Blood Debt

She pulled free of his grip and patted him lightly on both cheeks. "You're not the only one who can think of an easier way to get through this, sweet knees."
    He frowned as she walked away. "Sweet knees?"
    "… suppose one of them turns out to be the man we're looking for?"
    Henry asked as he folded the list and slipped it into his pocket. He'd tried to sound neither sarcastic nor superior and had been, all things considered, remarkably successful at both. But then, they'd always been able to manage over the phone.

    "What? You mean suppose one of your… subjects says: Yeah, I'm the guy. I've been selling organs all up and down the West Coast.
    Usually we dump 'em at sea, but that body in the harbor must have got caught in the tides?"
    With an effort, he kept his smile from showing in his voice—Vicki had sounded so incredibly indignant at the mere possibility he might discover the information before she did. "Yes. Suppose one of my…
    subjects says that. If you've given me half the list, the odds are fifty-fifty."
    "You don't need to tell me the odds, Henry. I may be a childish vampire…"
    He heard Celluci protest in the background and was quite happy to have missed the earlier argument.
    "… but I have been doing this living thing a lot longer than you did, and I've certainly been an investigator one hell of a lot longer."
    "I hadn't intended to suggest you hadn't."
    "Oh, no, you just intended to suggest you didn't need me here at all."
    Frowning slightly, he went back over the conversation and tried to determine how she'd arrived at that particular conclusion. "Vicki, I may be able to strong-arm crime lords, but it would never have occurred to me to do it."
    "Oh."
    "If I'm going to get rid of my nonblithe spirit, I do need you here."
    "Oh." He heard her sigh. "I can't decide whether you're being mature or patronizing."
    "Which would you prefer?"
    "You know, that's a very Celluci question. I don't want you guys hanging around together any more." But he could hear the sound of her smile, so it was all right.
    "I fully understand."

    She snorted, a purely human sound. "You couldn't possibly.
    Whoever gets back first leaves a message on the other's machine."
    "You don't think we should meet?" He had an unexpected memory of the pulse that beat at the base of her throat, her skin the soft, sun-kissed tan it would never be again and missed her reply in the sudden surge of loneliness. "I'm sorry, I…"
    Her voice was as gentle as he'd heard it since the change. "I'm sorry, too, Henry."

    "Everything all worked out?"
    Her hand still resting on the phone, Vicki turned to face Celluci and shrugged. "I gave Henry every other name. He knows what we need to find out. Like you said, he's not totally incompetent."
    Celluci's brows drew in at the hint of melancholy in her voice. "And the phone thing went okay?"
    "No reason why it shouldn't, is there? Across the country, across the hall, it's basically the same thing."
    You miss him, don't you? But that was one question he wasn't stupid enough to ask. She didn't miss Fitzroy—the undead royal bastard was still around—she missed what they'd had, and he didn't want to remind her of that because she could never, ever have it again, and while he reveled in the certainty, he had no intention of coming across as an insensitive prick.
    "Need to feed?" he asked instead.
    Melancholy gone, she grinned and her eyes frosted. "No, thanks, I'm dining out."
    "Yeah. Right." Actually, he found the thought of her gorging on the blood of Vancouver's crime lords less problematic than her gentler meals. Those were the nights he didn't want to think about. Standing suddenly, he joined her on the way to the door. "Hang on and I'll go with you as far as the lobby. Tony's working till nine. I think I'll head over to the video store and see if he wants to join me for a bite." When both her brows rose, he sighed. "You know, eating never used to come with this many double entendres."
    She'd half turned to answer him as he closed the door. By the time they became aware they weren't alone in the hall, it was too late to do anything that wouldn't seem like a retreat.
    "Henry."
    "Vicki."
    Oh, shit. Still, they're sounding practically conversational, so maybe this won't be a complete disaster. They both wore black jeans and black T-shirts. Vicki wore sneakers and a black cotton sweater. He knew it was cotton; he'd bought it for her. Fitzroy wore desert boots and a black linen blazer. He knew it was linen;