Blood Debt

back to the window and its view of the city. Of Henry's territory.
    "So." Celluci propped one thigh on the back of the sofa. "Care to tell me why all the buttering up?"
    "What are you talking about?"
    "Vicki, this is me. Cut the crap."
    She shrugged without turning. "We need him. Tony knows the city.
    Knows more than we do, anyway."
    "And?"
    "And maybe I didn't want to lose him, too. Henry is…"
    "Different?"
    "No. He hasn't changed, I have. I know how I used to feel about him—it's all there, but I can't reach it. Friend, lover; they're just words. When I look at him, they don't mean anything. Henry was right, Mike. He was right and I was wrong, and on top of everything else…" Her words took on a familiar emphasis. "On top of everything else, I hate being wrong."
    Celluci touched the holes Vicki had made earlier in the green leather and decided not to mention his conversation with Henry.

    Although his sunglasses blocked most of the light from oncoming traffic, Henry gladly turned off onto the unpaved access road and away from the constant irritation. Dropping his shades on the passenger seat, he leaned back and shook the tension out of his shoulders. He slowed slightly when, after a particularly vigorous dip in the road, his oil pan gently scraped against a protruding piece of the mountain.
    He'd bought the 1976 BMW new, had coddled it through the salted winters in Toronto, and had no interest in replacing it. Most Vancouverites seemed to share his attitude. Since moving to B.C. he'd been constantly astonished by the number of twenty-year-old cars on the road—many with the original paint job still factory fresh. These were cars that back East had hit the junkyards long ago or were maintained by loving collectors but here, on the West Coast, were still being driven daily. Once or twice, while looking out at the city, Henry'd almost forgotten what decade it was.
    He slowed still further as a raccoon, apparently indifferent to tons of speeding steel, crossed his headlight beam in a stately waddle.
    Familiar with raccoons as urban animals, it surprised him to see this one so far out in the country. They were all over Vancouver, were tame enough in Stanley Park to beg for handouts, and Vicki'd even had a family of them living in the attic of her three-story apartment building in downtown Toronto.
    Vicki.
    He should've known his thoughts would eventually circle around to her.
    What if you were wrong?
    Now, you'll never know.
    It's better this way. The steering wheel creaked under his grip. If I'd stayed and I'd lost control, I could have killed her.
    Or she could've killed you, murmured a little voice in his head, reminding him that Vicki had already killed for territory during the short time she'd walked the night.
    It had been a fight she shouldn't have won, not against an opponent so much older and more experienced. But then, Vicki excelled at turning conventions upside down.
    Henry had been told, had believed, and had lived by the belief that, when the parent/child bond faded, vampires had no further contact with those they had changed. Vicki had used the conveniences of the twentieth century—the telephone, faxes, E-mail—to wipe out something he'd taken as a given for over four hundred and fifty years.
    She phoned him, she faxed him, she sent sarcastic monologues by E-mail, she remained in contact and didn't give a damn about what vampires did or did not do.

    In spite of everything, because Vicki had refused to have it any other way, they'd remained friends.
    "At a distance," he added, carefully easing the car down a rutted lane. "Physical proximity is something else again."
    You maintained control, the little voice pointed out. You were angry, but that was all. It you hadn't provoked her, maybe, in spite of her youth, she could've maintained control as well. She believed that she could, and you know that with Vicki that's usually enough.
    Now you'll never know.
    "Shut up!" With a savage twist, Henry shut off the engine and sat staring out at the small cabin illuminated by his headlights. A pair of windows tucked up under the eaves seemed to stare mockingly back at him.
    "What's done is done," he muttered, turning off the lights and stepping out into the night. He would stay at the cabin until Vicki had solved the case and, by removing himself to a new territory, would, at the very least, not disrupt her concentration. With innocent lives relying on her abilities, this was not the time to test traditional