Blood Debt

and he dropped flat on his back again.
    "Are you all right?"
    "Fitzroy?" Swallowing a mouthful of blood, Celluci propped himself up on his good arm, Henry's hand steadying him as he swayed.
    Vicki had Sullivan on his knees in the middle of the small clearing, one hand dimpling the scalp under the short hair, dragging his head back so far the corded muscles of his throat cast lines of shadow. Her eyes were pale points of light in a face of terrible, inhuman beauty that Celluci almost didn't recognize.
    "Vicki?" When she turned her burning gaze on him, he knew what she was about to do, and although the night was warm, he was suddenly very, very cold. "Vicki, no. Don't kill him."
    "Why not?" Her voice had changed to match her face; seductive, irresistible, deadly.
    There was no need, not even for emphasis, to shout his reply. She could hear his heart beating, his blood moving under his skin; he only hoped she could understand. "Because I'm asking you not to. Let him go."
    Vicki straightened, the quiet plea reaching her in a way anger or fear would not have been able. She released her captive, ignoring him as he collapsed sobbing to the ground, and took a step toward Celluci.
    "Let him go," she repeated, her voice becoming more human with every word. "Are you out of your mind? He is mine!"
    "Why?"
    "Why? For what he did to you."
    "Wouldn't that make him mine?"
    Confusion replaced some of the terrifying beauty.
    "Vicki, please. Don't do this."
    " This is where I draw my line in the sand . …"
    The scent of terror drew her back around to face her prey. Without her hand to hold him, he whimpered when her eyes met his and flung himself backward toward the edge of the clearing.
    The Hunger sang the song of the Hunt, of the blood.
    It was all she could hear.
    She tensed to spring, and it was over.
    Henry let Sullivan fall to the ground, head lolling on a broken neck.
    Calmly, as though he hadn't just killed a man, he met Vicki's gaze across the clearing.
    When he nodded, she turned to face Celluci, the Hunger fading now that the terror had stopped and the blood was cooling. She should have felt rage at the theft of her prey by another, but all she felt was grateful. She'd stood on the edge of a precipice and had just barely escaped plunging over. Her fingers curled into fists to stop their sudden trembling.
    "Is he dead?"
    "Yes."
    Celluci looked from Henry to Vicki and realized he'd received exactly what he'd asked for. Vicki had not done it, Henry had. But he'd seen Henry kill before in a barn outside London, Ontario. He'd known for a long time what Henry was. Vampire. Nightwalker.
    Immortal death. Henry. Not Vicki. He closed his eyes. The lids had barely fallen when a familiar arm went around his shoulders and a familiar voice brushed warm breath against his ear.
    "Are you all right?"
    He shrugged, as well as he was able all things considered. "I've been better."
    "Do you need a doctor?"
    From somewhere, he found half a smile. "No."
    "Then let's get you out of here. Henry's car is at the front of the house." She hesitated, ready to slide the other arm beneath his legs.
    "May I?"
    "Just don't make a habit of it." Her lips pressed briefly against his face, then she carefully lifted him into her arms. He kept his eyes closed. Sometimes, love needed a little help being blind.

    Swanson sighed as he turned onto Nisga's Drive, thankful to be almost home. The black-tie fund-raiser for the Transplant Society had been a depressing affair, most conversations either beginning or ending with the recent death of Lisa Evans and how much both she and her open checkbook would be missed.
    He almost failed to note the one significant detail of the car pulling out onto the road, realizing only at the last moment that it pulled out of his driveway. There seemed to be three people in it although he only got a good look at the driver as it sped past. •'Dangerous," he told himself, although he didn't know why, and he wondered if perhaps his house had been robbed while he was away. Shaking his head as he turned in between the cypress, he told himself not to be ridiculous.
    Thieves seldom drove BMWs.
    Still, in a neighborhood where Bentlys were the car of choice, it wasn't that farfetched a theory.
    The house seemed undisturbed. He parked outside the garage and sat studying it in the brilliant quartz halogen glare of the security lights. He didn't want any surprises. He didn't like surprises. After a careful inspection, he left the car where it