Blood Debt

seen a pad and a jar of pens beside an extremely expensive replica of an old-fashioned wall phone. "Okay. Go ahead."
    "You'll notice I'm not asking why you want these things."
    "And I appreciate that, Dave."
    "I mean, I'm willing to believe that you're just making some exciting vacation plans and are not being drawn into one of Vicki's weirdo, made for Fox TV investigations.''
    "Thanks, Dave."
    "Yeah, well, I'm gullible that way. Try not to get yourself killed."
    The first half of the list, from the firmly entrenched to the up-and-coming, was longer than he'd thought it would be. There was nothing about Ronald Swanson at all. The man didn't have so much as an outstanding parking ticket.

    Henry woke angry, but that was to be expected as Vicki's scent—the scent of an intruder, a competing predator—still clung to the bedroom.
    He'd been lying with his upper lip half lifted in a snarl, and it took him a moment to peel the flesh off air-dried teeth.
    "I bet Brad Pitt never has this problem," he muttered, reaching for the light.
    The handless ghost waited impatiently at the end of the bed. The body in the morgue had been less disturbing—it was only dead. This spirit had moved beyond death, and shadows clung to it. Eldritch shadows, Henry found himself thinking and shook his head to dislodge the thought. Oh, that's just what I need-now I'm channeling adjectives from H.P. Lovecraft.
    The ghost began to lift its mutilated arms, but before it could open its mouth to scream, Henry snarled, "That was you at the morgue, wasn't it?"
    Arms still uplifted, its expression bordered on petulance as it disappeared.
    Alone again, Henry swung his legs out of bed, then, as they touched the carpet, he paused. The lingering scent of a second vampire had been acknowledged if not dealt with. The ghost had been banished for one more sunset. And yet, an uneasiness remained. There was something more.

    Or more precisely, something less.
    Tony.
    Although he could hear the throbbing heartbeat of the surrounding city, no bloodsong called from within the limits of his sanctuary. With so many other things there, Tony's absence stood out in sharp relief.
    Henry stared at his reflection and realized it felt surprisingly good to be alone.

    "What're you looking so excited about?"
    "Me? Nothing."
    With the denial the gleam of anticipation in Vicki's eyes switched off.
    Celluci frowned. The things she thought she had to hide from him were never good—in fact, most of the time they were very not good.
    He watched her carefully as she crossed the living room, pulled out a slat-backed chair, and straddled it but could see nothing that might give him any explanations. "That chair's a Stickley," he grunted as she tipped it forward on two legs and reached across the table for his notes. "Try not to break it."
    "Chill, Michael. I don't know why you think you can't trust me with expensive furniture. What've you got?"
    He pushed a sheet of paper toward her groping fingers. "The reasons Ms. Chou thinks the missing kidney is our motive."
    Vicki scanned the familiar handwriting. "She's pretty convincing."
    "I didn't know you needed convincing." Before she could answer, he handed her another page. "The reasons Mr. Ronald Swanson thinks it's impractical."
    "You spoke to him?"
    "No. It's what I remembered from the cable program."
    "If Swanson works for the transplant programs, it's in his best interest to squash this kind of speculation, so his is not exactly an unbiased opinion."
    "It's in Ms. Chou's best interest to promote scandal. Not exactly an unbiased opinion either."
    "But it's the only possible motive we've got and so should be investigated."
    "What about a simple gangland killing, take the hands to use later?"
    "And leave the kidney out of it?" She flashed him a serene and totally false smile as she picked up a pencil and a blank piece of paper.
    "We have what; a dead body missing both hands and a kidney. We have where; thanks to Henry's ghost's wardrobe which indicates he's local. We have why…"

    "We have a potential why," Celluci broke in.
    "Fine. A potential why; missing kidney equals organs for profit.
    So…" Flicking the pencil into the air, she watched it rise toward the ceiling, then caught it as it tumbled down. "Next on the list, who. Our only clue is the missing hands, missing hands often mean gangs who are always looking for new profit and who can certainly find and finance crooked hackers, crooked doctors, and loyal thugs." The gleam of