4 Blood Pact (29 page)

They would have to take precautions, of course. The legendary vampire had been accredited with a number of abilities that could be a threat. While many of them could be discounted out of hand—as he hadn’t been able to get out of the isolation box before sunrise, the actual vampire appeared incapable of becoming mist—he was very strong; the dents he’d added to number nine’s pattern on the inside of the lid testified to that.
So it’s probably best that he spend his nights locked in that box.

He’d have to be fed, of course, if only to replace the fluids Catherine removed during the day. Fortunately, there were a number of small tubes available that blood could be passed through.

And as for the granting of eternal life
. Dr. Burke drummed her fingertips on the desk. Henry Fitzroy’s identification seemed to indicate that he lived a reasonably normal life, even considering that the day was unquestionably denied him, and nothing but legend indicated that he’d lived any longer than the twenty-four years his driver’s license allowed him. She’d have to discuss his history with him later—not that it mattered much. What point in living forever if forever had to be lived in hiding?
Skulking about in the dark. Helpless in the day. Not, I think, for me.

After years of being anonymously responsible for keeping the infrastructure of science running, she wanted recognition. She’d spent long enough tucked away out of sight, tilting with bureaucracy while others garnered the glory.

One lifetime, properly appreciated, would be long enough. Conquering death had always been merely a means to an end and she had no more intention of becoming a blood-drinking creature of the night than she did of allowing her body to be used to create one of those shambling monstrosities she’d told Catherine to destroy.

Resisting the temptation to begin composing her acceptance speech for Stockholm, Dr. Burke forced herself to concentrate on the grant application. When she’d dealt with this last bit of unavoidable paperwork, she’d be free to spend a few hours in the lab. She was actually looking forward to the unavoidable conversation with their captured vampire.

Half an hour later, a tentative knock at the office door brought her up out of a projected balance sheet that proved at least one of the department’s professors had taken a course in economics—and not paid much attention.

“Come in.”

Mrs. Shaw leaned into the room. “I just wanted to let you know that I’m leaving now, Doctor.”

“Is it as late as all that?”

The older woman smiled. “It’s later. But Ms. Grenier and I pretty much cleared the backlog.”

Dr. Burke nodded approvingly. “Good. Thank you for all the hard work.” Appreciation made the best motivator regardless of where it was applied. “There’ll be another stack out there tomorrow,” she added, indicating the pile of folders on the comer of her desk.

“You can count on me, Doctor. Good night. Oh.” The door, in the process of closing, opened again and Mrs. Shaw reappeared. “Marjory’s daughter was around this morning. She wanted Donald Li’s home address. I hope you don’t mind.”

“A little late now if I did, isn’t it?” Somehow, she managed to keep the question light. “Did Ms. Nelson tell you
why
she wanted Donald’s address?”

“She wanted to talk to him about her mother.” Mrs. Shaw began to look worried at the expression on her employer’s face. “I know it’s against policy, but she
is
Marjory’s daughter.”

“Was
Marjory’s daughter,” Dr. Burke pointed out dryly. “Never mind, Mrs. Shaw.” There was no point in getting annoyed so long after the fact. “If Donald doesn’t want to talk to her, I’m sure he can take care of it himself.”

“Thank you, Doctor. Good night.”

Dr. Burke waited a moment, to be certain that this time the door would stay closed, then pulled the phone across the desk and tapped in Donald’s number. After four rings, his answering machine came on with a trumpet fanfare and the message that “. . . autographed pictures are available for twenty dollars plus a self-addressed, stamped envelope. For personal dedications, add five dollars. Those actually wishing conversation with Mr. Li can leave a message after the tone and he’ll get back to you the moment he has a break in his too, too busy schedule.”

“This is Dr. Burke. If you’re there, Donald, pick up.”

Apparently, he wasn’t there. After leaving instructions that she be called at his earliest opportunity, Dr. Burke hung up and shoved the phone away.

“He’s probably spent the day avoiding that woman. At least he didn’t lead her to the lab.”

The lab . . .

A memory nibbled at the edge of conscious thought. Something to do with the lab. She leaned back in her chair and frowned up at the ceiling tiles. Something not quite right that the incredible discovery of the vampire had distracted her from. Something so normal . . .

Number eight no longer existed. The vampire was in number nine’s box but both number nine and number ten had been sitting passively against the wall.

Who was in number eight’s box?

Then a second memory surfaced.

It suddenly got very hard to breathe.

“Oh, lord, no . . .”

 

They could hear the phone ringing from the hall. As could be expected under the circumstances, the key jammed.

Four rings. Five.

“God
damnit!”
Her mood not exactly sunny, Vicki backed up and slammed the bottom of her foot against the door just below the lock. The entire structure shuddered under the impact. When she grabbed the key again, it turned.

“Nothing like the Luke Skywalker method,” Celluci muttered, racing for the phone.

Nine rings. Ten.

“Yes? Hello?”

“Good timing, Mike. I was just about to hang up.” Celluci mouthed “Dave Graham” at Vicki, jammed the receiver between ear and shoulder, and readied a pen. “What’ve you got for me?”

“I had to call in a couple of favors—you owe me for this, partner—but Humber College finally came through. Your boy was recommended to the course by a Dr. Dabir Rashid, Faculty of Medicine, Queen’s University. And as a bonus, they threw in the information that he requested young Mr. Chen serve his four-week observation period at Hutchinson’s.”

“No mention of a Dr. Aline Burke?”

“Nary a word. How’s Vicki?”

Good question. “Damned if I know.”

“Like that, is it? You gotta remember that death affects different people different ways. I know when my uncle died, my aunt seemed almost relieved, handled the funeral like it was a family reunion. Two weeks later, blam. Completely fell apart. And my wife’s cousin, he . . .”

“Dave.”

“Yeah?”

“Later.”

“Oh. Right. Listen, Cantree says to take as much time as you need for this. He said we’ll manage to muddle through somehow without you.”

“Nice of him.”

“He’s a saint. Let me know how it shakes down.”

“You got it, buddy.” He turned from hanging up the phone to find Vicki glaring at him. “Our Tom Chen got his recommendation from a Dr. Dabir Rashid, Faculty of Medicine, Queen’s University. I don’t suppose that could be an alias for Dr. Burke?”

“No. I met Dr. Rashid briefly yesterday.” Vicki stomped across the room and threw herself down onto the couch. “He’s a year older than God and isn’t sure if he’s coming or going. I assume he has tenure.”

Celluci dropped a hip onto the telephone table and shrugged. “Easy to confuse, then, if you wanted him to do you a favor you didn’t want traced.”

“Exactly.” Vicki spit the word out. “He probably thought he was recommending the Tom Chen who’s actually studying medicine.” She jabbed at her glasses. “From what I saw, if he even remembers giving it, he’ll never remember who asked him to do it.”

“Then we’ll have to stimulate his memory.” Vicki snorted. “The shock would probably kill him.”

“You never know. The recommendation included a request that Chen serve his four-week observation period at Hutchinson’s—the more details, more chance one of them stuck.”

“Yeah. Maybe.” Snatching up a green brocade cushion, she threw it against the far wall. “Jesus, Mike; why isn’t it ever easy?”

Another good question. “I don’t know, Vicki, maybe . . .”

His voice trailed off as he watched all the color suddenly drain out of her face. “Vicki? What’s wrong?”

“It’s a four-week observation period.” Her hands were shaking so violently she couldn’t lace the fingers together, so she curled them into fists and pressed the fists hard against her thighs. “My mother was given six months to live.” She had to force the words out through a throat closed tight. “They couldn’t keep placing people in that funeral home.” Why hadn’t she seen it before? “My mother had to die during those four weeks.” She turned her head and met Celluci’s gaze square on. “Do you know what that means?”

He knew.

“My mother was murdered, Mike.” Her voice became steel and ice. “And who was with my mother seconds before she died?”

He reached behind him and scooped up the phone. “I think we’ve got something Detective Fergusson will listen to now . . .”

“No.” Vicki got slowly to her feet, her movements jerky and barely under control. “First, we’ve got to rescue Henry. Once he’s safe, she’s history. But not until.”

She wasn’t going to fail Henry the way she’d failed her mother.

As the day surrendered its power to hold him, Henry fought the panic that accompanied awareness—the steel coffin still enclosed him, wrapped him in the stink of death perverted and the acrid odor of his own terror. He couldn’t prevent the first two blows that slammed up into the impervious arc of padded metal, but he managed to stop the third and the fourth. With full consciousness came greater control. He remembered the futile struggles of the night before and knew that mere physical strength would not be enough to free him.

His head swam with images—the young man, strangled, newly dead; the older man, long dead, not dead, not alive; the young woman, pale hair, pale skin, empty eyes. He swallowed, tasted the residue of blood, and was nearly lost as the Hunger rose.

It was too strong to force back. Henry barely managed to hold the line between the Hunger and self.

He had fed the night before. The Hunger should be his to command. Then he realized his struggles had tangled his arms in the heavy folds of his leather trench coat. Someone had removed both it and his shirt and not bothered to replace them. Bare to the waist, he found the marks of a dozen needles.

He’d made that observation, somewhat facetiously, just over a year ago. It seemed much less facetious now. Over the course of the day someone had obviously been conducting experiments. He was helpless during the oblivion of the day. He was captive in the night.

The panic won and a crimson tide of Hunger roared free with it.

Consciousness returned a second time that night, bringing pain and an exhaustion so complete he could barely straighten twisted limbs. His body, weakened by blood loss, had obviously set a limit on hysteria.

Can’t say . . . as I blame it
. Even thinking hurt. Screaming had ripped his throat raw. Bruising, bonedeep on knees and elbows, protested movement. Two of the fingers on his left hand were broken and the skin over the knuckles, split. With what seemed like the last of his strength, he realigned the fractures then lay panting, trying not to taste the abomination in the air.

The Hunger filled his prison with throbbing crimson need, bound for the moment by his weakness. Eventually, the weakness would be devoured and the Hunger would rule.

 

In all his seventeen years, Henry had never been in a darkness so complete and, in spite of Christina’s remembered reassurances, he began to panic. The panic grew when he tried to lift 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.

He had no idea how long he lay, paralyzed by terror, frenzied need clawing at his gut, but his sanity hung by a . . .

 

“No.” He could manage no more than a whispered protest, not quite enough to banish the memory. The terror of that first awakening, trapped in a common grave, nearly destroyed by the Hunger, would reach out to claim him now if he let it. “Remember the rest, if you must remember at all.”

 

. . . he heard a shovel blade bite into the dirt above him, the noise a hundred thousand times louder than it could possibly have been.”

“Henry!”

The Hunger surged out toward the voice, carrying him with it.

“Henry!”

His name. It was his name she called. He clutched at it like a lifeline, the Hunger a surrounding maelstrom.

“Henry, answer me!”

Although the Hunger tried to drown him out, he formed a single word. “Christina . . .”

Then, the nails shrieking protest, the coffin lid flew back. Pale hands, strong hands, gentle hands held him in his frenzy. Rough homespun ripped away from alabaster skin and a wound in a breast reopened so he could feed again on the blood that had changed him, safe behind a silken curtain of ebony hair.

 

He couldn’t free himself.

Four hundred and fifty years ago, a woman’s love had saved him.

He couldn’t surrender to despair.