1 Blood Price (33 page)

“Damn. Damn! DAMN!”

With one hand guiding Henry’s body so that it slid down onto the torn cushions, she heaved the couch back upright, knelt again beside it and reached for her bag. The small blade of her Swiss Army knife was sharpest—she used it less frequently—so she set its edge against the skin of her wrist. The skin dimpled and she paused, sending up a silent prayer that this would work, that whatever the legends were wrong about, they’d be right about this.

It didn’t hurt as much as she expected. She pressed the cut to his lips and waited. A crimson drop rolled out the corner of his mouth, drawing a line in red across his cheek.

Then his throat moved, a small convulsive swallow. She felt his lips mold themselves to her wrist and his tongue lap once, twice at the flowing blood. The hair on the back of her neck rose and, almost involuntarily, she pressed the wound harder against his mouth.

He began to feed, sucking frantically at first, then more calmly when something in him realized he wasn’t going to be denied.

Will he know when to stop?
Her breathing grew ragged as the sensations traveling up her arm caused answering sensations in other parts of her body.
Will I be able to stop him if he doesn’t?

Two minutes, three, she watched him feed and during that time it was all he was—hunger, nothing more. It reminded her of an infant at the breast and under jacket, sweater, and bra, she felt her nipples harden at the thought. She could see why so many stories of vampires tied the blood to sex—this was one of the most intimate actions she’d ever been a part of.

First there was pain and then there was blood. There was nothing but blood. The world was the blood.

She watched as consciousness began returning and his hand came up to grasp hers, applying a pressure against that of his mouth.

He could feel the life that supplied the blood now. Smell it, hear it, recognize it, and he fought the red haze that said that life should be his. So easy to give in to the hunger.

She could see the struggle as he swallowed one last time and then pushed her wrist away. She didn’t understand. She could feel his need, feel herself drawn to it. She raised her wrist back toward his mouth, crimson drops welling out from the cut.

He threw it away from him with a strength that surprised her, the marks of his fingers printed white on her arm. Unfortunately, it was all the strength he had, his body going limp again, head lolling against her shoulder.

The pain of his grip helped chase the fog away, although it was still desperately difficult to think. She shifted position. The room slid in and out of focus and she realized as she swam up out of the darkness why he’d forced himself to stop. She couldn’t give him all the blood he needed, not without giving herself in the process.

“Shit, shit, shit!” It wasn’t very creative, but it made her feel better.

Settling him back onto the couch, she patted him down and pulled his keys from his pants’ pocket—if she was to save Henry’s life she had no more time to waste on picking locks.
He needs more blood. I have to find Tony.

The sudden rise to her feet turned out to be a bad idea, the world slipped sideways and her run for the door became more of a stumble.
How could he have taken so much in such a short time?
Breathing heavily, she moved out into the hall and jogged for the elevator.

“Good lord, that’s Owen!”

Owen? Greg pushed his way through to the front of the crowd. If Owen had been hurt, Mrs. Hughes might need his help.

Owen had been more than hurt. Owen’s jaws had been forced so far apart his head had split.

And Mrs. Hughes was beyond any help he could give.

She had to get to Yonge and Bloor but her body was not cooperating. The dizziness grew worse instead of better and she careened from one solid object to another, stubbornly refusing to surrender to it. By Church Street, surrender became a moot point.

“Yo, Victory.”

Strong hands grabbed her as she fell and she clutched at Tony’s jean jacket until the sidewalk stopped threatening to rise up and smack her in the face.

“You okay, Victory? You look like shit.”

She pushed away from him, changing her grip from his jacket to his arm.
“How the hell am I supposed to put this?
“Tony, I need your help.”

Tony studied her face for a moment, pale eyes narrowed. “Someone been beating on you?”

Vicki shook her head and wished she hadn’t. “No, that’s not it. I. . . .”

“You been doing drugs?”

“Of course not!” The involuntary indignation drew her up straighter.

“Then what the fuck happened to you? Twenty minutes ago you were fine.”

She squinted down at him, the glare from the street light adding to her difficulty in focusing. He looked more angry than concerned. “I’ll explain on the way.”

“Who says I’m going anywhere?”

“Tony, please. . . .”

The moment he took to make up his mind was the longest she’d known for a long time.

“Well, I guess I don’t got anything better to do.” He let her drag him forward. “But the explanation better be good.”

Wide-eyed, Greg stared over the shoulder of the burly police constable. All he could see of Mrs. Hughes was running shoe, the upturned sole stained red, and a bit of sweatpant-covered leg—the coroner blocked his view of the actual body. Poor Mrs. Hughes. Poor Owen.

“No doubt about it.” The coroner stood and motioned for the ambulance attendants to take care of the body. “The same as the others.”

An awed murmur rippled through the crowd. The same as the others. Vampire!

At the sound, one of the police investigators turned and glared up the hill. “What the hell are these people doing down here? Get them back behind the cars! Now!”

Greg moved with the others, but he paid no attention to the speculations that buzzed around him, caught up in his own thoughts. In spite of the hour, he recognized a number of tenants from his building in the crowd. Henry Fitzroy wasn’t among them. Neither were a great many others, he acknowledged, but Mr. Fitzroy’s absence had suddenly become important.

Owen, who had liked everyone, had never liked Henry Fitzroy.

Unable to forget the expression that had surfaced in the young man’s eyes or the terror it had evoked, Greg had no doubt Mr. Fitzroy could kill. The question became, had he?

Weaving his way through to the edge of the crowd, Greg hurried back to Bloor Street. It was time for some answers.