Blood Debt

what ghosts always wanted.
    "You know, movies and stuff. He wants you to help him take revenge against the guy who took his hands."
    "And how am I supposed to do that?"
    "Jeez, Henry, I don't know. You worked with Vicki; didn't she teach you nothing?"
    "Anything."
    Tony rolled his eyes. "Okay, anything."
    Vicki Nelson, private investigator, ex-police detective, ex-lover, vampire—Henry had worked with her for one short year before fate had brought them as close together as was possible with his kind and then had driven them apart. He'd been forced to change her to save her life and forced, by the change, to give her up. Highly territorial, vampires hunted alone. She'd returned to Toronto and her mortal lover. He'd made a new life for himself on the West Coast.
    Had she taught him anything?
    Yes.
    Did any of it have anything to do with handless ghosts?
    No.
    When he repeated his thoughts aloud for Tony's benefit, he added,
    "One thing she did teach me is that I'm not a detective. I'm a writer, and, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to go write." Not entirely certain why memories of Vicki Nelson always made him so defensive, he headed for his computer, waving at the television on his way through the living room. "Your rain delay seems to be over."
    Half an hour later, having realized that the expected staccato clicking of keys hadn't yet begun, Tony pushed open the door to Henry's office. Standing on the threshold, he noted that nothing showed on the monitor but a chapter heading and a lot of blank screen.
    "This spook really has you spooked, doesn't it?"
    "Why do you say that?" Henry asked without turning.
    "You're just sitting there, staring at your hands."
    "Maybe I was deep in thought."
    "Henry, you write bodice rippers. There's a limit to how much deep thought is allowed."
    Seventeen years a royal duke, over four hundred and fifty years a vampire, it had taken Henry a while to recognize when he was being teased. Once or twice, Tony had come close to not surviving the adjustment. Lifting his gaze from his hands, he sighed. "All I can think of is, why me." He laughed, but the sound held no humor. "Which seems a little self-centered since I'm merely being haunted and was not the one killed and mutilated." Pushing his ergonomic chair away from the desk, he spun it around and stood. "I need to get out. Be distracted."

    "Great." Tony grinned. "Bram Stoker's Dracula is playing at midnight at the Caprice."
    "Why not." Enjoying Tony's poleaxed expression, Henry turned the young man about and pushed him gently out of the doorway. "I hear Gary Oldman is terrific."
    "You hear?" Tony sputtered as Henry's inarguable touch moved him down the hall. "You heard it from me! And when I told you, you told me that you never go to vampire movies— that's why not."
    "I changed my mind." Unable to resist, he added, "Maybe we can get a bite while we're downtown."
    The elevators in the Pacific Place towers were as fast and as quiet as money could make them. With his fingertips resting lightly on the brushed steel doors, Henry cocked his head and smiled. "It sounds like Lisa's shredding the character of another cabbie."
    Tony winced. "Man, I'm glad she likes us."
    As the chime announced the arrival of the elevator, the two men stepped away from the doors.
    "Hello, boys." One gloved hand clutching the arm of her paid companion, Lisa Evans grinned a very expensive and perfect grin as she shuffled into the corridor. The gleaming white teeth between glistening red lips added a ghastly emphasis to the skull-like effect created when age finally triumphed over years of cosmetic surgery.
    "Heading out for a late night on the town?"
    "Just a midnight movie," Henry told her as Tony stopped the doors from closing. He scooped up her free hand and raised it to his lips.
    "And you, I expect, have been out breaking hearts?"
    "At my age? Don't be ridiculous." She pulled her hand free and smacked him lightly on the cheek, then turned on her companion.
    "And what are you smiling about, Munro?"
    Not the least bit chastised, Mrs. Munro continued to smile down at her elderly employer. "I was just thinking about Mr. Swanson."
    "Swanson's interested in my money, not these old bones." But she preened a little and patted the head of the mink stole she wore over a raw silk suit. Once the mistress of a Vancouver lumber baron, she'd made a number of shrewd investments and parlayed a comfortable nest egg into a tidy fortune. "And besides, I'm not interested in him.
    All