1 Blood Price (17 page)

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. . . .

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
. Sudden y, 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 Dunclas.

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.

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
. . . .