homicide. Vicki's stomach lurched and her mood nosedived. She'd forgotten she wasn't in charge. Forgotten she was nothing more than a witness-first on the scene and that only because she'd done some pretty stupid things to get there. The uniforms had made it seem like old times but homicide . . . her department. No, not hers any longer. She pushed her glasses up her nose with the back of her wrist.

PC West, caught staring, dropped his gaze in confusion. Uh, I don't think anyone would mind if you cleaned the blood off your hands.

Thanks. Vicki managed a smile but ignored the unasked question. How well she could see, or how little she could see, was nobody's business but hers. Let another round of rumors start making its way through the force. If you wouldn't mind grabbing a couple of tissues out of my bag. ...

The young constable dipped a tentative hand into the huge black leather purse and actually looked relieved when he removed it holding the tissue and still in possession of all his fingers. Vicki's bag had been legendary throughout Metro and the boroughs.

Most of the blood on her hands had dried to reddish brown flakes and the little that hadn't the tissue merely smeared around. She scrubbed at it anyway, feeling rather like Lady MacBeth.

Destroying the evidence?

Celluci, she thought. They had to send Celluci. That bastard always walked too quietly. She and Mike Celluci had not parted on the best of terms but, by the time she turned to face him, she managed to school her expression.

Just trying to make life more difficult for you. The voice and the smile that went with it were patently false.

He nodded, an overly long curl of dark brown hair falling into his face. Always the best idea to play to your strengths. Then his eyes went past her to the body. Give your statement to Dave. Behind him, his partner waved two fingers. I'll talk to you later. This your coat?

Yeah, it's mine. Vicki watched him lift the edge of the blood-soaked fabric and knew that for the moment nothing existed for him but the body and its immediate surroundings. Although their methods differed, he was as intense in the performance of his duties as she was- had been, she corrected herself silently-and the undeclared competition between them had added an edge to many an investigation. Including a number neither of them were on.

Vicki?

She unclenched her jaw and, still scrubbing at her hands, followed Dave Graham a few meters up the platform.

Dave, who had been partnered with Mike Celluci for only a month when Vicki left the force and the final screaming match had occurred, smiled a little self-consciously and said, How about we just do this by the book?

Vicki released a breath she didn't know she'd been holding. Sure, that'd be fine. Taking refuge from emotions in police procedure-a worldwide law enforcement tradition.

While they talked, the subway train, now empty of passengers, pulled slowly out of the station.

... responding to the scream you ran down onto the southbound platform, then crossed the tracks in front of a northbound train to reach the body. While crossing the tracks ...

Inwardly, Vicki cringed. Dave Graham was one of the least judgmental men in existence, but even he couldn't keep his opinion of that stunt from showing in his voice.

... you saw a man-shaped form in what appeared to be a loose, flowing garment cross between you and the lights. Is that it?

Essentially. Stripped of all the carefully recorded details, it sounded like such a stupid thing to have done.

Right. He closed the notebook and scratched at the side of his nose. You, uh, going to stick around?

Vicki squinted as the police photographer snapped off another quick series of shots. She couldn't see Mike, but she could hear him down in the tunnel barking commands in his best God's gift to the Criminal Investigations Bureau voice. Down in the tunnel . . . The hair on the back of her neck rose again as she remembered the feeling of something lingering, something dark and, well if she had to put a name to it, evil. She suddenly wanted to warn Celluci to be careful. She didn't. She knew how he'd react. How she'd react if their positions were reversed.

Vicki? You sticking around?

It was on the tip of her tongue to say no, that they knew where to find her if they needed further information, but curiosity-about what the police would find, about how long she could remain so close to the job she'd loved and not fall apart-turned the no into a grudging, For a while. She'd be damned if she'd run away.

As she watched, Celluci came up the stairs onto the platform and spoke to the ident man, sweeping one arm back along the tracks. The ident man protested that he needed a certain amount of light to do his job, but Celluci cut him off. With a disgusted snort, he picked up his case and headed for the tunnel.

Charming as ever, Vicki thought as Celluci scooped her coat off the floor and made his way toward her, de-touring slightly around the coroner's men who were finally zipping the body into its orange plastic bag. Don't tell me, she called as soon as he was close enough, her voice carefully dry, almost sarcastic, and hopefully showing no indication of the churning emotions that had her gut tied in knots. The only prints on the scene are mine? There were, of course, a multitude of prints on the scene, none of which had been identified-that was for downtown-but the bloody handprints Vicki had scattered around were obvious.

Dead on, Sherlock. He tossed her the coat. And the blood trail leads into a workman's alcove and stops.

Vicki frowned as she reconstructed what had to have happened just before she reached the platform. You checked the southbound side?

That's where we lost the trail. His tone added, Don't teach Grandpa to suck eggs. He held up a hand to forestall the next question. I had one of the uniforms talk to the old man while Dave was dealing with you, but he's hysterical. He keeps going on about Armageddon. His son-in-law's coming to pick him up and I'll go see him tomorrow.

Vicki shot a glance across the station where the old man who had followed her off the bus and down the stairs sat talking to a policewoman. Even at a distance he didn't look good. His face was gray and he appeared to be babbling uncontrollably, one scrawny, swollen-knuckled hand clutching at the constable's sleeve. Turning her attention back to her companion, she asked, What about the subway? You closed it for the night?

Yeah. Mike waved toward the end of the platform. I want Jake to dust that alcove. Intermittent flashes of light indicated the photographer was still at work. It's not the sort of case where we can get in and out in a couple of minutes. He shoved his hands into his overcoat pockets and scowled. Although the way the transit commission squawked you'd think we were shutting it down in rush hour to pick up someone for littering.

What, uh, sort of case is it? Vicki asked-as close as she could get to asking if he, too, felt it, whatever it turned out to be.

He shrugged. You tell me; you seem to have gone to a great deal of trouble to land right in the middle of this.

I was here, she snapped. Would you have preferred that I ignore it?

You had no weapon, no backup, no idea of what was going down. Celucci ticked off an identical litany to the one she'd read herself earlier. You can't have forgotten everything in eight months.

And what would you have done? she spat through clenched teeth.

I wouldn't have tried to kill myself just to prove I still could.

The silence that fell landed like a load of cement blocks and Vicki gritted her teeth under its weight. Was that what she'd been doing? She looked down at the toes of her boots, then up at Mike. At five ten she didn't look up to many men but Celluci, at six four, practically made her feel petite. She hated feeling petite. If we're going to rehash my leaving the force again, I'm out of here.

He held up both hands in a gesture of weary surrender. You're right. As usual. I'm sorry. We're not going to rehash anything.

You brought it up. She sounded hostile; she didn't care. She should've followed her instincts and left the moment she'd given her statement. She had to have been out of her mind, putting herself in this position, staying in Celluci's reach.

A muscle in his jaw jumped. I said I was sorry. Go ahead, be superwoman if you want to, but maybe, he added, his voice tight, I don't want to see you get killed. Maybe, I'm not willing to toss aside eight years of friendship. ...

Friendship? Vicki felt her eyebrows rise.

Celluci drove his hands into his hair, yanking them through the curls, a gesture he used when he was trying very hard to keep his temper. Maybe I'm not willing to toss aside four years of friendship and four years of sex because of a stupid disagreement!

Just sex? That's it? Vicki took the easy way out, ignoring the more loaded topic of their disagreement. A shortage of things to fight about had never been one of their problems. Well, it wasn't just sex to me, Detective!

They were both yelling now.

Did I say it was just sex? He spread his arms wide, his voice booming off the tiled walls of the subway station. It was great sex, okay? It was terrific sex! It was ... What?

PC West, his fair skin deeply crimson, jumped. You're blocking the body, he stammered.

Growling an inaudible curse, Celluci jerked back against the wall.

As the gurney rolled by, the contents of the fluorescent orange bag lolling a little from side to side, Vicki curled her hands into fists and contemplated planting one right on Mike Celluci's classically handsome nose. Why did she let him affect her like this? He had a definite knack for poking through carefully constructed shields and stirring up emotions she thought she had under control. Damn him anyway. It didn't help that, this time, he was right. A corner of her mouth twitched up. At least they were talking again. . . .

When the gurney had passed, she straightened her fingers, laid her hand on Celluci's arm and said, Next time, I'll do it by the book.

It was as close to an apology as she was able to make and he knew it.

Why start now. He sighed. Look, about leaving the force; you're not blind, Vicki, you could have stayed. ...

Celluci. . . . She ground his name through clenched teeth. He always pushed it just that one comment too far.

Never mind. He reached out and pushed her glasses up her nose. Want a lift downtown?

She glanced down at her ruined coat. Why not.

As they followed the gurney up the stairs, he punched her lightly on the arm. Nice fighting with you again.

She surrendered-the last eight months had been a punitive victory at best-and grinned. I missed you, too.

The Monday papers had the murder spread across page one. The tabloid even had a color photograph of the gurney being rolled out of the station, the body bag an obscene splotch of color amid the dark blues and grays. Vicki tossed the paper onto the growing to be recycled pile to the left of her desk and chewed on a thumbnail. Celluci's theory, which he'd grudgingly passed on while they drove downtown, involved PCPs and some sort of strap-on claws.

Like that guy in the movie.

That was a glove with razor blades, Celluci.

Whatever.

Vicki didn't buy it and she knew Mike didn't really either, it was just the best model he could come up with until he had more facts. His final answer often bore no resemblance to the theory he'd started with, he just hated working from zero. She preferred to let the facts fall into the void and see what they piled up to look like. Trouble was, this time they just kept right on falling. She needed more facts.

Her hand was halfway to the phone before she remembered and pulled it back. This had nothing to do with her any longer. She'd given her statement and that was as far as her involvement went.

She took off her glasses and scrubbed at one lens with a fold of her sweatshirt. The edges of her world blurred until it looked as if she were staring down a foggy tunnel; a wide tunnel, more than adequate for day to day living. So far, she'd lost about a third of her peripheral vision. So far. It could only get worse.

The glasses corrected only the nearsightedness. Nothing could correct the rest.

Okay, this one's Celluci's. Fine. I have a job of my own to do, she told herself firmly. One I can do. One she'd better do. Her savings wouldn't last forever and so far her caseload had been embarrassingly light, her vision forcing her to turn down more than one potential client.

Teeth gritted, she pulled the massive Toronto white pages onto her lap. With luck, the F. Chan she was looking for, inheritor of a tidy sum of money from a dead uncle in Hong Kong, would be one of the twenty-six listed. If not . . . there were over three full pages of Chans, sixteen columns, approximately one thousand, eight hundred and fifty-six names and she'd bet at least half of those would have a Foo in the family.

Mike Celluci would be looking for a killer right now.

She pushed the thought away.

You couldn't be a cop if you couldn't see.

She'd made her bed. She'd lie in it.

Terri Neal sagged against the elevator wall, took a number of deep breaths, and, when she thought she'd dredged up a sufficient amount of energy, raised her arm just enough so she could see her watch.

Twelve seventeen? she moaned. Where the hell has Monday gone, and what's the point in going home? I've got to be back here in eight hours. She felt the weight of the pager against her hip and added a silent prayer that she would actually get the full eight hours. The company had received its pound of flesh already today-the damned beeper had gone off as she'd slid into her car back at 4:20-so maybe, just maybe, they'd leave her alone tonight.

The elevator door hissed open and she dragged herself forward into the underground garage.

Leaving the office, she murmured, take two.

Squinting a little under the glare of the fluorescent lights, she started across the almost empty garage, her shadow dancing around her like a demented marionette. She'd always hated the cold, hard light of the fluorescents, the world looked decidedly unfriendly thrown into such sharp-edged relief. And tonight. . . .

She shook her head. Lack of sleep made her think crazy things. Resisting the urge to keep looking over her shoulder, she finally reached the one benefit of all the endless hours of overtime.

Hi, baby. She rummaged in her pocket for her car keys. Miss me?

She flipped open the hatchback, heaved her briefcase- This damn thing must weigh three hundred pounds!-up and over the lip, and slid it down into the trunk. Resting her elbows on the weather stripping, she paused, half in and half out of the car, inhaling the scent of new paint, new vinyl, new plastic, and . . . rotting food. Frowning, she straightened.

At least it's coming from outside my car. . . .

Gagging, she pushed the hatchback closed and turned. Let security worry about the smell tomorrow. All she wanted to do was get home.

It took a moment for her to realize she wasn't going to make it.

By the time the scream reached her throat, her throat had been torn away and the scream became a gurgle as her severed trachea filled with blood.

The last thing she saw as her head fell back was the lines of red dribbling darkly down the sides of her new car.

The last thing she heard was the insistent beep, beep, beep of her pager.

And the last thing she felt was a mouth against the ruin of her throat.

On Tuesday morning, the front page of the tabloid screamed SLASHER STRIKES AGAIN. A photograph of the coach of the Toronto Maple Leafs stared out from under it, the cutline asking-not for the first time that season- if he should be fired, the Leafs being once again at the very bottom of the worst division in the league. It was the kind of strange layout at which the paper excelled.

Fire the owner, Vicki muttered, shoving her glasses up her nose and peering at the tiny print under the headline. Story page two, it said, and on page two, complete with a photo of the underground garage and a hysterical account by the woman who had found the body, was a description of a mutilated corpse that exactly matched the one Vicki had found in the Eglinton West Station.

Damn.

Homicide investigator Michael Celluci, the story continued, says there is little doubt in his mind that this is not a copycat case and whoever killed Terri Neal also killed Ian Reddick on Sunday night.

Vicki strongly suspected that was not at all what Mike had said, although it might have been the information he imparted. Mike seldom found it necessary to cooperate with, or even hide his distaste for, the press. And he was never that polite.

She read over the details again and a nameless fear ran icy fingers down her spine. She remembered the lingering presence she'd felt and knew this wouldn't be the end of the killing. She'd dialed the phone almost before she came to a conscious decision to call.

Mike Celluci, please. What? No, no message.

And what was I going to tell him ? she wondered as she hung up. That I have a hunch this is only the beginning? He'd love that.

Tossing the tabloid aside, Vicki pulled the other city paper toward her. On page four it ran much the same story, minus about half the adjectives and most of the hysteria.

Neither paper had mentioned that ripping a throat out with a single blow was pretty much impossible.

If I could only remember what was missing from that body. She sighed and rubbed at her eyes.

Meanwhile, she had five Foo Chans to visit. . . .

There was something moving in the pit. DeVerne Jones leaned against the wire fence and breathed beer fumes into the darkness, wondering what he should do about it. It was his pit. His first as foreman. They'd be starting the frames in the morning so that when spring finally arrived they'd be ready to pour the concrete. He peered around the black lumps of machinery. And there was something down there. In his pit.

Briefly he wished he hadn't decided to swing by the site on his way home from the bar. It was after midnight and the shape he'd seen over by the far wall was probably just some poor wino looking for a warm place to curl up where the cops would leave him alone. The crew could toss the bum out in the morning, no harm done. Except they had a lot of expensive equipment down there and it might be something more.

Damn.

He dug out his keys and walked over to the gate. The padlock hung open. In the damp and the cold, it sometimes didn't catch, but he'd been the last man out of the pit and he'd checked it before he left. Hadn't he?

Damn again, It had just become a very good thing he'd stopped by.

Hinges screaming in protest, the gate swung open.

DeVerne waited for a moment at the top of the ramp, to see if the sound flushed his quarry.

Nothing.

A belly full of beer and you're a hero, he thought, just sober enough to realize he could be walking into trouble and just drunk enough to not really care.

Halfway down into the pit, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, he saw it again. Man-shaped, moving too quickly to be a wino, it disappeared behind one of the dozers.

As silently as he was able, DeVerne quickened his pace. He'd catch the son-of-a-bitch in the act. He made a small detour and pulled a three foot length of pipe from a pile of scrap. No sense taking chances, even a cornered rat would fight. The scrape of metal against metal rang out unnaturally loud, echoing off the sides of the pit. His presence announced, he charged around the dozer, bellowing a challenge, weapon raised.

Someone was lying on the ground. DeVerne could see the shoes sticking out of the pool of shadow. In that pool of shadow-or creating it, DeVerne couldn't be sure- crouched another figure.

DeVerne yelled again. The figure straightened and turned, darkness swirling about it.

He didn't realize the figure had moved until the pipe was wrenched from his hand. He barely had time to raise his other hand in a futile attempt to save his life. There's no such thing! he wailed silently as he died.

Wednesday morning, the tabloid headline, four inches high, read: VAMPIRE STALKS CITY.

Two

He lifted her arm and ran his tongue down the soft flesh on the inside of her wrist. She moaned, head back, breath coming in labored gasps.

Almost.

He watched her closely and when she began to go into the final climb, when her body began to arch under his, he took the small pulsing vein at the base of her thumb between the sharp points of his teeth and bit down. The slight pain was for her just one more sensation added to a system already overloaded and while she rode the waves of her orgasm, he drank.

They finished at much the same time.

He reached up and gently pushed a strand of damp mahogany hair off her face. Thank you, he said softly.

No, thank you, she murmured, capturing his hand and placing a kiss on the palm.

They lay quietly for a time; she drifting in and out of sleep, he tracing light patterns on the soft curves of her breasts, his fingertip following the blue lines of veins beneath the white skin. Now that he'd fed, they no longer drove him to distraction. When he was sure that the coagulant in his saliva had taken effect, and the tiny wound on her wrist would bleed no more, he untangled his legs from hers and padded to the bathroom to clean up.

She roused while he was dressing.

Henry?

I'm still here, Caroline.

Now. But you're leaving.

I have work to do. He pulled a sweater over his head and emerged, blinking in the sudden light from the bedside lamp. Long years of practice kept him from recoiling, but he turned his back to give his sensitive eyes a chance to recover.

Why can't you work in the daytime, like a normal person, Caroline protested, pulling the comforter up from the foot of the bed and snuggling down under it. Then you'd have your nights free for me.

He smiled and replied truthfully, I can't think in the daytime.

Writers, she sighed.

Writers, he agreed, bending over and kissing her on the nose. We're a breed apart.

Will you call me?

As soon as I have the time.

Men!

He reached over and snapped off the lamp. That, too. Deftly avoiding her groping hands, he kissed her good-bye and padded silently out of the bedroom and through the dark apartment. Behind him, he heard her breathing change and knew she slept. Usually, she fell asleep right after they finished, never knowing when he left. It was one of the things he liked best about her, for it meant they seldom had awkward arguments about whether he'd be staying the night.

Retrieving his coat and boots, he let himself out of the apartment, one ear cocked for the sound of the dead bolt snapping home. In many ways, this was the safest time he'd ever lived in. In others, the most dangerous.

Caroline had no suspicion of what he actually was. For her, he was no more than a pleasant interlude, an infrequent companion, sex without guilt. He hadn't even had to work very hard to have it turn out that way.

He frowned at his reflection on the elevator doors. I want more. The disquiet had been growing for some time, prodding at him, giving him little peace. Feeding had helped ease it but not enough. Choking back a cry of frustration, he whirled and slammed his palm against the plastic wall. The blow sounded like a gunshot in the enclosed space and Henry stared at the pattern of cracks radiating out from under his hand. His palm stung, but the violence seemed to have dulled the point of the disquiet.

No one waited in the lobby to investigate the noise and Henry left the building in an almost jaunty mood.

It was cold out on the street. He tucked his scarf a little more securely around his throat and turned his collar up. His nature made him less susceptible to weather than most, but he still had no liking for a cold wind finding its way down his back. With the bottom of his leather trench coat flapping about his legs, he made his way down the short block to Bloor, turned east, and headed home.

Although it was nearly one o'clock on a Thursday morning, and spring seemed to have decided to make a very late appearance this year, the streets were not yet empty. Traffic still moved steadily along the city's east/west axis and the closer Henry got to Yonge and Bloor, the city's main intersection, the more people he passed on the sidewalk. It was one of the things he liked best about this part of the city, the fact that it never really slept, and it was why he had his home as close to it as he could get. Two blocks past Yonge, he turned into a circular drive and followed the curve around to the door of his building.

In his time, he had lived in castles of every description, a fair number of very private country estates, and even a crypt or two when times were bad, but it had been centuries since he'd had a home that suited him as well as the condominium he'd bought in the heart of Toronto.

Good evening, Mr. Fitzroy.

Evening, Greg. Anything happening?

The security guard smiled and reached for the door release. Quiet as a tomb, sir.

Henry Fitzroy raised one red-gold eyebrow but waited until he had the door open and the buzzer had ceased its electronic flatulence before asking, And how would you know?

Greg grinned. Used to be a guard at Mount Pleasant Cemetery.

Henry shook his head and smiled as well. I should've known you'd have an answer.

Yes, sir, you should've. Good night, sir.

The heavy glass door closed off any further conversation, so as Greg picked up his newspaper Henry waved a silent good night and turned toward the elevators. Then he stopped. And turned back to face the glass.

VAMPIRE STALKS CITY

Lips moving as he read, Greg laid the paper flat on his desk, hiding the headline.

His world narrowed to three words, Henry shoved the door open.

You forget something, Mr. Fitzroy?

Your paper. Let me see it.

Startled by the tone but responding to the command, Greg pushed the paper forward until Henry snatched it out from under his hands.

VAMPIRE STALKS CITY

Slowly, making no sudden movements, Greg slid his chair back, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the man on the other side of the desk. He wasn't sure why, but in sixty-three years and two wars, he'd never seen an expression like the one Henry Fitzroy now wore. And he hoped he'd never see it again, for the anger was more than human anger and the terror it invoked more than human spirit could stand.

Please, God, don't let him turn it on me. . . .

The minutes stretched and paper tore under tightening fingers.

Uh, Mr. Fitzroy ...

Hazel eyes, like frozen smoke, lifted from their reading. Held by their intensity, the trembling security guard had to swallow once, twice, before he could finish.

... you can, uh, keep the paper.

The fear in Greg's voice penetrated through the rage. There was danger in fear. Henry found the carefully constructed civilized veneer that he wore over the predator and forced it back on. I hate this kind of sensationalism! He slapped the paper down on the desk.

Greg jumped and his chair hit the back wall, ending retreat.

This playing on the fears of the public is irresponsible journalism. Henry sighed and covered the anger with a patina of weary annoyance. Four hundred and fifty years of practice made the false face believable regardless of how uncomfortable the fit had grown lately, make us all look bad.

Greg sighed in turn and wiped damp palms on his thighs, snatching at the explanation. I guess writers are kind of sensitive about that, he offered.

Some of us, Henry agreed. You sure about the paper? That I can keep it?

No problem, Mr. Fitzroy. I checked the hockey scores first thing. His mind had already begun to dull what he had seen, adding rationalizations that made it possible, that made it bearable, but he didn't slide his chair back to the desk until the elevator door had closed and the indicator light had begun to climb.

Muscles knotted with the effort of standing still, Henry concentrated on breathing, on controlling the rage rather than allowing it to control him. In this age his kind survived by blending in, and he'd made a potentially fatal mistake by letting his reaction to the headline show. Allowing his true nature to emerge in the privacy of an empty elevator could do little harm, but doing so before a mortal witness was quite another matter. Not that he expected Greg to suddenly start pointing his finger and screaming vampire. . . .

Helping to dampen the rage was the guilt he felt at terrifying the old man. He liked Greg; in this world of equality and democracy it was good to meet a man willing to serve. The attitude reminded him of the men who'd worked on the estate when he was a boy and took him back, for a little while at least, to a simpler time.

Barriers firmly in place, he got off the elevator at the fourteenth floor, holding the door so Mrs. Hughes and her mastiff could get on. The big dog walked past him stiff-legged, the hairs on the back of his neck up, and a growl rumbling deep in his throat. As always, Mrs. Hughes made apologetic sounds.

I really don't understand this, Mr. Fitzroy. Owen is usually such a sweet dog. He never . . . Owen!

The mastiff, trembling with the desire to attack, settled for maneuvering his huge body between his owner and the man in the door, putting as much distance as possible between her and the perceived threat.

Don't worry about it, Mrs. Hughes. Henry removed his hand and the door began to slide closed. You can't expect Owen to like everybody. Just before the door shut completely, he smiled down at the dog. The mastiff recognized the baring of teeth for what it was and lunged. Henry managed a slightly more honest smile as the frantic barks faded down toward the lobby.

Ten minutes alone with the dog and they could settle what stood between them. Pack law was simple, the strongest ruled. But Owen always traveled with Mrs. Hughes and Henry doubted Mrs. Hughes would understand. As he had no wish to alienate his neighbor, he put up with the mastiff's animosity. It was a pity. He liked dogs and it would take so little to put Owen in his place-Once in the condo, with the door safely closed behind him, he looked at the paper again and snarled.

VAMPIRE STALKS CITY.

The bodies of Terri Neal and DeVerne Jones had been found drained of blood.

The headline appeared to be accurate.

And he knew he wasn't doing it.

With a sudden snap of his wrist he flung the paper across the room and took a minor satisfaction in watching the pages flutter to the floor like wounded birds.

Damn. Damn. DAMN!

Crossing to the window, he shrugged out of his coat and tossed it on the couch, then yanked back the curtains that blocked the city from view. Vampires were a solitary breed, not seeking each other out nor keeping track of where their brothers and sisters roamed. Although he suspected he shared his territory with others of his kind, there could be a score moving, living, feeding among the patterns of light and shadow that made up the night and Henry would be no more aware of it than the people they moved among.

And worse, if the killer was a vampire, it was a child, one of the newly changed, for only the newly changed needed blood in such amounts and would kill with such brutal abandon.

Not one of mine, he said to the night, his forehead resting against the cool glass. It was as much a prayer as a statement. Everyone of his kind feared that they would turn loose just such a monster, an accidental child, an accidental change. But he'd been careful; never feeding again until the blood had had a chance to renew, never taking the risk that his blood could be passed back. He would have a child someday, but it would change by choice as he had done and he would be there to guide it, to keep it safe.

No, not one of his. But he could not let it continue to terrorize the city. Fear had not changed over the centuries, nor had people's reactions to it and a terrorized city could quickly bring out the torches and sharpened stakes ... or the twentieth century laboratory equivalent.

And I no more want to be strapped to a table for the rest of my life than to have my head removed and my mouth stuffed with garlic, he told the night.

He would have to find the child, before the police did and their answer raised more questions than it solved. Find the child and destroy it, for without a blood bond he could not control it.

And then, he raised his head and bared his teeth, I will find the parent.

Morning, Mrs. Kopolous.

Hello, darling, you're up early.

I couldn't sleep, Vicki told her, making her way to the back of the store where the refrigerators hummed, and I was out of milk.

Get the bags, they're on sale.

I don't like the bags. Out of the corner of one eye she saw Mrs. Kopolous expressing a silent and not very favorable opinion of her unwillingness to save forty-nine cents. She grabbed a jug and brought it back to the counter. Papers not out yet?

Yeah, yeah, they're right here, dear. She bent over the bundles, her stocky body hiding the headlines. When she straightened, she slapped one copy of each morning paper down by the cash register.

SABERS DOWN LEAFS 10-2.

Vicki let out a lungful of air she hadn't known she was holding. If the tabloid made no mention of another murder-besides the slaughter in the division play-offs-it looked like the city had made it safely through the night.

Those terrible things, you're mixed up in them, aren't you?

What terrible things, Mrs. Kopolous? She scooped up her change, then put it back and grabbed an Easter cream egg instead. What the hell, there was reason to celebrate.

Mrs. Kopolous shook her head, but whether it was at the egg or life in general, Vicki couldn't tell. You're making faces at the paper like you did when those little girls were killed.

That was two years ago! Two years and a lifetime.

I remember two years. But this time it's not for you to get involved with, these things sucking blood. The register drawer slammed shut with unnecessary force. This time it's unclean.

It's never been clean, Vicki protested, tucking the papers under her arm.

You know what I mean.

The tone left no room for argument. Yeah. I know what you mean. She turned to go, paused, and turned back to the counter. Mrs. Kopolous, do you believe in vampires?

The older woman waved an expressive hand. I don't not believe, she said, her brows drawn down for emphasis. There are more things in heaven and earth. ...

Vicki smiled. Shakespeare?

Her expression didn't soften. Just because it came from a poet, doesn't make it less true.

When Vicki got back to her apartment building, a three-story brownstone in the heart of Chinatown, it was 7:14 and the neighborhood was just beginning to wake up. She considered going for a run, before the carbon monoxide levels rose, but decided against it when an experimental breath plumed in the air. Spring might have officially arrived, but it'd be time enough to start running when the temperature reflected the season. Taking the stairs two at a time, she thanked the lucky genetic combination that gave her a jock's body with a minimum amount of maintenance. Although at thirty-one who knew how much longer that would last. . . .

Minor twinges of guilt sent her through a free weight routine while she listened to the 7:30 news.

By 8:28 she'd skimmed all three newspapers, drunk a pot and a half of tea, and readied the Foo Chan invoice for mailing. Tilting her chair back, she scrubbed at her glasses and let her world narrow into a circle of stucco ceiling. More things in heaven and earth. . . . She didn't know if she believed in vampires, but she definitely believed in her own senses, even if one of them had become less than reliable of late. Something strange had been down that tunnel, and nothing human could have struck that blow. A phrase from Wednesday's newspaper article kept running through her head: A source in the Coroner's Office reports that the bodies of Terri Neal and DeVerne Jones had been drained of blood. She knew it was none of her business. . . .

Brandon Singh had always been at his desk at the Coroner's Office every morning at 8:30. He had a cup of tea and a bagel and was, until about 8:45, perfectly approachable.

Although she no longer had any sort of an official position to call from, coroners were government appointments and she was still a taxpayer. She reached for her address book. Hell, after Celluci how bad could it be?

Dr. Singh, please. Yes, I'll hold. Why do they ask? Vicki wondered, shoving at her glasses with her free hand. It's not like you have a choice.

Dr. Singh here.

Brandon? It's Vicki Nelson.

His weighty Oxford accent-his telephone voice- lightened. Victoria? Good to hear from you. Been keeping busy since you left the force?

Pretty busy, she admitted, swinging her feet up on a corner of the desk. Dr. Brandon Singh was the only person since the death of her maternal grandmother back in the seventies to call her Victoria. She'd never been able

And if Celluci doesn't understand that, she muttered as she dialed, he can fold it sideways and stick it up his. . . . Good morning. Mike Celluci, please. Yes, I'll hold. Someday, she tucked the phone under her chin and tried to peel the paper off a very old Life Saver, I'm going to say no, I won't hold, and send somebody's secretary into strong hysterics.

Celluci.

Morning. It's Vicki.

Yeah. So? He definitely didn't sound thrilled. You complicating my life with another body or is this a social call at . . .

Vicki checked her watch, during the pause while Celluci checked his.

. . . nine oh two . . .

Eight fifty-eight.

He ignored her. . . . on a Thursday morning?

No body, Celluci. I just wondered what you'd come up with so far.

That's police information, Vicki, and in case you've forgotten, you're not a cop anymore.

The crack hurt but not as much as she expected. Well, two could play at that game.

Come to a dead end, eh? A full stop? She flipped over pages of the newspaper loud enough for him to hear the unmistakable rustle. Paper seems to have come up with an answer. Shaking her head, she held the receiver away from her ear in order not to be deafened by a forcefully expressed opinion of certain reporters, their ancestors, and their descendants. She grinned. She was definitely enjoying this.

Nice try, Mike, but I called the Coroner's Office and that report was essentially correct.

Well, why don't I just read my report to you over the phone. Or I could send someone over with a copy of the file and no doubt you and your Nancy Drew detective kit can solve the case by lunch.

Why don't we discuss this like intelligent human beings over dinner? Over dinner? Good God, was that my mouth ?

Dinner?

Oh, well. In for a penny in for a pound as Granny used to say. Yeah, dinner, you know, where you sit down in the evening and stuff food in your mouth.

Oh, dinner. Why didn't you say so? Vicki could hear the smile in his voice and her mouth curved up in answer. Mike Celluci was the only man she'd ever met whose moods changed as quickly as hers. Maybe that was why. . . . You buying? He was also basically a cheap bastard.

Why not. I'll deduct it as a business expense; consulting with the city's finest.

He snorted. Took you long enough to remember that. I'll be by about seven.

I'll be here.

She hung up, pushed her glasses up her nose, and wondered just what she thought she was doing. It had seemed, while they talked-All right, while we indulged in the verbal sparring that serves us for conversation-almost like the last eight months and the fights before hadn't happened. Or maybe it was just that their friendship was strong enough to pick up intact from where it had been dropped. Or maybe, just maybe, she'd managed to get a grip on her life.

And I hope I haven't bitten off more than I can chew, she muttered to the empty apartment.

Three

Stumbling to the right to avoid annihilation by a loaded backpack, Norman Birdwell careened into a stocky young man in a leather York University jacket and found himself back in the corridor outside the lecture hall. Shifting his grip on the plastic handle of his attache , he squared his narrow shoulders and tried again. He often thought that exiting students should be forced to move in orderly rows through the left side of the double doors so that students arriving early for the next class could enter unopposed through the right.

By sliding sideways between two young women, who, oblivious to Norman's presence, continued discussing the sexist unfairness of birth control and blow-dryers, he made it into the room and headed for his seat.

Norman liked to arrive early so he could sit in the exact center of the third row, his lucky seat ever since he'd written a perfect first year calculus paper in the spot. He was taking this evening sociology class because he'd overheard two jocks in the cafeteria mention it was a great way to meet girls. So far, he wasn't having much luck. Straightening his new leather tie, he wondered if perhaps he shouldn't ask for a jacket.

As he slid into his seat, his attache jammed between two chair backs in the second row and jerked out of his hand. Bending to free it, his mechanical pencil slid free of his pocket protector and rolled back into the darkness.

Oh, fuck, he muttered, dropping to his knees. He'd been experimenting with profanity lately, hoping it would make him sound more macho. There'd been no noticeable success.

There were legends about what lurked under the seats in York University lecture halls but all Norman found, beside his pencil-which he'd only had since Sunday night and didn't want to lose-was a neatly rolled copy of Wednesday's tabloid. Clipping the pencil back where it belonged, Norman spread the paper on his knee. The professor, he knew, would be up to fifteen minutes late; he'd have plenty of time to read the comics.

VAMPIRE STALKS CITY!

With trembling fingers, he opened it to the story.

Get a load of Birdwell. The thick-necked young man elbowed his companion. He's gone white as a ghost.

Rubbing bruised ribs, the recipient of this tender confidence peered down at the solitary figure in the third row of the hall. How can you tell? he grunted. Ghost, geek; it's all the same.

I never knew, Norman whispered down at the black type. I swear to God, I never knew. It wasn't my fault.

He ... no, it, had said it had to feed. Norman hadn't asked where or how. Maybe, he admitted now, because he hadn't wanted to know. Don't let anyone see you, had been his only instruction,

He peeled damp palms up off the newsprint and raised them, smudged and trembling, into the air as he vowed, Never again, I promise, never again.

The gong sounded for another order of Peking Duck and while it reverberated through the restaurant, a mellow undertone to the conversations occurring in at least three different languages, Vicki raised a spoonful of hot-and-sour soup to her lips and stared speculatively at Mike Celluci. He'd been almost charming for this, the first half hour of the evening, and she'd had about as much of it as she could take.

She swallowed and gave him her best don't give me any bullshit, buddy, I'm on to you smile. So. Still holding tight to that ridiculous angel dust and Freddy Kruger claws theory?

Celluci glanced down at his watch. Thirty-two minutes and seventeen seconds. He shook his head ruefully, a thick brown curl dropping down over his eyes. And here I bet Dave you couldn't last a half an hour. You just lost me five bucks, Vicki. Is that nice?

Quit complaining. She chased a bit of green onion around the edge of her bowl. After all, I'm paying for dinner. Now, answer the question.

And here I thought that you were after the pleasure of my company.

She really hated it when his voice picked up that sarcastic edge. Not having heard it for eight months hadn't lessened her dislike. I'm going to pleasure your company right into the kitchen if you don't answer the question.

Damn it, Vicki. His spoon slammed into the saucer, Do we have to discuss this while we eat?

Eating had nothing to do with it; they'd discussed every case they'd ever had, singly and collectively, over food. Vicki pushed her empty bowl to one side and laced her fingers together. It was possible that now she'd left the force he wouldn't discuss the homicides with her. It was possible, but not very likely. At least, she prayed it wasn't very likely. If you can look me right in the eye, she said quietly, and tell me you don't want to talk about this with me, I'll lay off.

Technically, he knew he should do exactly that-look her in the eye and tell her he didn't want to talk about it. The Criminal Investigations Bureau took a dim view of investigators who couldn't keep their mouths shut. But Vicki had been one of the best, three accelerated promotions and two citations attested to that, and more importantly, her record of solved crimes had been almost the highest in the department. Honesty forced him to admit, although he admitted it silently, that statistically her record was as good as his, he'd just been at it three years longer. Do I throw away this resource? he wondered as the silence lengthened. Do I refuse to take advantage of talent and skill just because the possessor of those talents and skills has become a civilian? He tried to keep his personal feelings out of the decision.

He looked her right in the eye and said quietly, Okay, genius, you got a better idea than PCPs and claws?

Difficult to come up with a worse one, she snorted, leaning back to allow their waitress to replace the bowls with steaming platters of food. Grateful for the chance to regain her composure, Vicki toyed with a chopstick and hoped he didn't realize how much this meant to her. She hadn't realized it herself until her heart restarted with his answer and she felt a part of herself she thought had died when she'd left the force slowly begin to come back to life. Her reaction, she knew, would have been invisible to a casual observer but Mike Celucci was anything but that.

Please, God, just let him think he's picking my brain. Don't let him know how much I need this.

For the first time in a long time, God appeared to be listening.

Your better idea? Mike asked pointedly when they were alone with their meal.

If he'd noticed her relief, he gave no sign and that was good enough for Vicki. It's a little hard to hypothesize without all the information, she prodded.

He smiled and she understood, not for the first time, why witnesses of either gender were willing to spill their guts to this man. Hypothesize. Big word. You been doing crossword puzzles again?

Yeah, between tracking down international jewel thieves. Spill it, Celluci.

If anything, there had been fewer clues at the second scene than at the first. No prints save the victim's, no trail, no one who saw the killer enter or exit the underground garage. And the scene was hours old by the time we arrived. ...

You said the trail at the subway led into a workman's alcove?

He nodded, scowling at a snow pea. Blood all over the back wall. The trail led into the alcove, but nothing led out.

Behind the back wall?

You thinking of secret passageways?

A little sheepishly, she nodded.

All things considered, that would be an answer I could live with. He shook his head and the curl dropped forward again. Nothing but dirt. We checked.

Although DeVerne Jones had been found with a scrap of torn leather clutched in his fist, dirt was pretty much all they'd found at the third site. Dirt, and a derelict that babbled about the apocalypse.

Wait a minute ... Vicki frowned in concentration, then shoved her disturbed glasses back up her nose. Didn't the old man at the subway say something about the apocalypse?

Nope. Armageddon.

Same thing.

Celluci sighed with exaggerated force. You trying to tell me that it's not one guy, it's four guys on horses? Thanks. You've been a lot of help.

I suppose you've checked for some connection between the victims? Something to hang a motive on?

Motive! He slapped his forehead with the heel of his hand. Now why didn't I think of that?

Vicki stabbed at a mushroom and muttered, Smart ass.

No, no connections, no discernible motive. We're still looking. He shrugged, a succinct opinion of what the search would turn up.

Cults?

Vicki, I've talked to more weirdos and space cases in the last few days than I have in the last few years. He grinned. Present company excepted, of course.

They were almost back to her apartment, her hand tucked in the crook of his arm to guide her through the darkness, when she asked, Have you considered that there might be something in this vampire theory?

She dug her heels in at his shout of laughter. I'm serious, Celucci!

No, I'm Serious Celluci. You're out of your mind. He dragged her back into step beside him. Vampires don't exist.

You're sure of that? There are more things

Don't, he warned, start quoting Shakespeare at me. I've had the line quoted at me so often lately, I'm beginning to think police brutality is a damned good idea.

They turned up the path to Vicki's building.

You've got to admit that a vampire fits all the parameters. Vicki no more believed it was a vampire than Celluci did, but it had always been so easy to rattle his cage. . . .

He snorted. Right. Something's wandering around the city in a tuxedo muttering,'I vant to drink your blood.'

You got a better suspect?

Yeah. A big guy on PCPs with clip-on claws.

You're not back to that stupid theory again.

Stupid!

Yeah. Stupid.

You wouldn't recognize a logical progression of facts if they bit you on the butt!

At least I'm not so caught up in my own cleverness that I'm blind to outside possibilities!

Outside possibilities? You have no idea of what's going on!

Neither do you!

They stood and panted at each other for a few seconds then Vicki shoved her glasses up her nose and dug for her keys. You staying the night?

It sounded like a challenge.

Yeah. I am.

So did the response.

Sometime later, Vicki shifted to reach a particularly sensitive area and decided, as she got the anticipated inarticulate response, that there were times when you really didn't need to see what you were doing and night blindness mattered not in the least.

Captain Raymond Roxborough looked down at the lithe and cowering form of his cabin boy and wondered how he could have been so blind. Granted, he had thought young Smith very pretty, what with his tousled blue-black curls and his sapphire eyes, but never for a moment had he suspected that the boy was not a boy at all. Although, the captain had to admit, it was a neat solution to the somewhat distressing feelings he'd been having lately.

I suppose you have an explanation for this, he drawled, leaning back against his cabin door and crossing sun-bronzed arms across his muscular chest.

The young lady-girl, really, for she could have been no more than seventeen-clutched her cotton shirt to the white swell of bosom that had betrayed her and with the other hand pushed damp curls, the other legacy of her interrupted wash, off her face.

I needed to get to Jamaica, she said proudly, although her low voice held the trace of a quaver, and this was the only way I could think of.

You could have paid for your passage, the captain suggested dryly, his gaze traveling appreciatively along the delicate curve of her shoulders.

I had nothing to pay with.

He straightened and stepped forward, smiling. I think you underestimate your charms.

Come on, Smith, kick him right in his windswept desire. Henry Fitzroy leaned back in his chair and rubbed at his temples. Just how much of a shit did he want the captain to be? Should the hero's better nature overcome his wanton lust or did he even have a better nature? And how much of a hero would he be without one?

And frankly, my dear, he sighed, I don't give a damn. He saved the night's work, then shut down the system. Usually he enjoyed the opening chapters of a new book, getting to know the characters, warping them to fit the demands of the plot, but this time. . . .

Rolling his chair back from the desk, he stared out his office window at the sleeping city. Somewhere out      there, hidden by the darkness, a hunter stalked- blinded, maddened, driven by blood lust and hunger. He'd sworn to stop it, but he hadn't the slightest idea how to start. How could the location of random slaughter be anticipated?

With another sigh, he stood. There'd been twenty-four hours without a death. Maybe the problem had taken care of itself. He grabbed his coat and headed out of the apartment.

The morning paper should be out by now, I'll grab one and . . . Waiting for the elevator, he checked his watch. 6:10. It was much later than he'd thought. . . . and trust I can make it back inside without igniting. Sunrise was around 6:30 if he remembered correctly. He wouldn't have much time, but he had to know if there had been another killing. If the load of completely irrational guilt he carried for not finding and stopping the child had gotten any heavier.

The national paper had a box just outside his building. The headline concerned a speech the Prime Minister had just made in the Philippines about north/south relations.

And I bet he works on the south until at least mid-May. Henry said, drawing his leather trench coat tighter around his throat as a cold wind swept around the building and pulled tears from his eyes.

The tabloid's closest box was down the block and across the street. There wasn't really any need to look for the other local paper, Henry had every faith in the tabloid's headline. He waited at the light while the opening volley of the morning rush hour laid a nearly solid line of moving steel along Bloor Street, then crossed, digging for change.

LEAFS LOSE BIG.

Death of playoff hopes, perhaps, but not a death Henry need worry about. With a sense of profound relief-lightly tinted with exasperation; the Leafs were in the worst division in the NHL, after all-he tucked the paper under his arm, turned, and realized the sun was about to clear the horizon.

He could feel it trembling on the edge of the world and it took all his strength not to panic.

The elevator, the red light, the headlines, all had taken more time than he had. How he had allowed this to happen after more than four hundred and fifty years of racing the sun to safety was not important now. Regaining the sanctuary of his apartment was the only thing that mattered. He could feel the heat of the sun on the edges of his consciousness, not a physical presence, not yet, although that and the burning would come soon enough, but an awareness of the threat, of how close he stood to death.

The light he needed was red again, a small mocking sun in a box. The pounding of his heart counting off the seconds, Henry flung himself onto the street. Brakes squealed and the fender of a wildly swerving van brushed against his thigh like a caress. He ignored the sudden pain and the driver's curses, slammed his palm against the hood of a car almost small enough to leap, and dove through a space barely a prayer wider than his twisting body.

The sky turned gray, then pink, then gold.

Leather soles slamming against the pavement, Henry raced along shadow, knowing that fire devoured it behind him and lapped at his heels. Terror fought with the lethargy that daylight wrapped around his kind, and terror won. He reached the smoked glass door to his building seconds before the sun.

It touched only the back of one hand, too slowly snatched to safety.

Cradling the blistered hand against his chest, Henry used the pain to goad himself toward the elevator. Although the diffused light could no longer burn, he was still in danger.

You all right, Mr. Fitzroy? The guard frowned with concern as he buzzed open the inner door.

Unable to focus, Henry forced his head around to where he knew the guard would be. Migraine, he whispered and lurched forward.

The purely artificial light in the elevator revived him a little and he managed to walk down the corridor dragging only a part of his weight along the wail. He feared for a moment that the keys were beyond his remaining dexterity, but somehow he got the heavy door open, closed, and locked behind him. Here was safety.

Safety. That word alone carried him into the shelter of the bedroom where thick blinds denied the sun. He swayed, sighed, and finally let go, collapsing across the bed and allowing the day to claim him.

*    *

Vicki, please!

Vicki frowned, a visit to the ophthalmologist never put her in what could be called a good mood and all this right-eye, left-eye focusing was giving her a major headache. What? she growled through gritted teeth-only incidentally a result of the chin rest.

You're looking directly at the test target.

So?

Dr. Anderson hid a sigh and, with patience developed during the raising of two children, explained, not for the first time, her tone noncommittal and vaguely soothing. Looking directly at the test target negates the effects of the test and we'll just have to do it all over again.

And they would, too. Over and over again if necessary. Holding back a sharp comment behind the thin line of her lips, Vicki attempted to cooperate.

Well? she prodded at last as Dr. Anderson flicked off the perimeter light and motioned for her to raise her head.

It hasn't gotten any worse. ...

Vicki leaned back, watching the doctor's face. Has it gotten any better? she asked pointedly.

This time, Dr. Anderson didn't bother to hide the sigh. Vicki, as I've told you before, retinitis pigmentosa doesn't get better. Ever. It only gets worse. Or, she rolled the perimeter back against the wall, if you're very lucky, the degeneration reaches a point and goes no further.

Have I reached that point?

Only time will tell. You've been pretty lucky already, she continued, raising a hand to forestall Vicki's next comment, in many cases, this disease is accompanied by other types of neurodegenerative conditions.

Deafness, mild retardation, premature senility, and truncal obesity. Vicki snorted. We went through all this in the beginning, and none of it changes the fact that I have effectively no night vision, the outside edge of my peripheral vision has moved in twenty-five degrees, and I've suddenly become myopic.

That might have happened anyway.

Vicki shoved her glasses up her nose. Very comforting. When can I expect to go blind?

The nails of Dr. Anderson's right hand beat a tattoo against her prescription pad. You may never go blind and, in spite of your condition, at the moment you have perfectly functional vision. You mustn't let this make you bitter.

My condition, Vicki snarled, standing and reaching for her coat, as you call it, caused me to leave a job I loved that made a difference for the better in the slime-pit this city is becoming and if it's all the same to you, I think I'd rather be bitter. She didn't quite slam the door on the way out.

What's the matter, darling, you don't look happy?

It hasn't been a great day, Mrs. Kopolous.

The older woman clicked her tongue and shook her head at the family size bag of cheese balls Vicki had laid on the counter. So I see, so I see. You should eat real food, darling, if you want to feel better. This stuff is no good for you. And it makes your fingers orange.

Vicki scooped up her change and dropped it into the depths of her purse. Soon she'd have to deal with the small fortune jangling around down there. Some moods, Mrs. Kopolous, only junk food can handle.

The phone was ringing when she reached her apartment.

Yeah, what?

There's something about the sound of your dulcet tones that makes this whole wretched day worthwhile.

Stuff a sock in it, Celluci. Phone balanced under her chin, Vicki struggled out of her coat. Whadda you want?

My, my, sounds like someone's wearing the bishop's shoes.

Against every inclination, Vicki grinned. His use of that particular punch line in conversation always did it to her. He knew it, too. No, I did not get up on the wrong side of the bed this morning, she told him, hooking her office chair over and throwing herself down into it. As you very well know. But I did just get back from a visit to the ophthalmologist.

Ah. She could picture him leaning back, his feet up on the desk. Every superior he'd ever had had tried to break him of the habit with no noticeable success. The eye doctor of doom. Is it any better?

If he'd sounded sympathetic, she'd have thrown the phone across the room but he only sounded interested. It doesn't get any better, Celluci.

Oh, I don't know; I read this article that said large doses of vitamin A and E can improve the visual field and enhance dark adaptation. He was obviously quoting.

Vicki couldn't decide whether to be touched or furious that he'd been reading up. Given her mood. . . . Do something more useful with your time, Celluci, only abetalipoproteninaemia RP includes biochemical defects, he hadn't been the only one reading up, and that isn't what I've got.

Abetalipoprofemaemia, he corrected her pronunciation, and excuse me for caring. I also found out that a number of people lead completely normal lives with what you've got. He paused and she heard him take a drink of what was undoubtedly cold coffee. Not, he continued, his voice picking up an edge, that you ever lived what could be called a normal life.

She ignored the last comment, picked up a black marker and began venting frustrations with it on the back of her credit card bill. I'm living a completely normal life, she snapped.

Running away and hiding? The tone missed sarcasm but not by very much. You could've stayed on the force. ...

I knew you'd start again. She spat the words from between clenched teeth, but Mike Celluci's angry voice overrode the diatribe she was about to begin and the bitterness in it shut her up.

... but oh no, you couldn't stand the thought that you wouldn't be the hot-shit investigator anymore, the fair-haired girl with all the answers, that you'd just be a part of the team. You quit because you couldn't stand not being on the top of the pile and if you weren't on top, if you couldn't be on top, you weren't going to play! So you ran away. You took your pail and your shovel and you fucking quit! You walked out on me, Nelson, not just the job!

Through all the fights-after the diagnosis and after her resignation-that was what he'd wanted to say. It summed up the hours of arguing, the screaming matches, the slammed doors. Vicki knew it, knew it the way she knew when she found the key, the little seemingly insignificant thing that solved the case. Everything about that last sentence said, this is it.

You'd have done the same thing, Celluci, she said quietly and although her knuckles were white around the receiver, she set it gently back on the phone. Then she threw the marker in her other hand across the room.

Her anger went with it.

He really cares about you, Vicki. Why is that such a problem ?

Because lovers are easy to get and friends good enough to scream at are a lot rarer.

Running both hands through her hair, she sighed. He was right and she'd admitted as much by her response. As soon as he realized she was right as well, they could go on building the new parameters of their relationship. Unless, it suddenly occurred to her, last night had been the farewell performance that enabled him to finally come clean.

If it was, she pushed her glasses up her nose, at least I had the last word. As such things went, it wasn't much of a comfort.

Well, if it isn't old Norman. How you doing, Norman? Mind if we sit down? Without waiting for an answer the young man hooked a chair out from under the table and sat. The four other members of his party noisily followed his lead.

When the scramble for space ended, Norman found himself crammed between the broad shoulders of two jocks he knew only as Roger and Bill, the three of them staring across the round table at three young ladies. He recognized the blonde-he usually saw her hanging on Roger's arm-and as the girl next to Bill was being awfully friendly he supposed she was with him. That left one extra. He grinned wolfishly at her. He'd been practicing the grin in his bathroom mirror.

She looked puzzled, then snorted and turned away.

It was real nice of old Norman to keep this table for us, wasn't it, Bill?

It sure was. Bill leaned a little closer and Norman gasped for breath as his available space narrowed drastically. If it wasn't for old Norman, we'd be sitting on the floor.

Norman looked around. The Friday night crowd at the Cock and Bull had filled the basement pub. Well, I, uh. . . . He shrugged. I, uh, knew you were coming.

Of course you did, Bill grinned at him, a little disconcerted to find that the Birdwell-nerd was at least as tall as he was. I was saying to Roger here before we came in, it wouldn't be Friday night if we didn't spend part of it with old Norman.

Roger laughed and all three of the girls grinned. Norman didn't get the joke, but he preened at the attention.

He bought the first round of beer. After all, it's my table.

And the only empty one in the place, the blonde muttered.

He bought the second round as well. Because I've got lots and lots of money. The wad of twenties he pulled out of the pocket of his windbreaker-five thousand dollars in small unmarked bills had been the third thing he'd asked for-caused a simultaneous dropping of jaws around the table.

Jesus Christ, Norman, what did you do, rob a bank?

I didn't have to, Norman said airily. And there's plenty more where that came from.

He insisted on buying the third and fourth rounds and on switching to imported beer. Imported beer is classier, he confided to the shoulder of Roger's leather jacket, Roger having moved his ear out of range. It really gets the chicks.

Chicks? The echo had a dangerous edge to it.

Consider the source, Helen. Bill deftly removed the glass from her hand-both hand and glass having been threateningly raised-and drained it. You'd just be wasting the beer.

The five burst out laughing again and again, not understanding, Norman joined in. No one would think he wasn't with it.

When they started getting up, he rose with them. The room swayed. He'd never had four beers in quick succession before. In fact, he wasn't entirely certain he'd ever had four beers before. Where we going?

We are going to a private party, Bill told him, a beefy hand pushing him back into his seat.

You just stay here, Norman, Roger patted him on the other shoulder.

Confused, Norman looked from one to the other. They were leaving without him?

Jesus, it's like kicking a puppy, Bill muttered.

Roger nodded in agreement. Uh, look, Norman, it's invitation only. We'd bring you if we could. ...

They were leaving without him. He pointed across the table, his voice an accusatory whine, But she's supposed to be for me.

Expressions of guilty sympathy changed to disgust and Norman quickly found himself alone, Helen's voice drifting back from the door, somehow audible in spite of the noise level in the pub. I'd give him back his beer if I didn't hate vomiting so much.

Trying unsuccessfully to flag the waitress, Norman scowled into the beer rings on the table. She was supposed to be for him. He knew she was. They were cheating him. With the tip of a shaking finger, he drew a five pointed star in the spilled liquid on the tabletop, his vows of the day before forgotten. He'd show them.

His stomach protested suddenly and he lurched toward the bathrooms, hand clutched over his mouth.

I'll show them, he thought, his head dangling over the toilet. But maybe . . . not tonight.

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.

The clothes, peacock bright velvets, satins, and laces turned the length of the room into a glittering kaleidoscope of color. He hated coming to Court and would appear only when his father demanded it. The false flattery, the constant jockeying for position and power, the soul destroying balancing act that must be performed to keep both the block and the pyre at bay; all this set the young Duke of Richmond's teeth on edge.

As he made his way across the salon, each face that turned to greet him wore an identical expression-a mask of brittle gaiety over ennui, suspicion, and fear in about an equal mix.

Then the heavy metal beat of Anthrax drove Green-sleeves 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'II 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.

Four

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. ...

Victoria Nelson, the Private Investigator?

Vicki considered it a moment before answering and then said slowly, Yes. ...

I have a job for you.

The words were delivered with the intensity only the very young can muster and Vicki found herself hiding a smile.

The girl tossed unnaturally brilliant red curls back off her face. I can pay, if that's what you're worried about.

As the question of money hadn't even begun to cross Vicki's mind, she grunted noncommittally. They locked eyes for a moment-Tinted contacts, I thought so. Well, they go with the hair. -then she added, in much the same noncommittal tone, Most people call first.

I thought about it. The shrug was so minimal as to be almost nonexistent and her voice was completely non-apologetic. I figured the case would be harder to turn down in person.

Vicki found herself holding her door open wider. I suppose you'd better come in. Work wasn't so scarce she had to take jobs from children, but it wouldn't hurt to hear what the girl had to say. Another thirty seconds in the hall and Mr. Chin'll be showing up to see what's going on.

Mr. Chin?

The old man who lives downstairs likes to know what's going on, likes to pretend he doesn't speak English.

Sliding past Vicki in the narrow hall, the girl sniffed, obviously disapproving. Maybe he doesn't speak English, she pointed out.

This time, Vicki didn't bother to hide her smile. Mr. Chin has been speaking English a lot longer than both of us have been alive. His parents came to Vancouver in the late 1880s. He used to teach high school. He still teaches English as a Second Language at the Chinese Community Center.

Bright green eyes narrowed accusingly and the girl glared up at Vicki. I don't like being patronized, she said.

Vicki nodded as she closed the door. Neither do I.      

During the silence that followed, Vicki could almost hear their conversation being replayed, each phrase, each word tested for nuance.

Oh, the girl said at last. Sorry. Then her brow unfurrowed and she grinned as she offered a compromise. I won't do it anymore if you'd don't.

Deal. Vicki led the way through her tiny living room, pushing her leather recliner back upright as she passed, to her equally tiny office. She'd never actually had a client, or potential client, in the office before and here were a couple of unanticipated problems. I'll, uh, get another chair from the kitchen.

It's okay. This is fine. Shrugging out of her coat she settled both herself and it on Vicki's weight bench. Now, about this job. . . .

Not yet. Vicki pulled her own chair out from the desk and sat down. First, about you. Your name is?

Coreen, Coreen Fergus. She continued on the same breath, obviously feeling that her name covered all the necessary details. And I want you to find that vampire that's been terrorizing the city.

Right. It was too early on a Monday and the latest death was too close. Did Michael Celluci put you up to this?

Who?

Nevermind. Shaking her head, Vicki stood. Look, I don't know who put you up to this but you can go back to them and. ...

Ian Reddick was my . . . She frowned, searching for a word that would give the relationship its proper weight. ... lover.

Ian Reddick, Vicki repeated and sat down again. Ian Reddick, the first victim. The body she'd found mutilated in the Eglinton West subway station.

I want you to find the thing that killed him.

Look, Coreen, her voice dropped into the professional comfort tone that police officers worldwide had to master, I recognize how upset you must be, but don't you think that's a job for the authorities?

No.

There was something utterly intractable in that no. Vicki pushed her glasses up her nose and searched for a response while Coreen continued.

They insist on looking for a man, refusing to acknowledge that the paper might be right; refusing to consider anything outside their narrow little world view.

Refusing to consider that the killer might actually be a vampire?

Right.

The paper doesn't really believe it's a vampire either, you know.

Coreen tossed her hair back off her face. So? The facts still fit. The blood is still missing. I bet Ian would have been drained dry if he hadn't been found so quickly.

She doesn't know it was me. Thank God. And again she saw him, his face a cliched mask of terror above the gaping red wound that was his throat. Gaping red wound . . .no, more as though the whole front of his throat had been ripped away. Not ripped through, ripped away. That was what had been missing; the incongruity that had been nagging at her for over a week now. Where was the front of Ian Reddick's throat?

... so will you?

Vicki slowly surfaced from memory. Let me get this straight. You want me to find lan's killer, working under the assumption that it really is a vampire? Bats, coffins, the whole bit.

Yes.

And once I've found it, I drive a stake through its heart?

Creatures of the night can hardly be brought to trial, Coreen pointed out reasonably but with a martial light in her eye. Ian must be avenged.

Don't get sad, get even. It was a classic solution to grief and one Vicki didn't altogether disapprove of. Why me? she asked.

Coreen sat up straighter. You were the only female private investigator in the yellow pages.

That, at least, made sense and explained the eerie coincidence of Coreen showing up in the office of the woman who'd found lan's body. Out of all the gin joints in all the. ... She couldn't remember the rest of the quote but she was beginning to understand how Bogart had felt. It wouldn't be cheap. What am I cautioning her for? I am not going vampire hunting.

I can afford the best. Daddy pays me a phenomenal amount of guilt money. He ran off with his executive assistant when I was in junior high.

Vicki shook her head. Mine ran off with his secretary when I was in sixth grade and I never got a cent out of him. Times change. Was she young and pretty?

He, Coreen corrected. And yes, very pretty. They've opened a new law practice in the Bahamas.

As I said, times change. Vicki pushed her glasses up her nose and sighed. Vampire hunting. Except it wouldn't have to be that. Just find whoever, or whatever, killed Ian Reddick. Exactly what she'd be doing if she were still on the force. Lord knew they were undermannned and could use the help.

Coreen, who had kept her gaze locked on the older woman's face, smiled triumphantly and dug for her checkbook.

Michael Celluci, please.

One moment.

Vicki tapped her nails against the side of the phone as she waited for the call to be put through. Ian Reddick's throat had been missing and Celluci, the arrogant shit, hadn't thought to mention whether it had been found or if the other bodies were in the same condition. She didn't really care at this point if he wasn't speaking to her'cause she was bloody well going to speak to him.

Criminal Investigation Bureau, Detective-Sergeant Graham.

Dave? It's Vicki Nelson. I need to talk to Celluci.

He's not here right now, Vicki. Can I help?

From her brief experience with him, Vicki knew Dave to be, if possible, a worse liar than she was. And if he couldn't lie convincingly for important things he certainly couldn't do it just to protect his partner's ass. Trust Celluci to get out before the heat came down. I need a favor.

Shoot.

The wording became crucial here. It had to sound like she knew more than she did or Dave might clam up and retreat to the official party line. Although, with luck, the acquired habit of answering her questions could last around the department for years. The hunk of throat missing from the first body, did anyone ever find it?

Nope.

So far so good. What about the others?

Not a sign.

Not even last night's?

Not yet anyway. Why?

Just sitting here wondering. Thanks, Dave. Tell your partner from me that he's a tight-lipped horse's ass. She hung up and stared at the far wall. Maybe Celluci had been holding the information back to ensure he had bargaining power in the future. Maybe. Maybe he quite honestly forgot to tell her. Ha! Maybe pigs would fly, but she doubted it.

Right now, she had more important things to consider. Like what kind of creature walked off with six square inches of throat as well as twelve pints of blood?

The subway roared out of Eglinton West toward Lawrence and, with the station momentarily deserted, Vicki strode purposefully for the workman's access at the southern end of the northbound platform. This was now her case and she couldn't stand working with secondhand information. She'd see the alcove where the killer allegedly disappeared for herself.

At the top of the short flight of concrete stairs, she paused, her blood pounding unnaturally loudly in her ears. She had always considered herself immune to foolish superstitions, race memories, and night terrors, but faced with the tunnel, stretching dark and seemingly endless like the lair of some great worm, she was suddenly incapable of taking the final step off the platform. The hair on the back of her neck rose as she remembered how, on the night Ian Reddick had died, she'd been certain that something deadly lingered in the tunnel. The feeling itself hadn't returned, but the memory replayed with enough strength to hold her.

This is ridiculous. Pull yourself together, Nelson. There's nothing down in that tunnel that could hurt you. Her right foot slid forward half a step. The worst thing you're likely to run into is a TTC official and a trespassing charge. Her left foot moved up and passed the right. Good God, you're acting like some stupid teenager in a horror movie. Then she stood on the first step. The second. The third. Then she was on the narrow concrete strip that provided a safe passage along the outside rail.

See. Nothing to it. She wiped suddenly sweaty palms on her coat and dug in her purse for her flashlight, then, with the satisfyingly solid weight of it in her hand, flooded the tunnel with light. She would have preferred not to use it, away from the harsh fluorescents of the station, the tunnel existed more in a surreal twilight than a true darkness, but her night-sight had deteriorated to the point where even twilight had become impenetrable. The anger her condition always caused wiped away the last of the fear.

She rather hoped something was skulking in her path. For starters, she'd feed it the flashlight.

Pushing her glasses up her nose, her gaze locked on the beam of light, Vicki moved carefully along the access path. If the trains were on schedule-and while the TTC wasn't up to Mussolini, it did all right-the next one wouldn't be along for another, she checked the glowing dial of her watch, eight minutes. Plenty of time.

She reached the first workman's alcove with six minutes remaining and sniffed disapprovingly at the evidence of police investigation. Sure, boys, she muttered, playing the light around the concrete walls, mess it up for the next person.

The hole Celluci's team had dug was about waist level in the center of the back wall and about eight inches in diameter. Stepping over chips of concrete, Vicki leaned forward for a better look. There was, as Celluci said, nothing but dirt behind the excavation.

So if he didn't come in here, she frowned, where did he. . . . Then she noticed the crack that ran the length of the wall, into and out of the exploratory hole. A closer look brought her nose practically in contact with the concrete. The faint hint of a familiar smell had her digging for her Swiss army knife and carefully scraping the edges of the dark recess.

The flakes on the edge of the stainless steel blade showed red-brown in the flashlight beam. They could have been rust. Vicki touched one to the tip of her tongue. They could have been rust, but they weren't. She had a pretty good idea whose blood she'd found but brushed the remaining flakes into a plastic sandwich bag anyway. Then she squatted and ran the blade up under the crack at the top edge of the hole.

Even as she did it, she wasn't sure why. Most of lan's blood had been sprayed over the subway station wall. There could not have been enough blood on the killer's clothes to have soaked all the way through a crack in six inches of concrete even if he'd been wearing paper towels and had remained plastered against the wall for the entire night.

When she pulled out the knife, mixed in with dirt and bits of cement, were similar red-brown flakes. These went into another bag and then she quickly repeated the procedure at the bottom edge of the hole with the same results.

The roar of the subway became a welcome, normal kind of terror for the only explanation Vicki could come up with, as the alcove shook and a hundred tons of steel hurtled past, was that whatever killed Ian Reddick had somehow passed through the crack in the concrete wall.

And that was patently ridiculous.

Wasn't it?

As the largest producer and wholesaler of polyester clothing, Sigman's Incorporated didn't exactly run a high security building. Since the murder of Terri Neal in the underground parking lot, they'd tried to tighten things up.

In spite of four and a half pages of new admittance regulations, the guard in the lobby glanced up as Vicki strode past, then went back to his book. In gray corduroy pants, black desert boots, and her navy pea jacket she could have been any one of the hundreds of women who came through the area every day and he was neither expected nor encouraged to stop all of them. She certainly wasn't the press-the guard had grown adept at spotting the ladies and gentlemen of the fifth estate and herding them off to the proper authorities. She didn't look like a cop, and besides, cops always checked in. She looked like she knew where she was going, so the guard decided not to interfere. In his opinion, the world could use a few more people who knew where they were going.

At 2:30 in the afternoon, the underground parking garage was empty of people which explained pretty much exactly why Vicki was there at that time. She stepped off the elevator and frowned up at the whining fluorescent lights. Why the hell don't they have security cameras down here? she wondered as the echoes of her footsteps bounced off the stained concrete walls.

Even without the scuffed and faded chalk marks she could tell where the body had fallen. The surrounding cars had been crammed together, leaving an open area over three spaces wide, as if violent death were somehow contagious.

She found what she'd come looking for tucked almost under an ancient rust and blue sedan. Her lower lip caught between her teeth, she pulled out her knife and knelt beside the crack. The blade slid in its full six inches, but the bottom of the crack was deeper still. The red-brown flakes that came up on the steel had most certainly not dropped off the wreck.

She sat back on her heels and frowned. I really, really don't like the looks of this.

Fishing a marble from the bottom of her bag, she placed it on one of the remaining chalk marks and gave it a little push. It rolled toward the wall, moving away from the crack at almost a forty-five degree angle. Further experiments produced similar results. Blood, or for that matter anything else, could not have traveled from the body to the crack in any way that might be called natural.

Not that there's anything even remotely natural about any of this, she muttered, tucking this third sandwich bag of dried blood in beside the others and crawling after her marble.

Rather than go back through the building, she climbed up the steeply graded driveway and out onto St. Clair Avenue West.

Excuse me?

The attendant in the booth looked up from his magazine.

Vicki waved a hand back down the drive in the general direction of the underground garage. Do you know what's under the bottom layer of concrete?

He looked in the direction she indicated, looked back at her, and repeated, Under the concrete?

Yeah.

Dirt, lady.

She smiled and eased around the barricade. Thanks. You've been a great help. I'll show myself out.

The chain link fence protested slightly and sagged forward under Vicki's weight as she peered down into the construction site. It was, at the moment, little more than a huge hole in the ground filled with smaller holes, filled with muddy water. All the machinery appeared to have been removed and work stopped. Whether because of the murder or the weather, Vicki had no way of knowing.

Well, she shoved her hands down into the pockets of her coat, there's definitely dirt. If there was any blood, it was beyond finding.

No problem, Vicki. Rajeet Mohadevan tucked the three sandwich bags into the pocket of her lab coat. I can run them through before I head home tonight with no one the wiser. Are you going to be around the building?

No. Vicki saw the flicker of sympathy across the researcher's face but decided to ignore it. Rajeet was doing her a favor, after all. If I'm not at home, you can leave a message on the machine.

Same number?

Same number.

Rajeet grinned. Same message?

Vicki found herself grinning back. The last time the police lab had called her at home had been in the worst of the fights between her and Celluci. Different message.

Pity. Rajeet gave an exaggerated sigh of disappointment as Vicki headed for the door. I've forgotten a few of the places you told him to stuff his occurrence book. She sketched a salute-a reminder of the old days, when Vicki had been an intense young woman in a uniform- and returned to the report she'd been filling out before the interruption.

Walking down the hall, the familiar white tiles of the corridor wrapping around her like an old friend, Vicki considered heading through the tunnel to headquarters and checking to see if Celluci were at his desk. She could tell him about the cracks, find out if he'd been withholding any more information from her, and ... no. Given his mood the last time they'd talked and given that he hadn't called over the weekend, if she showed up now she'd just interfere with his work and that was something neither of them ever did. The work being what it was, the work came first and the cracks were added questions, not answers.

She was out of the building entirely when she realized that the thought of seeing another cop sitting at what had been her desk had not influenced her decision one way or another. Feeling vaguely like she'd betrayed her past, she hunched her shoulders against the late afternoon chill and started for home.

For years Vicki had been promising to buy herself a really good encyclopedia set. For years she'd been putting it off. The set she had, she'd bought at the grocery store for five dollars and ninety-nine cents a volume with every ten dollars worth of groceries. It didn't have a lot to say about vampires.

Legendary creatures, uh huh, central Europe, Vlad the Impaler, Bram Stoker. ... Vicki pushed her glasses up her nose and tried to remember the characteristics of Stoker's Dracula. She'd seen the play years ago and thought she might have read the book in high school-only a lifetime or two back.

He was stronger, faster, his senses were more acute. ... She flicked the points off on her fingertips. He slept all day, came out at night, and he hung around with a guy who ate flies. And spiders. Making a disgusted face she turned back to the encyclopedia.

The vampire, she read, was said to be able to turn into bats, wolves, mist, or vapor. The ability to turn to mist or vapor would explain the cracks, she realized. The victim's blood, being heavier, would precipitate out to coat the narrow passageway. And a creature that rises from the grave should have no trouble moving through earth. Marking her place with an old phone bill, she heaved herself out of the recliner and turned the television on, suddenly needing sound in the apartment.

This is crazy, she muttered, opening the book again and reading while she paced. Fantasy and reality were moving just a little too close for comfort, definitely too close for sitting still.

The remainder of the entry listed the various ways of dealing with the creatures, from ash stakes through mustard seed to the crucifix, going on in great detail about staking, beheading, and burning.

Vicki allowed the slender volume to fall closed and raised her head to look out the window. In spite of the street light glowing less than three meters from her apartment, she was very conscious of the darkness pressing against the glass. For a legendary creature, the methods of its destruction seemed to be taken very seriously indeed.

*    *    *

Behind the police barricade, something crouched low over the piece of sidewalk where the fourth body had been found. Although the night could hide no secrets from him and, unlike the others who had searched, he knew what to search for, he found nothing.

Nothing, Henry murmured to himself as he stood. And yet there should be something here. A child of his kind might be able to hide its tracks from human hunters but not from kin. He lifted his head and his nostrils flared to check the breeze. A cat-no, two-on hunts of their own, rain that would fall before morning, and. . . .

He frowned, brows drawing down into a deep vee. And what? He knew the smell of death in all its many manifestations and laid over the residue of this morning's slaying was a faint miasma of something older, more foul, almost familiar.

His memories stretched back over four hundred and fifty years. Somewhere in there. . . .

The police car was almost up on him before he saw it and the tiny sun in the heart of the searchlight had begun to glow before he moved.

Holy shit! Did you see that?

See what? Auxiliary Police Constable Wojtowicz stared out her window at the broad fan of light spilling out from the top of the slowly moving car.

I don't know. PC Harper leaned forward over the steering wheel and peered past his partner. I could've sworn I saw a man standing inside the barricades just as I flipped the lighten.

Wojtowicz snorted. Then we'd still be able to see him. Nobody moves that fast. And besides, she waved a hand at the view out the window, there's nowhere to hide in that. That included the sidewalk, the barricades, and an expanse of muddy lawn. Although black shadows streamed away from every irregularity, none were large enough to hide a man.

Think we should get out and look around?

You're the boss.

Well. ... Nothing moved amid the stark contrast of light and shadow. Harper shook his head. The night had been making him jumpy lately; exposing nerves and plucking at them. I guess you're right. There's nothing there.

Of course I'm right. The car continued down the block and she reached over to shut the searchlight off. You're just letting all this vampire stuff in the press get to you.

You don't believe in vampires, do you?

Course not. Wojtowicz settled more comfortably into her seat. Don't tell me you do?

It was Harper's turn to snort. I, he told her dryly, have been audited.

Back on the lawn, one of the shadows lay, face pressed against the dirt, and remembered. The scent was stronger here, mixed a third part with earth and blood, and it brushed away the centuries.

It was London, 1593. Elizabeth was on the throne and had been for some time. He'd been dead for fifty-seven years. He'd been walking back from the theater, having just seen the premiere presentation of Richard the Third. On the whole, he'd enjoyed himself although he had a feeling the playwright had taken a few liberties with the personality of the king.

Out of a refuse-strewn alleyway, a young man had stumbled-thin and disheveled but darkly handsome, very drunk, and, clinging about him like his own personal bit of fog, had been that same smell.

Henry had already fed from a whore behind the theater, but even if he hadn't, he would not have fed from this man. The scent alone was enough to make him wary, the not quite sane glitter in the dark eyes had only added further warning.

Most humbly, I beg your pardon. His voice, the voice of an educated man, had been slurred almost beyond understanding. But I have been in Hell this night and am having some small difficulty in returning. He'd giggled then, and executed a shaky bow in Henry's direction. Christopher Marlowe at your service, milord. Can you spare a few coppers for a drink?

Christopher Marlowe, Henry repeated softly into a night more than four hundred years after that unhappy man had died. He rolled onto his back and gazed up at the clouds closing ranks over the stars. Although he had read the play just after its posthumous publication in 1604, he wondered tonight for the first time just how much research Marlowe had done before writing The Tragical History of Dr. Faustus.

Vicki, it's Rajeet. Sorry to call so late-uh, it's 11:15, Monday night, I guess you've gone to bed-but I figured you'd want to know the results of the tests. You have positive matches with both Ian Reddick and Terri Neal. I don't know what you've found, but I hope it helps.

Five

... although the police department refuses to issue a statement at this time, the Coroner's Office has confirmed that Mark Thompson, the fifth victim, has also been drained of blood. A resident, who wishes to remain nameless, living in the area of Don Mills Road and St. Dennis Drive, swears he saw a giant bat fly past his balcony just moments before the body was found. Jesus H. Christ. Vicki punched the paper down into a tightly wadded mass and flung it at the far wall. Giant bats! No surprise he wants to remain nameless. Shit!

The sudden shrill demand of the phone lifted her about four inches out of her chair. Scowling, she turned on it but at the last instant remembered that the call might be business and modified her response accordingly. A snarled, What! seldom impressed potential clients.

Private investigations, Nelson speaking.

Have you seen this morning's paper?!

The voice was young, female, and not instantly identifiable. Who is this, please?

It's me. Coreen Fergus. Have you seen this morning's paper?

Yes, Coreen, I have, but. ...

Well, that proves it then, doesn't it.

Proves what? Tucking the phone under her chin, Vicki reached for her coffee. She had a feeling she was going to need it.

About the vampire. There's a witness. Someone saw it! Coreen's voice had picked up a triumphant tone.

Vicki took a deep breath. A giant bat could be anything, Coreen. A blowing garbage bag, the shadow of an airplane, laundry falling off another balcony.

And it could also be a giant bat. You are going to talk to this person, aren't you?

It wasn't really a question and although Vicki had been deliberately not thinking about trying to find an unnamed source in the rabbit warren of apartments and town-houses around St. Dennis Drive, talking to this person was the next logical step. She reassured Coreen, promised to call the moment she had any results, and hung up.

Like looking for a needle in a haystack. But it had to be done; a witness could break the case wide open.

She finished her coffee and checked her watch. There was one thing she wanted to check before she hit the pavement. 8:43. Cutting it close, but Brandon should still be at his desk.

He was.

After greetings were exchanged-perfunctory on one side at least-Vicki slid in the reason for her call. ... and you and I both know you've found things that you haven't told the papers.

That's very true, Victoria. The coroner didn't even pretend not to understand. But, as you know very well, I won't be able to tell these things to you either. I'm sorry, but you're no longer a member of the constabulary.

But I have been hired to work on the case. Quickly, she outlined the pertinent parts of Coreen's visit for him, leaving out any mention of the young lady's personal belief as to the supernatural identity of the killer as well as the latest phone call.

You've been hired as a private citizen, Victoria, and as such you have no more right to information than any other private citizen.

Vicki stifled a sigh and considered how best to approach this. When Brandon Singh meant no, he said it, straight out with no frills. And then he hung up. As long as he remained willing to talk he remained willing to be convinced. Look, Brandon, you know my record. You know I have as good a chance as anyone in the city of solving this case. And you know you want it solved. I'll stand a better chance if I have all available information.

Granted, but somehow this smacks of vigilantism.

Vigilantism? Trust me, Brandon, I am not going to dress up in some silly costume and leap around making the city safe for decent people. She doodled a bat symbol on her notepad, then hastily crumpled the page up and tossed it away. Under the circumstances, bats were not a particularly apt motif. All I'm doing is investigating. I swear I'll hand over everything I turn up to Violent Crimes.

I believe you, Victoria. He paused and Vicki, fidgeting with impatience, jumped into the silence.

With a killer of this caliber on the loose, can the city afford not to have me on the case, even in an auxiliary position?

Think highly of yourself, don't you?

She heard the smile in his voice and knew she had him. Dr. Brandon Singh believed in using every available resource and while he personally might have preferred a less intuitive approach than hers, he had to admit that Victory Nelson represented a valuable resource indeed. If she thought highly of herself, it wasn't without cause.

Very well, he said at last, his tone even more portentous than usual as though to make up for his earlier lapse. But there's very little the papers don't have and I don't know what use you'll be able to make of it. He took a deep breath and even the ambient noise on the phone line seemed to fall silent to listen. We found, in all but the first wound, a substance very like saliva. . . .

Very like saliva? Vicki interjected. How could something be very like saliva?

Something can't. But this was. What's more, every body so far, including that of young Reddick, has been missing the front half of the throat.

I'd already discovered that.

Indeed. For a moment, Vicki was afraid he'd taken offense at her interruption, but he continued. The only other item kept from the press concerns the third body- the large man, DeVerne Jones. He was clutching a torn piece of thin membrane in his hand.

Membrane?

Yes.

Like a bat wing?

Remarkably similar, yes.

It was Vicki's turn to breathe deeply. Something very like saliva and a bat wing. I can see why you didn't tell the papers.

Celluci hung up the phone and reached for the paper. He couldn't decide whether the apology had been made easier because Vicki was out of her apartment or harder because he'd had to talk to her damned machine. Whatever. It was done and the next move was hers.

A second later Dave Graham barely managed to snatch his coffee out of harm's way as his partner slammed the paper down on the desk.

Did you see this bullshit? Celluci demanded.

The, uh, giant bat?

Fuck the bat! Those bastards found a witness and didn't see fit to let us know!

But we were heading out to St. Dennis this morning------

Yeah, Celluci shrugged into his jacket and glared Dave up out of his chair, but we're heading down to the paper first. A witness could blow this case wide open and I don't want to piss away my time if they've got a name.

A name of someone who sees giant bats, Dave muttered, but he scrambled into his own coat and followed his partner out into the hail. You think it really could be a vampire? he asked as he caught up.

Celluci didn't even break stride. Don't you start, he growled.

Who is it?

It's the police, Mr. Bowan. We need to talk to you. Celluci held his badge up in line with the spy-eye and waited. After a long moment, he heard a chain being pulled free and two-no, three-locks snapped off. He stepped back beside his partner as the door slowly opened.

The old man peered up at them through rheumy eyes. You Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci?

Yes, but . . . Surely the old man's eyesight hadn't been good enough to read that off his ID.

She said you'd probably show up this morning. He opened the door wider and moved back out of the way. Come in, come in.

The detectives exchanged puzzled looks as they entered the tiny apartment. While the old man relocked the door, Celluci looked around. Heavy blankets had been tacked up along one wall, over the windows and the balcony door, and every light in the place was on. There was a Bible on the coffee table and a water glass beside it that smelled of Scotch. Whatever the old man had seen, it had caused him to put up the barricades and reach for reassurance.

Dave settled himself carefully on the sagging couch. Who said we'd be here this morning, Mr. Bowan?

Young lady who just left. In fact, I'm surprised you didn't pass her in the parking lot. Nice girl, real friendly.

Did this nice, real friendly girl have a name? Celluci asked through clenched teeth.

The old man managed a wheezy laugh. She said you'd react like that. Shaking his head, he picked a business card off his kitchen table and dropped it into Celluci's hand.

Leaning over his partner's shoulder, Dave barely had a chance to read it before Celluci closed his fist.

What else did Ms. Nelson say?

Oh, she seemed real concerned that I cooperate with you gentlemen. That I tell you everything I told her. Course I had no intention of doing otherwise, though I've got no idea what the police can do. More a job for an exorcist or maybe a pri. . . . A yawn that threatened to split his face in half cut off the flow of words. S'cuse me, but I didn't get much sleep last night. Can I get either of you a cup of tea? Pot's still hot. When both men declined, he settled himself down in a worn armchair and looked expectantly from one to the other. You going to ask me questions or you just want me to start at the beginning and tell it in my own words?

Start at the beginning and tell it in your own words. Celluci had heard Vicki give that instruction a thousand times and had no doubt he was hearing her echo now. His anger had faded into a reluctant appreciation of her ability with a witness. Whatever mood Vicki had found him in, she'd left Mr. Bowan well primed for their visit. Use your own words, we'll ask questions if we need to.

Okay. Mr. Bowan rubbed his hands together, obviously enjoying his second captive audience of the morning in spite of his fright of the night before. It was just after midnight, I know that'cause I turned the TV off at midnight like I always do. Well, I was on my way to bed so I turned off the lights, then I thought I might better step out on the balcony to have a look around the building, just in case. Sometimes, he confided, leaning forward, we get kids fooling around in the bushes down there.

While Dave nodded in understanding, Celluci hid a grin. Mr. Bowan, no doubt, spent a great deal of time out on his balcony checking out the neighborhood . . . and the neighbors. The binocular case on the floor by the armchair bore mute witness.

Last night, he'd barely stepped outside before he knew something was wrong. It was the smell. Like rotten eggs, only worse. Then there it was, big as life and twice as ugly and so close I could've reached out and touched it-if I was as senile as my daughter-in-law seems to think I am. The wings were spread out seven or eight feet. He paused for effect. The giant bat. Nosferatu. Vampire. You find his crypt, gentlemen, and you'll find your killer.

Can you describe the creature?

If you mean could I pick it out in a lineup, no. Tell you the truth, it went by so awfully fast I saw mostly outline. But I'll tell you this much, his voice grew serious and a note of terror crept in, that thing had eyes like I've never seen on any living creature and I hope to God never to see again. Yellow they were and cold, and I knew that if they looked back at me I wouldn't last much beyond the first glance. It was evil, gentlemen, real evil, not the diluted kind of evil humanity is prey to but the cold uncaring kind that comes from old Nick himself. Now, I'm old and death and me's gotten pretty chummy over the last few years; nothing much scares me anymore but this, this scared the holy bejesus out of me. He swallowed heavily and searched both their faces. You can believe me or not-that reporter fella didn't when I went down to see what the sirens were about-but I know what I saw and I know what I felt.

As much as he wanted to side with the reporter, who had described Mr. Bowan as an entertaining old coot, Celluci found himself unable to dismiss what the old man had seen. And what the old man had felt. Something in his voice or his expression raised the hair on the back of Celluci's neck and although intellect argued against it, instinct trembled on the edge of belief.

He wished he could talk this over with Vicki, but he wouldn't give her the satisfaction.

God, I hate these machines. The heavy, exaggerated sigh that followed had been recorded in its annoyed entirety. Okay. I'd have reacted much the same way. Probably been an equal pain in the ass. So, I'm right, you're right, we're both right, let's start over. The tape hissed quietly for a few seconds while background noises-the rumble of two deep voices arguing, the staccato beat of an old, manual typewriter, and the constant ringing of other phones-grew louder. Then Celluci's voice returned, bearing just enough edge to show he meant what he said. And stop hustling my partner for classified information. He's a nice man, not that you'd recognize nice, and you give him palpitations. He hung up without saying good-bye.

Vicki grinned down at her answering machine. Mike Celluci was no better at apologizing than she was. For him, that was positively gracious. And it had obviously been left before he talked to Mr. Bowan and found she'd been there first. Any messages left after that would have had a very different tone.

Finding the tabloid's unnamed source had actually been surprisingly easy. The first person she'd spoken to had snorted and said, You want old man Bowan. If anyone sees anything around here it's him. Never minds his own fucking business. Then he'd jerked his head at 25 St. Dennis with enough force to throw his mohawk down over his eyes.

As to what old man Bowan had seen. ... As much as Vicki hated to admit it, she was beginning to think Coreen might not be as far out in left field as first impressions indicated.

She wondered if she should call Celluci. They could share their impressions of Mr. Bowan and his close encounter. Nah. She shook her head. Better give him time to cool off first. Spreading the detailed map of Toronto she'd just bought out over her kitchen table, she decided to call him later. Right now, she had work to do.

It was easy to forget just how big Toronto was. It had devoured any number of smaller places as it grew, and it showed no signs of stopping. The downtown core, the image everyone carried of the city, made up a very small part of the whole.

Vicki drew a red circle around the Eglinton West subway station, another around the approximate position of the Sigman's building on St. Clair West, and a third around the construction site on Symington Avenue where DeVerne Jones had died. Then she frowned and drew a straight line through all three. Allowing for small inaccuracies in placing the second and third positions, the line bisected all three circles, running southwest to northeast across the city.

The two new deaths appeared to have no connection to the first three but seemed to be starting a line of their own.

And there was more.

No one could be that stupid, Vicki muttered, digging in her desk for a ruler.

The first two deaths were essentially the same distance apart as the fourth and the fifth; far from exact by mathematical standards but too close to be mere coincidence.

No one could be that stupid, she said again, smacking the ruler against her palm. The second line ran northwest to southeast and it measured out in a circle that centered at Woodbine and Mortimer. Vicki was willing to bet any odds that between midnight and dawn a sixth body would turn up to end the line.

Just west of York University, the lines crossed.

X marks the spot. Vicki pushed her glasses up her nose, frowned, and pushed them up again. It was too easy. There had to be a catch.

All right. ... Tossing the ruler onto the map, she ticked off points on her fingers. First possibility; the killer wants to be found. Second possibility; the killer is just as capable of drawing lines on a map as I am, has set up the pattern to mean nothing at all, and is sitting in Scarborough busting a gut laughing at the damn fool police who fell for it. For purposes of this exercise, she and the police were essentially the same. Possibility three ; she stared at the third finger as though it might have an answer, we're hunting a vampire even as the vampire is hunting us and who the hell knows how a vampire thinks.

Celucci was as capable as she of drawing lines on a map, but she reached for the phone anyway. Occasionally, the obvious escaped him. To her surprise, he was in. His reaction came as no surprise at all.

Teach your grandmother to suck eggs, Vicki.

So can I assume Toronto's finest will be gathered tonight at Mortimer and Woodbine?

You can assume whatever you want, I've never been able to stop you, but if you think you and your little Nancy Drew detective kit are going to be anywhere near there, think again.

What are you going to do? How dare he dictate to her. Arrest me?

If I have to, yes. His tone said he'd do exactly that. You are no longer on the force, you are virtually blind at night, and you are more likely to end up as the corpse than the hero.

I don't need you babying me, Celluci!

Then act like an adult and stay home!

They slammed the receivers down practically simultaneously. He knew she'd be there and she knew he knew it. Moreover, she had no doubt that if their paths crossed he'd lock her away on trumped up charges for her own safety. Better than even odds said that, having been forewarned, he'd lock her up now if he thought he could get away with it.

He was right. She was virtually blind at night.

But the police were hunting a man and Vicki no longer really believed a man had anything to do with these deaths. Blind or not, if she was there, she might even the odds.

Now, what to do until dark? Maybe it was time to do a little detecting and find out what the word was on the street.

At least he didn't scream about Mr. Bowan, she muttered as she shrugged back into her coat.

Yo, Victory, long time no see.

Yeah, it's been a couple of months. How've you been, Tony?

Tony shrugged thin shoulders under his jean jacket. I've been okay.

You clean?

He shot her a look out of the corner of one pale blue eye. I hear you ain't a cop no more. I don't got to tell you.

Vicki shrugged in turn. No. You don't.

They walked in silence for a moment, threading their way through the crowds that surged up and down Yonge Street. When they stopped at the Wellesley lights, Tony sighed. Okay, I'm clean. You happy now? You going to bugger off and leave me alone?

She grinned. Is it ever that easy?

Not with you it ain't. Listen, he waved a hand at a corner restaurant, less trendy than most of its competitors, you're going to take up my time, you can buy me lunch.

She bought him lunch, but not the beer he wanted, and asked him about the feeling on the street.

Feeling about what? he asked, stuffing a huge forkful of mashed potatoes into his mouth. Sex? Drugs? Rock'n'roll?

Things that go bump in the night.

He threw his arm up in the classic Hammer films tradition. Ah, the vampyre.

Vicki took a swallow of tepid coffee, wondered how she'd survived drinking it all those years on the force, and waited. Tony had been her best set of eyes and ears on the street. He wasn't exactly a snitch, more a barometer really, hooked into moods and feelings, and although he never mentioned specifics, he'd pointed her in the right direction more than once. He was nineteen now. He'd been fifteen when she first brought him in.

Feelin' on the street. . . . He methodically spread the last roll a quarter inch thick with butter. Feelin' on the street says, paper's right with this one.

A vampire?

He peered up at her from under the thick fringe of his eyelashes. Killer ain't human, that's what the street says. Sucks blood, don't it? Vampire's a good enough name for it. Cops won't catch it'cause they're lookin' for a guy. He grinned. Cops in this city ain't worth shit anyway. Not like they used to be.

Well, thank you very much. She watched him scrape his plate clean, then asked, Tony, do you believe in vampires?

He flicked a tiny crucifix out from inside his shirt. I believe in stayin' alive.

Outside the restaurant, turning collars up against the wind, she asked him if he needed money. She couldn't get him off the street, he wouldn't accept her help, so she gave him what he'd take. Celluci called it white-middle-class-guilt-money. While admitting he was probably right, Vicki ignored him.

Nah, Tony pushed a lock of pale brown hair back off his face. I'm doing okay for cash.

You hooking?

Why? You can't arrest me anymore; you wanna hire me?

I want to smack you. Haven't you heard there's an epidemic going on?

He danced back out of her range. Hey, I'm careful. Like I said, and just for an instant he looked much, much older than his years, I believe in stayin' alive.

Vicki, I don't care what your curbside guru says and I don't care what the'feeling on the street is'; there are no such thing as vampires and you are losing your mind.

Vicki got the phone away from her ear before Celluci slammed his receiver down. Shaking her head, she hung up her own phone considerably more gently. All right, she'd told him. She'd done it against her better judgment and knowing full well what his reaction would be. No matter what went down tonight, her conscience was clear.

And it's not that I believe in vampires, she pointed out to the empty apartment, pushing back to extend the recliner. I believe in keeping an open mind. And, she added silently, grimly, her mind on Tony and his crucifix, I, too, believe in stayin' alive. Beside the chair, her bag bulged with the afternoon's purchases.

At 11:48, Vicki stepped off the northbound Woodbine bus at Mortimer. For a moment, she leaned against the window of the small garden store on the corner, giving herself time to grow used to the darkness. There, under the street lamp, her vision was functional. A few meters away, where the overlap of two lights created a double-shadowed twilight, she knew she wouldn't be able to trust it. It would be worse off the main street. She fished her flashlight out of her bag and held it ready, just in case.

Across a shadow-filled distance, she saw a traffic signal work through its tiny spectrum and decided to cross the street. For no reason really, the creature could appear on the east side of Woodbine just as easily as on the west, but it seemed like the thing to do. Moving had always been infinitely preferable to waiting around.

Terry's Milk Mart on the north side of Mortimer appeared to be open-it was the only building in the immediate neighborhood still brightly lit-so she crossed toward it.

I can ask a few questions. Buy a bag of chips. Find out. . . . SHIT! Two men from homicide were in the store talking to a surly looking teenager she could only assume was not the proprietor. Eyes streaming from the sudden glare of the fluorescents, she backed down the six stairs much more quickly than she'd gone up them. She spotted the unmarked car south across Mortimer in the Brewers Retail parking lot-trust the government to light a square of asphalt at almost midnight--and headed in the opposite direction, willing to bet long odds that Celluci had included her in his instructions to his men.

If she remembered correctly, the houses that lined the street were small, virtually identical, detached, two-story, single family dwellings. Not the sort of neighborhood you'd think would attract a vampire. Not that she expected the creature to actually put in an appearance on Woodbine; the street was too well lit, too well traveled, with too great a possibility of witnesses. No, she was putting her money on one of the quiet residential streets tucked in behind.

At Holborne, for no reason she could think of, she turned west. The streetlights were farther apart here and she hurried from one island of sight to the next, trusting to bureaucracy and city planning to keep the sidewalk under her feet. She slipped at one point on a pile of dirt, her bag sliding off her shoulder and slamming hard edges against her knees. Her flashlight beam played over a tiny construction site where a skinny house was rising to fill what had once no doubt been a no larger than average side yard. The creature had killed under circumstances like these once before, but somehow she knew it wouldn't again. She moved on.

The sudden scream of a siren sent her heart up into her throat and she spun around, flashlight raised like a weapon. Back at the corner, a fire engine roared from the station and, tires squealing, turned north up Woodbine.

Nerves a bit shot, are they, Vicki? she muttered to herself taking a long, calming breath. Blood pounded in her ears almost loud enough to echo and sweat glued her gloves to her palms. Still a bit shaky with reaction, she made her way to the next streetlight and leaned back against the pole.

The spill of light reached almost to the house, not quite far enough for Vicki to see the building. The bit of lawn she could see looked well cared for-in spite of the spring mud-and along one edge roses, clipped short to survive the cold, waited for spring. It was a working class neighborhood, she knew, and, given the lawn, Vicki was willing to bet that most of the families were Italian or Portuguese as both cultures cared about-and for-the land. If that was the case, many of the houses would be decorated with painted icons of saints, or of the Madonna, or of Christ himself.

She wondered how much protection those icons would offer when the killer came.

Up the street, two golden circles marked a slow moving car. To Vicki, they looked like the eyes of some great beast for the darkness hid the form that followed and the headlights were all she could see. But then, she didn't need to see more to identify it as a police car. Only police on surveillance ever drove at that precise, unchanging speed. She'd done it herself too many times to mistake it now. Fighting the urge to dive out of sight, she turned and strode confidently up the walk toward the house, digging in her bag for an imaginary set of keys.

The car purred by behind her.

Making her way back to the sidewalk, Vicki doubted that her luck could last. Celluci had to have saturated this area with his men. Sooner or later, she had to run into someone she knew-probably Celluci himself-and she wasn't looking forward to explaining just what she was doing roaming about in the middle of a police manhunt.

She continued west along Holborne, marshaling her arguments. I thought you could use an extra pair of eyes. But then, so could she. I doubted you'd be prepared to deal with a vampire. True, but it'd go over like rats in the drunk tank. You have no right to keep me away. Except that they did. Every right. It was why there were laws against suicide.

So what am I doing out here anyway? And is this more or less stupid than charging down into a subway station to single-handedly challenge God knows what. The darkness pressed close around her, waiting for an answer. What am I trying to prove?

That in spite of everything I can still be a fully functioning member of society. She snorted. On the other hand, there're a number of fully functioning members of society I'm not likely to run into out here tonight.

Which brought the silent interrogation back around to just what was she trying to prove, and Vicki decided to leave it there. Things were tough enough without bogging them down further in introspection.

At the corner of Woodmount, she paused. The triple line of streetlights disappeared into the distance to either side and straight ahead. The suspended golden globes were all she could see. Casting about like a hound for a scent, she drew in a deep lungful of the cold night air. All she could smell was earth, damp and musty, freshly exposed by the end of winter. Normally, she liked the smell. Tonight, it reminded her of the grave and she pulled her jacket tighter around her to ward off a sudden chill. In the distance, there was the sound of traffic and farther off still, a dog barked.

There seemed little to choose between the directions, so she turned to her left and headed carefully back south.

A car door slammed.

Vicki's heart slammed up against her ribs in response. This was it. She was as sure of it as she'd ever been of anything in her life.

She started to run. Slowly at first, well aware that a misstep would result in a fall or worse. Her flashlight remained off; she needed the stations of the streetlights to guide her and the flashlight beam confined her sight. At Baker Street, she rocked to a halt.

Where now? Her other senses strained to make up for near blindness.

Metal screamed against wood; nails forced to release their hold.

East. She turned and raced toward it, stumbled, fell, recovered, and went on, trusting her feet to find a path she couldn't see. Fifty running paces from the corner, shadow sight marked something crossing her path. It slipped down the narrow drive between two buildings and when Vicki followed, responding to the instinct of the chase, she could see red taillights burning about a hundred yards away.

It smelled as if something had died at the end of the lane. Like the old lady who'd been found the third week of last August but who'd been killed in her small, airless room around the first of July.

She could hear the car engine running, movement against the gravel, and a noise she didn't want to identify.

The evil that had lingered in the subway tunnel had been only the faintest afterimage of the evil that waited for her here.

A shadow, its parameters undefined, passed between Vicki and the tailight.

Her left hand trailing along a wall of fake brick siding and her right holding the flashlight out before her like the handle of a lance, Vicki pounded up the drive paying no attention to the small, shrill voice of reason that demanded to know just what the hell she thought she was doing.

Something shrieked and the sound drove her back a half dozen steps.

Every dog in the neighborhood began to howl.

Ignoring the cold sweat beading her body and the knot of fear that made each breath a labored fight, Vicki forced herself to move forward again; the six steps regained, then six more. . . .

Half sprawled across the trunk of the car, she turned on the flashlight.

Horror flickered just beyond the beam's farthest edge where a wooden garage door swung haphazardly from a single twisted hinge. Darkness seemed to move within the darkness and Vicki's mind shied away from it so quickly and with such blind panic that it convinced her nothing lingered there at all.

Caught in the light, a young man crouched, one arm flung up to shield his eyes from the glare. At his feet, a body; a bearded man, late thirties, early forties, blood still draining from the ruined throat, thickening and congealing against the gravel. He had been dead before he hit the ground, for only the dead fall with that complete disregard of self that gives them the look of discarded marionettes.

All this Vicki took in at glance. Then the crouching man stood, his open coat spreading and bracketing him like great black leather wings. He took a step toward her, face distorted and eyes squinted nearly shut. Blood had stained his palms and fingers a glistening crimson.

Scrambling in her purse for the heavy silver crucifix she'd acquired that afternoon-and not really, God help her, expected to need-Vicki drew breath to scream for backup. Or maybe just to scream. She never found out which for he took another step toward her and that was all she saw for some time.

Henry caught the young woman as she fell and eased her gently to the gravel. He hadn't wanted to do that, but he couldn't allow her to scream. There were too many things he couldn't explain to the police.

She saw me bending over the body, he thought as he snapped off the flashlight and shoved it into her purse. His too sensitive eyes welcomed the return of night. They felt as though they'd been impaled with hot irons. Got a good look at me, too. Damn. Common sense said he should kill her before she had a chance to expose him. He had strength enough to make it look no different from the other deaths. He would be safe again then.

Henry turned and looked past the body-meat now, nothing more-into the torn earthen floor of the garage where the killer had fled. This night had proven the deaths were in no way his responsibility.

Damn! He said it aloud this time as approaching sirens and a car door slamming at the end of the drive reminded him of the need for immediate action. Dropping to one knee, he heaved the unconscious young woman over a shoulder and grabbed up her bag in his free hand. The weight posed no problem; like all of his kind he was disproportionately strong, but her dangling height was dangerously awkward.

Too damn tall in this century, he muttered, vaulted the chain link fence that bordered the back of the yard, and disappeared with his burden into the night.

Six

Dumping the contents of the huge black purse out on his coffee table, Henry dropped to his knees and rummaged through the mess for something that looked like ID; a wallet, a card case, anything. Nothing.

Nothing? Impossible. These days no one traveled without identification, not even those who traveled only the night. He found both card case and wallet at last in the bag itself, tucked in a side pocket, accessible without having to delve through the main compartment.

Victoria Nelson, Private Investigator. He let out a breath he hadn't been aware of holding as he went through the rest of her papers. A private investigator, thank God. He'd been afraid he'd run off with some sort of un-uniformed police officer, thereby instigating a citywide manhunt. He'd observed, over the centuries that the police, whatever else their failings, took care of their own. A private investigator, though, was a private citizen and as such had probably not yet been missed.

Rising to his feet, Henry looked down at the unconscious woman on his couch. Although he found it distasteful, he would kill to protect himself. Hopefully, this time, it wouldn't be necessary. He shrugged out of his coat and began to compose what he'd say to her when she woke up ...

... if she woke up.

Her heartbeat filled the apartment, its rhythm almost twice as fast as his own. It called to him to feed, but he held the hunger in check.

He glanced at his watch. 2:13. Sunrise in four hours. If she was concussed. . . .

He hadn't wanted to hit her. Knocking someone out with a single blow wasn't easy no matter what movies and television suggested. Sporadic practice over the years had taught him where and how to strike, but no expertise could change the fact that a head blow slammed the brain back and forth within the skull, mashing soft tissue against bone.

And it's quite an attractive skull, too, he noted, taking a closer look. Although there's a definite hint of obstinacy about the width of that jaw. He checked her ID again. Thirty-one. Her short dark blond/light brown hair-he frowned, unable to make up his mind-had no touch of gray but tiny laugh wrinkles had begun to form around her eyes. When he'd been alive, thirty-one had been middle-aged. Now, it seemed to be barely adult.

She wore no makeup, he approved of that, and the delicate, pale gold down on her cheeks made her skin look like velvet.

And feel like velvet. ... He drew back his hand and clamped the hunger tighter. It was want, not need, and he would not let it control him.

The tiny muscles of her face shifted and her eyes opened. Like her hair, they were neither one color nor the other; neither blue, nor gray, nor green. The tip of her tongue moistened dry lips and she met his gaze without fear.

Son of a bitch, she said clearly, and winced.

Vicki came up out of darkness scrambling desperately for information, but the sound of blood pounding in her ears kept drowning out coherent thought. She fought against it. Pain-and, oh God, it hurt-meant danger. She had to know where she was, how she'd gotten there. . . .

A man's face swam into view inches above her own, a man's face she recognized.

Son of a bitch, she said, and winced. The words, the movement of her jaw, sent fresh shards of pain up into her head. She did what she could to ignore them. The last time she'd seen that face, and the body it was no doubt attached to, it had risen from slaughter and attacked her. Although she had no memory of it, he had obviously knocked her out and brought her here; wherever here was.

She tried to look past him, to get some idea of her surroundings, but the room, if room it was, was too dark. Did she know anything she could use?

I'm fully clothed, lying on a couch in the company of an insane killer and, although the rest of my body appears to be functional, my head feels like it's taken too many shots on goal. There seemed to be only one thing she could do. She threw herself off the couch.

Unfortunately, gravity proved stronger than the idea.

When she hit the floor, a brilliant fireworks display left afterimages of green and gold and red on the inside of her eyelids and then she sank into darkness again.

The second time Vicki regained consciousness, it happened more quickly than the first and the line between one state and the next was more clearly delineated. This time, she kept her eyes closed.

That was a stupid thing to do, a man's voice observed from somewhere above her right shoulder. She didn't argue. It's entirely possible you won't believe this, he continued, but I don't want to hurt you.

To her surprise, she did believe him. Maybe it was the tone, or the timbre, or the ice pack he held against her jaw. Maybe her brains had been scrambled, which seemed more likely.

I never did want to hurt you. I'm sorry about, she felt the ice pack shift slightly, this, but I didn't think I had time to explain.

Vicki cracked open first one eye and then the other. Explain what? The pale oval of his face appeared to float in the dim light. She wished she could see him better.

I didn't kill that man. I arrived at the body just before you did.

Yeah? She realized suddenly what was wrong. Where are my glasses?

Your . . .oh. The oval swiveled away and returned a moment later.

She waited, eyes closed, as he pushed the ends in over her ears, approximately where they belonged, and settled the bridge gently against her nose. When she opened her eyes again, things hadn't changed significantly. Could you turn on a light?

Vicki could sense his bemusement as he rose. So she wasn't reacting as he expected; if he wanted terror, she'd have to try for it later, at present her head hurt too much to make the effort. And besides, if it turned out he was the killer, there wasn't a damn thing she could do about it now.

The light, although it wasn't strong enough to banish shadows from far corners, helped. From where she lay, she could see an expensive stereo system and the edge of a bookshelf with glass doors. Slowly, balancing her head like an egg in a spoon, she sat up.

Are you sure that's wise?

She wasn't. But she wasn't going to admit it. I'm fine, she snapped, closing her throat on a wave of nausea and successfully fighting it back down. Peeling off her gloves, she studied her captor from under beetled brows.

He didn't look like an insane killer. Okay, Vicki, you're so smart, in twenty-five words or less, describe an insane killer. She couldn't tell what color his eyes were, though an educated guess said light hazel, but his brows and lashes were redder than his strawberry-blond hair-coloring that freckled in the sun. His face was broad, without being in the least bit fat-the kind of face that got labeled honest-and his mouth held just the smallest hint of a cupid's bow. Definitely attractive. She measured his height against the stereo and added, But short.

So, she said, settling carefully back against the sofa cushions, keeping her tone conversational. Talk to them, said the rule book. Get their trust. Why should I believe you had nothing to do with ripping that man's throat out?

Henry stepped forward and handed her the ice pack. You were right behind me, he told her quietly. You must have seen. ...

Seen what? She'd seen the body, him bending over it, the lights of the car, the ruined garage door and the darkness beyond it. Darkness swirled against darkness and was gone. No. She shook her head, the physical pain the action caused a secondary consideration. Darkness swirled against darkness and was gone. She couldn't catch her breath and began to struggle against the strong hands that held her. No. ...

Yes.

Gradually, under the strength of his gaze and his touch, she calmed. What ... She wet dry lips and tried again. What was it?

A demon.

Demons don't ... Darkness swirled against darkness and was gone. Oh.

Straightening, Henry almost smiled. He could practically see her turning the facts over, accepting the evidence, and adjusting her worldview to fit. She didn't look happy about it, but she did it anyway. He was impressed.

Vicki took a deep breath. Okay, a demon. It certainly answered all the questions and made a kind of horrific sense. Why were you there? She was pleased to note her voice sounded almost normal.

What should he tell her? Although she wasn't exactly receptive-not that he blamed her-she wasn't openly hostile either. The truth, then, or as much of it as seemed safe.

I was hunting the demon. I was just a little too late. I kept it from feeding but couldn't stop the kill. He frowned slightly. Why were you there, Ms. Nelson?

So he's found my ID. For the first time, Vicki became aware that the contents of her bag were spread out over the smoked glass top of the coffee table. The garlic, the package of mustard seed, the Bible, the crucifix-all spread out in plain, ridiculous sight. She snorted gently. I was hunting a vampire.

To her surprise, after one incredulous glance down at the contents of her bag, as if he, too, were seeing them for the first time, her captor, the demon-hunter, threw back his head and roared with laughter.

Henry, Duke of Richmond, had felt her speculative gaze on him all through the meal. Whenever he glanced her way she was staring at him, but every time he tried to actually catch her eye she'd drop her lids and look demurely at her plate, the long sweep of her lashes-lashes so black he was sure they must be tinted-lying against the curve of an alabaster cheek. He thought she smiled once, but that could have been a trick of the light.

While Sir Thomas, seated to his left, prated on about sheep, he rolled a grape between his fingers and tried to figure out just who the lady could be. She had to be a member of the local nobility invited to Sheriffhuton for the day for surely he would have remembered her if she'd been with the household on the journey north from London. The little bit he could see of her gown was black. Was she a widow, then, or did she wear the color only because she knew how beautifully it became her and was there a husband lurking in the background?

For the first time in weeks he was glad that Surrey had decided against journeying to Sheriffhuton with him. Women never look at me when he's around.

There, she smiled. I'm sure of it. He wiped the crushed grape off against his hose and reached for his wine, emptying the delicate Venetian glass in one frantic swallow. He couldn't stand it any longer.

Sir Thomas.

... of course, the best ram for the purpose is. ... Yes milord?

Henry leaned closer to the elderly knight; he didn't want the rest of the table to hear, he got enough teasing as it was. He'd barely managed to live down the ditty his father's fool, Will Sommers, had written about him; Though he may have his sire's face, He cannot keep the royal pace.

Sir Thomas, who is that woman seated next to Sir Giles and his lady?

Woman, milord?

Yes, woman. It took an effort, but the young duke kept his voice level and calm. Sir Thomas was a valued retainer, had been a faithful chamberlain at Sheriffhuton all the long years he'd been away in France, and by age alone deserved his respect. The one in black. Next to Sir Giles and his lady.

Ah, next to Sir Giles. ... Sir Thomas leaned forward and squinted. The lady in question looked demurely at her plate. Why that's old Beswick's relic.

Beswick? This beautiful creature had been married to Beswick? Why the baron was Sir Thomas' age at least. Henry couldn't believe it. But he's old!

He's dead, milord. Sir Thomas snickered. But he met his maker a happy man, I fancy. She's a sweet thing though, and seemed to take the old goat's death hard. Saw little enough of her when he was alive and less now.

How long were they married?

Month ... no, two.

And she lives at Beswick Castle?

Sir Thomas snorted. If you can call that moldering ruin a castle, yes, milord.

If you can call this heap a castle, Henry waved a hand at the great hall, relatively unchanged since the twelfth century, you can call anything a castle.

This is a royal residence, Sir Thomas protested huffily.

She did smile. I saw her clearly. She smiled. At me. And where she dwells, it would be heaven come to earth, Henry murmured dreamily, forgetting for a moment where he was, losing himself in that smile.

Sir Thomas gave a great guffaw of laughter, choked on a mouthful of ale, and had to be vigorously pounded on the back, attracting the attention Henry had been hoping to avoid.

You should be more careful of excitement, good sir knight, chided the Archbishop of York as those who had hurried to the rescue moved back to their places.

Not me, your Grace, Sir Thomas told the prelate piously, it's our good duke who finds his codpiece tied too tightly.

As he felt his face redden, Henry cursed the Tudor coloring that showed every blush as though he were a maiden and not a man full sixteen summers old.

Later, when the musicians began to play up in the old minstrel's gallery, Henry walked among his guests, trying, he thought successfully, to hide his ultimate goal. They'd be watching him now and one or two, he knew, reported back to his father.

As he at last crossed the hall toward her, she gathered her black and silver skirts in one hand and headed for the open doors and the castle courtyard. Henry followed. She was waiting for him, as he knew she would be, on the second of the broad steps; far enough away from the door to be in darkness, close enough for him to find her.

It, uh, it is hot in the hall, isn't it?

She turned toward him, her face and bosom glimmering pale white. It is August.

Yes, uh, it is. They weren't, in fact, the only couple to seek a respite from the stifling, smoky hall but the others discreetly moved away when they saw the duke appear. You, uh, aren't afraid of night chills?

No. I love the night.

Her voice reminded him of the sea, and he suspected it could sweep him away as easily. Inside, under torchlight, he had thought her not much older than he, but outside, under starlight, she seemed ageless. He wet lips gone suddenly dry and searched for something more to say.

You weren't at the hunt today.

No.

You don't hunt, then?

In spite of the darkness, her eyes caught and held his. Oh, but I do.

Henry swallowed hard and shifted uncomfortably-his codpiece was now, indeed, too tight. If three years at the French Court had taught him nothing else, he had learned to recognize an invitation from a beautiful woman. Hoping his palm had not gone damp, he held out a hand.

Have you a name? he asked as she laid cool fingers across his.

Christina.

Vampire? Henry stared at Christina in astonishment. I was making a joke.

Were you? She turned from the window, arms crossed under her breasts. It is what Norfolk calls me.

Norfolk is a jealous fool. Henry suspected his father had sent the Duke of Norfolk to keep an eye on him, to discover why he continued at SherifFhuton, a residence he made no pretense of liking, into September. He also suspected that the only reason he hadn't been ordered back to Court was because his father secretly approved of his dalliance with an older, and very beautiful, widow. He wasn't fool enough to think his father didn't know.

Is he? Perhaps. Ebony brows drew down into a frown. Have you never wondered, Henry, why you only see me at night?

As long as I get to see you. ...

Have you never wondered why you have never seen me eat or drink?

You've been to banquets, Henry protested, confused. He had only been making a joke.

But you have never seen me eat or drink, Christina insisted. And, this very night, you yourself commented on my strength.

Why are you telling me this? His life had come to revolve around the hours they spent in his great canopied bed. She was perfect. He wouldn't see her otherwise.

Norfolk has named me vampire. Her eyes caught his and held them although he tried to break away. The next step will be to prove it. He will say to you, if I am not as he names me, then surely I will come to you by day. She paused and her voice grew cold. And you, wondering, will order it. And either I will flee and never see you again, or I will die.

I, I would never order you. . . .

You would, if you did not believe me vampire. This is why I tell you.

Henry's mouth opened and closed in stunned silence, and when he finally spoke his voice came out a shrill caricature of his normal tone. But I've seen you receive the sacrament.

I'm as good a Catholic as you are, Henry. Better perhaps, as you have more to lose while the king's favor wanes toward the Mass. She smiled, a little sadly. I am not a creature of the devil. I was born of two mortal parents.

He had never seen her in daylight. He had never seen her eat or drink. She possessed strength far beyond her sex or size. But she received the sacraments and she filled his nights with glory. Born, his voice had almost returned to normal, when?

Thirteen twenty-seven, the year that Edward the Third came to the throne. Your grandfather's grandfather had not yet been conceived.

It wasn't hard to think of her as an ageless beauty, forever unchanging down through the centuries. From there, it wasn't hard to believe the rest.

Vampire.

She saw the acceptance on his face and spread her arms wide. The loose robe she wore dropped to the floor and she allowed him to look away now that she was sure he would not. Will you banish me? she asked softly, casting the net of her beauty over him. Will you give me to the pyre? Or will you have the strength to love me and be loved in return?

The firelight threw her shadow against the tapestries on the wall. Angel or demon, Henry didn't really care. He was hers and if that damned his soul to hell so be it.

He opened his arms in answer.

As she buried herself in his embrace, he pressed his lips against the scented ebony of her hair and whispered, Why have you never fed from me?

But I have. I do.

He frowned. I've never borne your mark upon my throat. ...

Throats are too public. He could feel her smile against his chest. And your throat is not the only part of your body I have put my mouth against.

Even as he reddened, she slid down to prove her point and somehow, knowing that she fed as she pleasured him lifted him to such heights that he thought he could not bear the ecstasy. Hell would be worth it.

This was your idea, wasn't it? The Duke of Norfolk inclined his head. His eyes were sunk in shadow and the deep lines that bracketed his mouth had not been there a month before. Yes, he admitted heavily, but it is for your own good, Henry.

My own good? Henry gave a bitter bark of laughter. For your good more like. It does move you that much closer to the throne. He saw the older man wince and was glad. He didn't really believe Norfolk used him to get closer to the throne; the duke had proven his friendship any number of times, but Henry had just come from a painful interview with his father and he wanted to lash out.

You will wed Mary, Norfolk's daughter, before the end of this month. You will spend Christmas with the Court and then you will retire to your estates at Richmond and you will never go to Sheriffhuton again.

Norfolk sighed and laid a weary hand on Henry's shoulder. His own interview with the young duke's father had been anything but pleasant. What he does not know, he suspects; I offered this as your only way out.

Henry shook the hand free. Never to go to Sheriffhuton again. Never to see her again. Never to hear her laugh or feel her touch. Never to touch her in return. He clenched his teeth on the howl that threatened to break free. You don't understand, he growled out instead, and strode off down the corridor before the tears he could feel building shamed him.

Christina! He ran forward, threw himself to his knees, and buried his head in her lap. For a time, the world became the touch of her hands and the sound of her voice. When at last he had the strength to pull away, it was only far enough to see her face. What are you doing here? Father and Norfolk, at least, suspect and if they find you. . . .

She stroked cool fingers across his brow. They won't find me. I have a safe haven for the daylight hours and we will not have so many nights together that they will discover us. She paused and cupped his cheek in her palm. I am going away, but I could not leave without saying good-bye.

Going away? Henry repeated stupidly.

She nodded, her unbound hair falling forward. It has become too dangerous for me in England.

But where. ...

France, I think. For now.

He caught up her hands in both of his. Take me with you. I cannot live without you.

A wry smile curved her lips. You cannot exactly live with me, she reminded him.

Live, die, unlive, undie. He leapt to his feet and threw his arms wide. I don't care as long as I'm with you.

You're very young.

The words lacked conviction and he could see the indecision on her face. She wanted him! Oh, blessed Jesus and all the saints, she wanted him. How old were you when you died? he demanded.

She bit her lip. Seventeen.

I shall be seventeen in two months. He threw himself back on his knees. Can't you wait that long?

Two months. . . .

Just two. He couldn't keep the triumph from his voice. Then you will have me for all eternity.

She laughed then and pulled him to her breast. You think highly of yourself, milord.

I do, he agreed, his voice a little muffled.

If your lady wife should come in. . . .

Mary? She has rooms of her own and is happy to stay in them. Still on his knees, he pulled her to the bed.

Two months later, she began to feed nightly, taking as much as he could bear each night.

Norfolk posted guards on his room. Henry ordered them away, for the first time in his life his father's son.

Two months after that, while revered doctors scratched their heads and wondered at his failing, while Norfolk tore the neighborhood apart in a fruitless search, she pulled him to her breast again and he suckled the blood of eternal life.

*    *    *

Let me get this straight; you're the bastard son of Henry VIII?

That's right. Henry Fitzroy, once Duke of Richmond and Somerset, Earl of Nottingham, and Knight of the Garter, leaned his forehead against the cool glass of the window and looked down at the lights of Toronto. It had been a long time since he'd told the story; he'd forgotten how drained it left him.

Vicki looked down at the book of the Tudor age, spread open on her lap, and tapped a paragraph. It says here you died at seventeen.

Shaking off his lethargy, Henry turned to face her. Yes, well, I got better.

You don't look seventeen. She frowned. Mid-twenties I'd say, no younger.

He shrugged. We age, but we age slowly.

It doesn't say so here, but wasn't there some mystery about your funeral? One corner of her mouth quirked up at his surprised expression, the best she could manage considering the condition of her jaw. I have a BA in History.

Isn't that an unusual degree for a person in your line of work?

He meant for a private investigator, she realized, but it had been just as unusual for a cop. If she had a nickel for every time someone, usually a superior officer, had dragged out that hoary old chestnut, those who fail to learn from, history are doomed to repeat it, she'd be a rich woman. It hasn't slowed me down, she told him a little pointedly. The funeral?

Yes, well, it wasn't what I'd been expecting, that's for certain. He clasped his hands together to still their shaking and although he fought it, the memories caught him up again. . . .

Waking-confused and disoriented. Slowly, he became aware of his heartbeat and allowed it to pull him back to full consciousness. He'd never been in a darkness so complete and, in spite of Christina's remembered reassurance, he began to panic. The panic grew when he tried to push the lid off the crypt and found he couldn't move. Not stone above him, but rough wood embracing him so closely that the rise and fall of his chest brushed against the boards. All around, the smell of earth.

Not a noble's tomb but a common grave.

Screaming until his throat was raw, he twisted and thrashed through the little movement he had but, although the wood creaked once or twice, the weight of earth was absolute.

He stopped then, for he realized that to destroy the coffin and lie covered only in the earth would be infinitely worse. That was when the hunger began. He had no idea how long he lay, paralyzed with terror, frenzied need clawing at his gut, but his sanity hung by a thread when he heard a shovel blade bite into the dirt above him.

You know, he said, scrubbing a hand across his face, terror still echoing faintly behind the words, there's a very good reason most vampires come from the nobility; a crypt is a great deal easier to get out of. I'd been buried good and deep and it took Christina three days to find me and dig me free. Sometimes, even four centuries later, when he woke in the evening, he was back there. Alone. In the dark. Facing eternity.

So your father, Vicki paused, she had trouble with this next bit, Henry VIII, really did suspect?

Henry laughed, but the sound had little humor. Oh, he more than suspected. I discovered later that he'd ordered a stake driven through my heart, my mouth stuffed with garlic and the lips sewn shut, then my head removed and buried separately. Thank God, Norfolk remained a true friend until the end.

You saw him again?

A couple of times. He understood better than I thought.

What happened to Christina?

She guided me through the frenzy that follows the change. She guarded me during the year I slept as my body adapted to its new condition. She taught me how to feed without killing. And then she left.

She left? Vicki's brows flew almost to her hairline. After all that, she left?

Henry turned again to look out at the lights of the city. She could be out there, he'd never know. Nor, he had to admit a little sadly, would he care. When the parent/child link is over, we prefer to hunt alone. Our closest bonds are formed when we feed and we can't feed from each other. He rested his hand against the glass. The emotional bond, the love if you will, that causes us to offer our blood to a mortal never survives the change.

But you could still. ...

Yes, but it isn't the same. He shook himself free of the melancholy and faced her again. That also is tied too closely to feeding.

Oh. Then the stories about vampiric ... uh . ...

Prowess? Henry supplied with a grin. Are true. But then, we get a lot of time to practice.

Vicki felt the heat rise in her face and she had to drop her gaze. Four hundred and fifty years of practice. . . . Involuntarily, she clenched her teeth and the sudden sharp pain from her jaw came as a welcome distraction. Not tonight, I've got a headache. She closed the book on her lap and carefully set it aside, glancing down at her watch as she did. 4:43. I've heard some interesting confessions in my time, but this one. . . . The option, of course, existed to disbelieve everything she'd heard. To get out of the apartment and away from a certified nut case and call for the people in the white coats to lock Mr. Fitzroy, bastard son of Henry VIII, etcetera, etcetera, away where he belonged. Except, she did believe and trying to convince herself she didn't would be trying to convince herself of a lie.

Why did you tell me all this? she asked at last.

Henry shrugged. The way I saw it, I had two options. I could trust you or I could kill you. If I trusted you first, he spread his hands, and discovered it was a bad idea, I could still kill you before you could do me any harm.

Now wait a minute, Vicki bridled. I'm not that easy to kill! He was standing at the window; ten, maybe twelve feet away. Less than a heartbeat later he sat beside her on the couch, both hands resting lightly around her neck. She couldn't have stopped him. She hadn't even seen him move. Oh, she said.

He removed his hands and continued as though she hadn't interrupted. But if I killed you first, well, that would be that. And I think we can help each other.

How? Up close, he became a little overwhelming and she had to fight the desire to move away. Or move closer. Four hundred and fifty years develops a forceful personality, she observed, shifting her gaze to the white velvet upholstery.

The demon hunts at might. So do I. But the one who calls the demon is mortal and must live his life during the day.

You're suggesting that we team up?

Until the demon is captured, yes.

She brushed the nap of the velvet back and forth, back and forth, and then looked up at him again. Light hazel eyes. I was right. Why do you care?

About catching the demon? Henry stood and paced back to the window. I don't, not specifically, but the papers are blaming the killings on vampires and are putting us all in danger. Down below, the headlights of a lone car sped up Jarvis Street. Until just recently, even I thought it was one of my kind; a child, abandoned, untrained.

What, purposefully left to fend for itself?

Perhaps. Perhaps the parent had no idea there was a child at all.

1 thought you said there had to be an emotional bond.

No, I said the emotional bond did not survive past the change, I didn't say that it had to exist. My kind can create children for as many bad or accidental reasons as yours. Technically, all that is needed is for the vampire to feed too deeply and for the mortal to feed in return.

For the mortal to feed in return? How the hell would that happen?

He turned to face her. I take it, he said dryly, you don't bite.

Vicki felt her cheeks burn and hurriedly changed the subject. You were looking for the child?

Tonight? Henry shook his head. No, tonight I knew and I was looking for the demon. He walked to the couch and leaned over it toward her, hands braced against the pale wood inlaid in the arm. When the killings stop, the stories will stop and vampires will retreat back into myth and race memory. We prefer it that way. In fact, we work very hard to keep it that way. If the papers convince their readers we are real, they can find us-our habits are too well known. He caught her gaze, held it, and grimly bared his teeth. I, for one, don't intend to end up staked for something I didn't do.

When he released her-and she refused to kid herself, she couldn't have looked away if he hadn't allowed it- Vicki swept the stuff on the coffee table back into her bag and stood. Although she faced him, she focused on the area just over his right shoulder.

I have to think about this. She kept her voice as neutral as she could. What you've told me . . . well, I have to think about it. Lame, but the best she could do.

Henry nodded. I understand.

Then I can go?

You can go.

She nodded in turn and reaching into her pocket for her gloves, made her way to the door.

Victoria.

Vicki had never believed that names held power nor that speaking names transferred that power to another, but she couldn't stop herself from pivoting slowly around to face him again.

Thank you for not suggesting I tell all this to the police.

She snorted. The police? Do I look stupid?

He smiled. No, you don't.

He's had a long time to perfect that smile, she reminded herself, trying to calm the sudden erratic beating of her heart. She fumbled behind her for the door, got it

open, and made her escape. Despite proximity, she took a moment on the other side to catch her breath. Vampires. Demons. They don't teach you about this sort of shit at the police academy. . . .

Seven

Because the streets in the inner city were far from dark, and as she'd managed so well out at Woodbine with much less light, Vicki decided to walk home. She turned her collar up against the wind, shoved her gloved hands deep in her pockets, more out of habit than for additional warmth, and started west along Bloor Street. It wasn't that far and she needed to think.

The cool air felt good against her jaw and seemed to be easing the pounding in her head. Although she had to be careful about how heavily her heels struck the pavement, walking remained infinitely preferable to the jostling she'd receive in the back of a cab.

And she needed to think.

Vampires and demons; or a vampire and a demon at least. In eight years on the police force, she'd seen a lot of strangeness and been forced to believe in the existence of things that most sane people-police officers and social workers excepted-preferred to ignore. Next to some of the cruelties the strong inflicted on the weak, vampires and demons weren't that hard to swallow. And the vampire seemed to be one of the good guys.

She saw him smile again and sternly stopped herself from responding to the memory.

At Yonge Street, she turned south, waiting for the green more out of habit than necessity. While not exactly ablaze with light, the intersection was far from dark and the traffic was still infrequent. She wasn't the only person around, Yonge Street never completely emptied, but the others whose business or lifestyle kept them out in the hours between midnight and dawn stayed carefully, unobtrusively, out of her way.

It's'cause you walk like a cop, Tony had explained once. After a while, you guys all develop the same look. In uniform, out of uniform; it doesn't matter any more.

Vicki saw no reason to disbelieve him, she'd seen the effect for herself. Just as she saw no reason to disbelieve Henry Fitzroy; she'd seen the demon for herself as well.

Darkness swirled in darkness and was gone. She'd seen no more than the hint of a shape sinking into the earth, and for that she gave thanks. The vague outline she remembered held horror enough and her mind kept shying away from the memory. The smell of decay, however, she remembered perfectly.

It had been neither sight nor smell that had convinced her Henry spoke the truth. Both could be faked, although she had no idea of how or why. Her own reaction convinced her. Her own terror. Her mind's refusal to clearly recall what she had seen. The feeling of evil, cloying and cold, emanating out of the darkness.

Vicki pulled her jacket tighter, the chill that pebbled her flesh having nothing to do with the temperature of the night.

Demon. At least now they knew what they were looking for. They knew? No, she knew. She cracked a smile as she thought of explaining all this to Mike Celluci. He hadn't been there, he'd think she was out of her mind. Hell, if I hadn't been there, I'd think I was out of my mind. Besides, she couldn't tell Celluci without betraying Henry. . . .

Henry. Vampire. If he wasn't what he claimed, why would he go to all the trouble of creating such a complicated story?

Never mind, she chided herself. Stupid question. She'd known pathological liars, had arrested a couple, had worked with one, and why was never a question they concerned themselves with.

Henry's story had been so complicated, it had to be the truth. Didn't it?

At College Street, she paused on the corner. Only a block to the west, she could see the lights of police headquarters. She could go in, grab a coffee, talk to someone who understood. About demons and vampires, right.

Suddenly, the headquarters building seemed very far away.

She could walk past it, keep walking west to Huron Street and home, but, in spite of everything, she wasn't tired and didn't want to enclose herself with walls until she had banished all the dark on dark from the shadows. She watched a streetcar rattle by, the capsule of warmth and light empty save for the driver, and continued south to Dundas.

Approaching the glass and concrete bulk of the Eaton's Center, she heard the bells of St. Michael's Cathedral sound the hour. In the daytime, the ambient noise of the city masked their call but in the still, quiet time before dawn they reverberated throughout the downtown core. Lesser bells added their notes, but the bells of St. Michael's dominated.

Not really sure why, Vicki followed the sound. She'd chased a pusher up the steps of the cathedral once, years ago when she'd still been in uniform. He'd grabbed at the doors claiming sanctuary. The doors had been locked. Apparently, not even God trusted the night in the heart of a large city. The pusher had fought all the way back to the car and he hadn't thought it at all funny when Vicki and her partner insisted on referring to him as Quasimodo.

She expected the heavy wooden doors to be locked again, but to her surprise they swung silently open. Just as silently, she slipped inside and pulled them closed behind her.

Quiet please, warned a cardboard sign, mounted in a gleaming brass floor stand, Holy Week Vigil in progress.

Her rubber soled shoes squeaking faintly against the floor, Vicki moved into the sanctum. Only about half of the lights were on, creating an unreal, almost mythical twilight in the church. Vicki could see, but only just and only because she didn't attempt to focus on anything outside the specific. A priest knelt at the altar and the first few rows of pews held a scattering of stocky women dressed in black, looking as though they'd been punched out of the same mold. The faint murmur of voices, lifted in what Vicki assumed was prayer, and the fainter click of beads, did nothing to disturb the heavy hush that hung over the building. Waiting; it felt like they were waiting. For what, Vicki had no idea.

The flickering of open flame caught her eye and she slipped down a side aisle until she could see into an alcove off the south wall. Three or four tiers of candles in red glass jars rose up to a mural that gleamed under a single spotlight. The Madonna, draped in blue and white, held her arms wide as though to embrace a weary world. Her smile offered comfort and the artist had captured a certain sadness around the eyes.

Like many .of her generation, Vicki had been raised vaguely Christian. She could recognize the symbols of the church, and she knew the historical story, but that was about it. Not for the first time, she wondered if maybe she hadn't missed out on something important. Peeling off her gloves, she slid into a pew.

I don't even know if I believe in God, she admitted apologetically to the mural. But then, I didn't believe in vampires before tonight.

It was warm in the cathedral and the nap she'd had that afternoon seemed very far away. Slowly she slid down against the polished wood and slowly the Madonna's face began to blur. . . .

In the distance something shattered with the hard, definite crash that suggested to an experienced ear it had been thrown violently to the floor. Vicki stirred, opened her eyes, but couldn't seem to gather enough energy to move. She sat slumped in the pew, caught in a curious lassitude while the sounds of destruction grew closer. She could hear men's voices shouting, more self-satisfied than angry, but she couldn't catch the words.

In the alcove the spotlight appeared to have burned out. Wrapped in shadow, illuminated only by the tiers of flickering candles, the Madonna continued to smile sadly, holding her arms out to the world. Vicki frowned. The candles were squat and white, the wax dribbling down irregular sides to pool and harden in the metal holders and on the stone floor.

But the candles were enclosed . . . and the floor, the floor was carpeted. . . .

A crash, louder and closer than the others, actually caused her to jerk but didn't break the inertia holding her in the pew.

She saw the ax head first, then the shaft, then the man holding it. He charged up the side aisle from the front of the church, from the altar. His dark clothes were marked with plaster dust and through the gaping front of his bulging leather vest Vicki thought she saw the glint of gold. Candlelight glittered off colored bits of broken glass caught in the folded tops of his wide boots. Sweat had darkened his short hair, blunt cut to follow the curve of his head, and his lips were drawn back to reveal the yellow slabs of his teeth.

He rocked to a halt at the entrance to the alcove, caught his breath, and raised the ax.

It stopped short of the Madonna's smile, the haft slapping into the upraised hand of the young man who had suddenly appeared in its path. The axman swore and tried to yank the weapon free. The ax stayed exactly where it was.

From Vicki's point of view it appeared that the young man twisted his wrist a gentle half turn and then lowered his arm, but he must have done more for the axman swore again, lost his grip, and almost lost his footing. He stumbled back and Vicki got her first good look at the young man now holding the ax across his body.

Henry. The tiers of flickering candle flame behind him brought out the red-gold highlights in his hair and created almost a halo around his head. He wore the colors of the Madonna; wide bands of snowy white lace at collar and cuff, a white shirt billowing through the slashed sleeves of his pale blue jacket. His eyes, deep in shadow, narrowed and his hands jerked up.

The ax haft snapped. The sound of its shattering reverberated through the alcove, closely followed by the rattle of both pieces striking the floor. Vicki didn't see Henry move, but the next thing she knew he had the axman hanging from his fist by the front of his vest, feet dangling a foot off the marble floor.

The Blessed Virgin is under my protection, he said, and the quiet words held more menace than any weapon.

The axman's mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. He hung limp and terrified. When dropped, he collapsed to his knees, apparently unable to take his eyes from Henry's face.

To Vicki, the vampire looked like an avenging angel, ready to draw a flaming sword at any moment and strike down the enemies of God. The axman apparently agreed, for he moaned softly and raised trembling hands in entreaty.

Henry stepped back and allowed his captive to look away. Go, he commanded.

Still on his knees, the axman went, scrambling backward until he moved from Vicki's line of sight. Henry watched him go a moment longer, than turned, made the sign of the cross, and knelt. Above his bowed head, Vicki met the painted eyes of the Madonna. Her own grew heavy and, of their own volition, slid slowly closed.

When she opened them again a second later, the spotlight had returned, the candles were back in their red glass containers, and a red-gold head remained bowed beneath the mural.

The inability to move seemed gone, so she pulled herself to her feet and slid out of the pew heading toward the alcove. Henry. ...

At the sound of his name, he crossed himself, stood, and turned to face her, pulling closed his black leather trenchcoat as he moved.

Wha . . .

He shook his head, put his finger to his lips, and taking her arm gently in one hand, led her out of the sanctum.

Did you have a pleasant nap? he asked, releasing her arm as the heavy wooden door closed behind them.

Nap? Vicki repeated, running a hand up through her hair. I, I guess I did.

Henry peered up into her face with a worried frown. Are you all right? Your head took a nasty blow earlier.

No, I'm fine. Obviously, it had been a dream. You don't have an accent. He'd had one in the dream.

I lost it years ago. I came to Canada just after World War I. Are you sure you're all right?

I told you, I'm fine. She started down the cathedral steps.

Henry sighed and followed. He seemed to remember reading that sleeping after a concussion was not necessarily a good thing, but he'd entered the church right behind her and she hadn't been asleep very long.

It was just a dream, Vicki told herself firmly as the two of them headed north. Vampires and demons I can handle, but holy visions are out. Although why she should dream about Henry Fitzroy defending a painting of the Virgin Mary from what looked like one of Cromwell's roundheads she had no idea. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was the blow she'd taken on the head. Either way, her few remaining doubts about his ex-royal bastard highness seemed to have vanished and while she was more willing to bet on her subconscious working it out than on God intervening, she decided to keep an open mind. Just in case. Wait a minute. . . .

You followed me!

Henry smiled guardedly. I'd just told you a secret that could get me killed. I had to see how you were dealing with it.

In spite of her pique, Vicki had to admit he made sense. And?

He shrugged. You tell me.

Vicki pushed the strap of her bag back up on her shoulder. I think, she said slowly, that you're right. We could accomplish more working together. So, for now, you've got yourself a partner. She stumbled over a dark crack in the pavement, righted herself before Henry could help, and added dryly, But I think you should know that generally, I only work days. It wasn't the time to tell him Why. Not yet.

Henry nodded. Days are fine. I myself, being a little sensitive to sunlight, prefer to work nights. Between us, we have the entire twenty-four hours covered. And speaking of days, he shot a quick glance to the east where he could feel dawn approaching, I have to go. Can we discuss this tomorrow evening?

When?

About two hours after sunset? It'll give me time to grab a bite.

He was gone before she had time to react. Or agree.

We'll see who plays straight man to whom tomorrow night, she snorted and turned west toward home.

The sun had cracked the horizon by the time she reached her apartment, and with yawns threatening to rip her jaw from her face, she fell straight into bed.

Only to be rudely awakened about forty-five minutes later. . . .

Where! Have! You! Been! Celluci punctuated each word with a vigorous shake.

Vicki, whose reactions had never been particularly fast when first roused from sleep, actually let him finish the sentence before bringing her arms up between his and breaking his grip on her shoulders.

What the hell are you talking about, Celluci? she demanded, shielding her eyes against the glare from the overhead light with one hand and grabbing her glasses off the bedside table with the other.

One of the uniforms saw a women who looked like you being bundled into a late model BMW, just after midnight, and not more than five blocks from the latest body. You want to tell me you weren't in the Woodbine area tonight?

Vicki leaned back and sighed, pushing her glasses up her nose. What makes that any business of yours? There was no point in trying to reason with Celluci until he calmed down.

I'll tell you what makes it my business. He threw himself off the bed and began to pace the length of the bedroom; three steps and turn, three steps and turn. You were in the middle of a police investigation, that's what makes it my business. You were. ... Suddenly, he stopped. His eyes narrowed and he jabbed an accusing finger in Vicki's direction. What hit you?

Nothing.

Nothing does not put a black and blue lump the size of a grapefruit on your jaw, Celluci growled. It was him, wasn't it? The guy loading you into his car. He sat back down on the bed and reached out to turn Vicki's face into the light.

You are out of your mind! She knocked his hand away. Since you obviously aren't going to let me get back to sleep until you satisfy your completely irrational curiosity; I was in the area. And, as you keep telling me, I don't see so well in the dark. She smiled with scorpion sweetness. You were right about something. Make you feel better?

He responded with an identical smile and growled, Get on with it.

I went with a friend. When I walked my face into a post, he took me back to his place to make sure I was all right. All right? She waved a hand at the door and threw herself back on the pillows. Now get out!

The hell it's all right. He slammed his palm against the bed. Next to my partner, you are the world's worst liar and you are throwing some grade A bullshit in my direction. Who's this friend?

None of your business.

Where did he take you?

Also none of your business. She sat back up and shoved her face close to his. You jealous, Celluci?

Jealous? Damn it, Vicki! He raised his hands as if to shake her again but let them fall as her eyes narrowed and her own hands came up. I've got six dead bodies out there. I don't want you to be the seventh!

Her voice dropped dangerously low. But you should be able to throw yourself in the line of fire?

What does that have to do with anything? I had half the fucking force out there with me. You were alone!

Oh. She grabbed the front of his jacket and dragged him suddenly forward until their noses touched. So you were worried? she ground the words out through clenched teeth. It hurt her jaw, but at least it kept her from ripping his throat out.

Of course, I was worried.

THEN WHY DIDN'T YOU SAY SO INSTEAD OF ALTERNATELY ASSAULTING AND ACCUSING ME! She pushed him backward so hard she flung him off the bed and he had to scramble to get his feet under him.

Well? she prodded when he'd regained his balance again.

He pushed the heavy curl of hair off his forehead and shrugged, actually looking a little sheepish. It ... I ... I don't know.

Folding her arms over her breasts, Vicki settled carefully back against the pillows. Given that she'd have done exactly the same thing under similar circumstances she supposed she'd have to let it pass. Besides, her jaw hurt, her whole head hurt, and now she had enough adrenaline in her system to keep her awake for a week.

You been home yet? she asked.

Celluci rubbed a weary hand across his eyes. No. Not yet.

Settling her glasses back on the bedside table, she patted the sheet beside her.

A little later, something occurred to her.

Wait a minute-watch my jaw-you gave me back your key to my apartment months ago. He'd thrown it at her as a matter of fact.

I had a copy made.

You told me there were no copies!

Vicki, you are a lousy liar. I am a very good one. Ow, that hurt!

It was supposed to.

No, Mom, I'm not sick. I was just up late last night working on a case. Vicki wedged the phone between her shoulder and her ear and poured herself a mug of coffee.

On the other end of the line she heard her mother sigh deeply. You know, Vicki, I had hoped that when you left the force I'd be able to stop worrying about you. And here it is, three in the afternoon and you're not out of bed yet.

What the second observation had to do with the first, escaped Vicki entirely. Mom, I'm up. I'm drinking coffee. She took a noisy swallow. I'm talking to you. What more do you want?

I want you to get a normal job.

As Vicki was well aware how proud her mother had been of her two police citations, she let this pass. She knew that in time, if it hadn't happened already, the phrase my daughter the private investigator would begin peppering her mother's conversations much the way my daughter the homicide investigator had.

And what's more, Vicki, your voice sounds funny.

I walked my face into a post. I got a bit of a bump on my chin. It hurts a little when I talk.

Did this happen last night?

Yes, Mom.

You know you can't see in the dark. ...

It was Vicki's turn to sigh. Mom, you're beginning to sound like Celluci. On cue, Celluci came out of the bedroom, tucking his shirt into his pants. Vicki waved him at the coffeepot, but he shook his head and stuffed his arms into his overcoat. Hold on for a minute, Mom. She covered the receiver with one hand and looked him over critically. If we're going to keep this up, you'd better bring a razor back over. You look like a terrorist.

He scratched at his chin and shrugged. I have a razor at the office.

And a change of clothes?

They can live with yesterday's shirt for a few hours. He bent down and kissed her gently, careful not to put too much pressure on the spreading green and purple bruise. I don't suppose you'll listen if I ask you to be careful?

She returned the kiss as enthusiastically as she was able to and said, I don't suppose you'll listen if I ask you to stop being a patronizing son of a bitch?

He scowled. Because I ask you to be careful?

Because you assume I won't be. Because you assume I'm going to do something stupid.

All right. He spread his arms in surrender. How about, don't do anything I wouldn't do?

She considered saying, I'm paying a call on a vampire tonight, how do you feel about that? but decided against it and said instead, I thought you didn't want me to do anything stupid?

He smiled. I'll call you, he told her, and left.

You still there, Mom?

They won't let me go home until five, dear. Where else would I be? What was that all about?

Mike Celluci was just leaving. She tucked the phone under her arm and with the extra long cord trailing behind her, got up to make toast.

So you're seeing him again?

The last piece of bread was a little moldy around the edges. She tossed it in the garbage and settled for a bag of no-name chocolate chip cookies. I seem to be.

Well, you know what they say about spring and a young man's fancy.

She sounded doubtful, so Vicki changed the subject. Her mother had liked Celluci well enough the few times they'd met, she just thought that temperamentally they'd both be better off with someone calmer. It's spring? Gusts of wind slapped what could've been rain but looked     more like sleet against the windows.

It's April, dear. That makes it spring.

Yeah, what's your weather like?

Her mother laughed. It's snowing.

Vicki brushed cookie crumbs off her sweatshirt and got herself more coffee. Look, Mom, this is going to be costing the department a fortune. Her mother had worked for eighteen years as the private secretary of the head of Life Sciences at Queen's University, Kingston and she abused the privileges that had accumulated as often as possible. Although you know I enjoy talking to you, did you have an actual reason for calling?

Well, I was wondering if you might be coming down for Easter.

Easter?

It's this weekend. I won't be working tomorrow or Monday, we could have four whole days together.

Darkness, demons, vampires, and six bodies, the life violently ripped from them.

I don't think so, Mom. The case I'm on could break at any time. ...

After listening to a few more platitudes and promising to stay in touch, Vicki hung up and went to her weight bench to work off equal parts of cookies and guilt.

Henry, it's Caroline. I've got tickets to the Phantom for May fourth. You said you wanted to see it and now's your chance. Give me a call in the next couple of days if you're free.

It was the only message on the machine. Henry shook his head at his vague sense of disappointment. There was no reason for Vicki Nelson to call. No reason he should want her to.

All right, he glared at his reflection in the antique mirror over the telephone table, you tell me why I trusted her. Circumstance? He shook his head. No. Circumstance said I should have disposed of her. A much neater solution with much less risk. Try again. She reminded you of someone? If you live long enough, and you will, everyone will remind you of someone.

Turning away from the mirror, he sighed and ran his fingers through his hair. He could deny it all he wanted but she did remind him of someone, not in form perhaps but in manner.

Ginevra Treschi had been the first mortal he had trusted after the change. There had been others with whom he had played at trust but in her arms he was himself, not needing to be anything more. Or less.

When he found he could not live in Elizabeth's England-it was both too like and too unlike the England he had known-he had moved south, to Italy and finally to Venice. Venice had much to offer one of his kind for the ancient city came alive at night and in its shadows he could feed as he chose.

It had been carnival, he remembered, and Ginevra had been standing by San Marco, at the edge of the square, watching the crowd surging back and forth before her like a living kaleidoscope. She'd seemed so very real amidst all the posturing that he'd moved closer. When she left, he followed her back to her father's house then spent the rest of the night discovering her name and situation.

Ginevra Treschi. Even three hundred years and many mortals later it still sounded in his mouth like a benediction.

The next night, while the servants slept and the house was quiet and dark, he'd slipped into her room. Her heartbeat had drawn him to the bed and he'd gently pulled the covers back. Almost thirty and three years a widow, she wasn't beautiful, but she was so alive-even asleep- that he'd found himself staring. Only to find, a few moments later, that she was staring back at him.

I don't wish to hurry your decision, she'd said dryly. But I'm getting chilled and I'd like to know if I should scream.

He'd intended to convince her he was only a dream but he found he couldn't.

They had almost a year of nights together.

A convent? Henry raised himself up on one elbow, disentangling a long strand of ebony hair from around the back of his neck. If you'll forgive me saying so, bella, I don't think you'd enjoy convent life.

I'm not making a joke, Enrico. I go with the Benedictine Sisters tomorrow after early Mass.

For a moment, Henry couldn't speak. The thought of his Ginevra locked away from the world struck him as close to a physical blow. Why? he managed at last.

She sat up, wrapping her arms around her knees. I had a choice, the Sisters or Giuseppe Lemmo. Her lips pursed as though she tasted something sour. The convent seemed the better course.

But why choose at all?

She smiled and shook her head. In your years out of the world you have forgotten a few things, my love. My father wishes me for Signore Lemmo, but he will graciously allow me to go to God if only to get his overly educated daughter out of his house. Her voice grew serious and she stroked a finger down the length of Henry's bare chest. He fears the Inquisition, Enrico. Fears that I will bring the Papal Hounds down upon the family. Her lips twisted. Or that he will be forced to denounce me.

Henry stared at her in astonishment. The Inquisition? But you've done nothing. ...

Both her eyebrows rose. I am lying with you and for some, even not knowing what you are, that would be enough. If they knew that I willingly give myself to an Angel of Darkness ... She turned her wrist so that the small puncture wound became visible. ... burning would be too good for me. A finger laid against his lips stopped him when he tried to speak. Yes, yes, no one knows but I am also a woman who dares to use her mind and that is enough for these times. If my husband had died and left me rich or if I had borne a son to carry on his name. ... Her shoulder's lifted and fell. Unfortunately ...

He caught up her hand. You have another choice.

No. She sighed. The breath quavered as she released it. I have thought long and hard on this, Enrico, and I cannot take your path. It is my need to live as I am that places me in danger now, I simply could not exist behind the masks you must wear to survive.

It was the truth and he knew it, but that made it no easier to bear. When I was changed ...

When you were changed, she interrupted, from what you have told me, the passion was so great it left no room for rational thought, no room to consider what would happen after. Although I am fond of passion, her hand slid down between his legs, I cannot lose myself in it.

He pushed her back onto the pillow, trapping her beneath him. This doesn't have to end.

She laughed. I know you, Enrico. Her eyes half closed and she thrust her hips up against him. Could you do this with a nun?

After a moment of shock, he laughed as well and bent his mouth to hers. If you are sure, he murmured against her lips.

I am. If I must give up my freedom, better to God than to man.

All he could do was respect her decision.

It hurt to lose her, but in the months that followed the hurt eased and it was enough to know that the Sisters kept her safe. Although he thought of leaving, Henry lingered in Venice, not wanting to cut the final tie.

Chance alone brought him news that the Sisters had not been able to keep her safe enough. Hushed whispers overheard in a dark cafe said the Hounds had come for Ginevra Treschi, taken her right from the convent, said she had been consorting with the devil, said they were going to make an example of her. She had been with them three weeks.

Three weeks with fire and iron and pain.

He wanted to storm their citadel like Christ at the gates of hell, but he forced himself to contain his rage. He could not save her if he threw himself into the Inquisitor's embrace.

If anything remained of her to be saved.

They had taken over a wing of the Doge's palace-the Doge being more than willing to cooperate with Rome. The smell of death rolled through the halls like fog and the blood scent left a trail so thick a mortal could have followed it.

He found her hanging as they'd left her. Her wrists had been tightly bound behind her back, a coarse rope threaded through the lashing and used to hoist her into the air. Heavy iron weights hung from her burned ankles. They had obviously begun with flogging and had added greater and more painful persuasions over time. She had been dead only a few hours.

... confessed to having relations with the devil, was forgiven, and gave her soul up to God. He rubbed his fingers in his beard. Very satisfactory all around. Shall we return the body to the Sisters or to her family?

The older Dominican shrugged. I cannot see that it makes any difference, she. . . . Who are you?

Henry smiled. I am vengeance, he said, closing the door behind him and bolting it.

*    *    *

Vengeance. Henry sighed and wiped damp palms on his jeans. The Papal Hounds had died in terror, begging for their lives, but it hadn't brought Ginevra back. Nothing had, until Vicki had prodded at the memories. She was as real in her own world as Ginevra had been and unless he was very careful, she was about to become as real in his.

He'd wanted this, hadn't he? Someone to trust. Someone who could see beneath the masks.

He turned again to face his reflection in the mirror. The others, men and women whose lives he'd entered over the years since Ginevra, had never touched him like this.

Keep her at a distance, he warned himself. At least until the demon is defeated. His reflection looked dubious and he sighed. I only hope I'm up to it.

The girl darted behind the heavy table, sapphire eyes flashing. I thought you were a gentleman, sir!

You are exactly right, Smith, The captain bowed with a feline grace, never taking his mocking gaze from his quarry. Or should that be Miss Smith? Never mind. As you pointed out, I was a gentleman. You'll find I surrendered the title some time ago, He lunged, but she twisted lithely out of his way.

If you make one more move toward me, I shall scream.

Scream away. Roxborough settled one slim hip against the table. I shan't stop you. Although it would pain me to have to share such a lovely prize with my crew.

Fitzroy, what is this shit?

Henry, please, not Fitzroy. He saved the file and shut off the computer. And this shit, he told her, straightening, is my new book.

Your what? Vicki asked, pushing her glasses up her nose. She'd followed him from the door of the condo into the tiny office even though he'd requested that she wait a minute in the living room. If he was going back to close his coffin, she had to see it. You actually read this stuff?

Henry sighed, pulled a paperback off the shelf above the desk, and handed it to her. No. I actually write the stuff.

Oh. Across the cover of the book, a partially unclothed young woman was being passionately yet discreetly embraced by an entirely unclothed young man. The cover copy announced the date of the romance as the late 1800s but both characters had distinctly out of period hair and makeup. Cursive lavender script delineated both the title and the author's name; Destiny's Master by Elizabeth Fitzroy.

Elizabeth Fitzroy? Vicki asked, returning the book.

Henry slid it back on the shelf, rolled the chair out from the desk, and stood, smiling sardonically. Why not Elizabeth Fitzroy? She certainly had as much right to the name as I do.

The prefix Fitz was a bastard's name and was given to acknowledged accidental children. The roy identified the father as the king. You didn't agree with the divorce?

The smile twisted further. I was always a loyal subject of the king, my father. He paused and frowned as though trying to remember. He sounded less mocking when he started speaking again. I liked her Gracious Majesty Queen Catherine. She was kind to a very confused little boy who'd been dumped into a situation he didn't understand and he didn't ever much care for. Mary, the Princess Royal, who could have ignored me or done worse, accepted me as her brother. His voice picked up an edge. I did not like Elizabeth's mother and the feeling was most definitely mutual. Given that all parties concerned have now passed to their eternal reward; no, I did not agree with the divorce.

Vicki glanced back at the shelf of paperbacks as Henry politely but inexorably ushered her out of his office. I suppose you've got a lot of material to use for plots, she muttered dubiously.

I do, Henry agreed, wondering why some people had less trouble handling the idea of a vampire than they did a romance writer.

I suppose you can get even with any number of people in your past this way. Of all the strange scenarios Vicki had imagined occurring during this evening's conference with the over four century old, vampiric, bastard son of Henry VIII, none had included discovering that he was a writer of- What was the term?-bodice rippers.

He grinned and shook his head. If you're thinking of my relatives, I got even with most of them. I'm still alive. But that's not why I write. I'm good at it, I make a very good living doing it, and most of the time I enjoy it. He waved her to the couch and sat down at the opposite end. I could exist from feeding to feeding-and I have- but I infinitely prefer living in comfort than in some rat-infested mausoleum.

But if you've been around for so long, Vicki wondered, settling down into the same corner she'd vacated early that morning, why aren't you rich?

Rich?

Vicki found his throaty chuckle very attractive and also found herself speculating about. ... A mental smack brought her wandering mind back to the business at hand.

Oh, sure, he continued, I could've bought IBM for pennies in nineteen-oh-whenever, but who knew? I'm a vampire, I'm not clairvoyant. Now, he picked a piece of lint off his jeans, may I ask you a question?

Be my guest.

Why did you believe what I told you?

Because I saw the demon and you had no logical reason to lie to me. There was no need to tell him about the dream-or vision-in the church. It hadn't had much to do with her decision anyway.

That's it?

I'm an uncomplicated sort of a person. Now, she mimicked his tone, enough about us. How do we catch a demon?

Very well, Henry agreed silently. If that's how you want it, enough about us.

We don't. I do. He inclined his head toward her end of the couch. You catch the man or woman calling it up.

Fine. Tackling the source made perfect sense to Vicki and the farther she could stay from that repulsive bit of darkness the happier she'd be. She perched her right foot on her left knee and clasped both hands around the ankle. How come you're so sure we're dealing with a single person, not a coven or a cult?

Focused desire is a large part of what pulls the demon through and most groups just can't achieve the necessary single-mindedness. He shrugged. Given the success rate, the odds are good it's just one person.

She mirrored his shrug. Then we go with the odds. Any distinguishing characteristics I should look for?

Henry stretched his arm out and drummed his fingers against the upholstery. If you're asking does a certain type of person call up demons, no. Well, he frowned as he reconsidered, in a way, yes. Without exception, they're people looking for an easy answer, a way to get what they want without working for it.

You just described a way of life for millions of people, Vicki told him dryly. Could you be a little more specific?

The demon is being asked for material goods; it wouldn't need to kill if it remained trapped in the pentagram answering questions. Look for someone who's suddenly acquired great wealth, money, cars. And demons can't create so all that has to come from somewhere.

We could catch him for possession of stolen goods? They couldn't mark every bit of cash in existence, but luxury cars, jewels, and stocks all were traceable. Vicki's pulse began to quicken as she ran over the possibilities now open to investigation. Yes! Her hands curled into fists and punched the air triumphantly. It was only a matter of time. They had him. Or her.

One more thing, Henry warned, trying not to smile at her-What did they call it? Shadow boxing? The more contact this person has with demonkind, the more unstable he or she is going to get.

Yeah? Well, it's another trait to look for, but you've got to be pretty damned unstable to stand out these days. What about the demon?

The demon isn't very powerful.

Vicki snorted. You might be able to rip a person's throat out with a single blow ... She paused and Henry nodded, answering the not-quite-asked question. . . .but no one else I know could. This demon is plenty powerful enough.

Henry shook his head. Not as demons go. It has to feed every time it's called in order to have an effect on things in this world.

So the deaths were it feeding? Completely random?

They didn't mean anything to the person controlling the demon if that's what you're asking. If the demon had been killing business or personal rivals of a single person, the police would have found him or her by now. No, the demon chose where and whom to feed on.

Vicki frowned. But there was a definite external pattern.

My guess is that the demon being called is under the control of another, more powerful demon and has been attempting to form that demon's name on the city.

Oh.

Henry waited patiently while Vicki absorbed this new bit of information.

Why? Actually, she wasn't sure she wanted to know. Or that she needed to ask.

Access; uncontrolled access for the more powerful demon and however many more of its kind it might want to bring through.

And how many more deaths until the name is completed?

No way of knowing.

One? Two? You must have some idea, she snapped. With one hand he gave her hope, with the other he took it away. The son of a bitch. How many deaths in a demon's name?

It depends on the demon. As Vicki scowled, he rose, walked to the bookcase, and slid open one of the glass doors. The book he removed was about the size of a dictionary, bound in leather that might have once been red before years of handling had darkened it to a worn and greasy black. He sat back down, closer this time, twisted the darkly patinaed clasp, and opened the book to a double page spread.

It's hand-written, Vicki marveled, touching the corner of a page. She withdrew her finger quickly. The parchment had felt warm, like she'd just touched something obscenely alive.

It's very old. Henry ignored her reaction; his had been much the same the first time he'd touched the book. These are the demonic names. There're twenty-seven of them and no way of knowing if the author discovered them all.

The names, written in thick black ink in an unpleasantly angular script, were for the most part seven or eight letters long. The demon can't be anywhere near finished, she said thankfully. She still had time to find the bastard behind this.

Henry shook his head, hating to dampen her enthusiasm. It wouldn't be laying out the entire name, just the symbol for it. He flipped ahead a few pages. The list of names was repeated and beside each was a corresponding geometrical sign. Some were very simple. Literacy is a fairly recent phenomenon, Henry murmured. The signs are all that are really needed.

Vicki swallowed. Her mouth had gone suddenly dry. Some of the signs were very simple.

Silently, Henry closed the book and replaced it on the shelf. When he turned to face her again, he spread his arms in a helpless gesture. Unfortunately, he said, I can't stop the demon until after it kills again.

Why not?

Because I have to be there ready for it. And last night it completed the second part of the pattern.

Then it could have completed ...

No. We'd know if it had.

But the next death, the death that starts the pattern again, it could complete ...

No, not yet. Not even the least complicated of the names could be finished so quickly.

You were ready for it last night. He'd been there, just as she had. Why didn't you stop it, then? But then, why didn't she?

Stop it? The laugh had little humor in it. It moved so fast I barely saw it. But the time after next, now that I know what I'm facing, I'll be waiting for it. I can trap it and destroy it.

That sounded encouraging, if there was a time after next. You've done this before?

She needed reassurance but Henry, who knew he could make her believe anything he chose to tell her, found he couldn't lie. Well, no. He'd never been able to lie to Ginevra either, another similarity between the two women he'd just as soon not have found.

Vicki took a deep breath and picked at the edge of her sweater. Henry, how bad will it get if the named demon gets free?

How bad? He sighed and sagged back against the bookcase. At the risk of being considered facetious, all hell will break loose.

Eight

Norman glanced around the Cock and Bull and frowned. Thursday, Friday, and Saturday nights, the nights he'd set aside for seriously trying to pick up chicks, he arrived early to be sure of getting a table. So far, this had meant by 9:30 or 10:00, someone would have to share with him. Tonight, the Thursday before the long Easter weekend, the student pub was so empty it looked as if he'd have no company all night.

It isn't cool to go home for Easter, he thought smugly, running a finger up and down the condensation on his glass of diet ginger ale. His parents had been disappointed, but he'd been adamant. The really cool guys hung out around the university all weekend and Norman Birdwell was now really cool.

He sighed. They didn't, however, apparently hang out at the Cock and Bull. He'd have given up and gone home long ago except for the redhead who held court at the table in the corner. She was absolutely beautiful, everything Norman had ever wanted in a woman, and he had long adored her from across the room in their Comparative Religions class. She wasn't very tall, but her flaming hair gave her a presence and inches in other areas made up for her lack of height. Norman could imagine ripping off her shirt and just gazing at the softly mounded flesh beneath. She'd smile at him in rapt adoration and he'd gently reach out to touch. His imagination wasn't up to much beyond that, so he replayed the scene over and over as he stared across the room.

A beer or two later and voices at the corner table began to rise.

But I'm telling you there's evidence, the redhead exclaimed, for the killer being a creature of the night.

Get real, Coreen!

Her name was Coreen! Norman's heart picked up an irregular rhythm and he leaned forward, straining to hear more clearly.

What about the missing blood? Coreen demanded. Every victim sucked dry.

A pyscho, snorted one of her companions.

A giant leech, suggested another. A giant leech that slimes along the streets of the city until it finds a victim and then . . . SLURP! He sucked back a beer, suiting the action to the word. The group at the table groaned and buried him in thrown napkins and then Coreen's voice rose over the babble.