Blood Debt

He stepped aside as two of the club's less distinguished patrons were escorted out.
    "All clear, Mr. Chen." As the crime boss entered, the enforcer nodded to a companion at the end of the hall and took up a position outside the door, one foot in its handmade size eight shoe keeping the beat that throbbed throughout the club.
    Inside, Harry Chen relieved himself, sighed deeply in contentment, and crossed the room to the row of stainless steel sinks. He shook his head in unfeigned distaste at the residue of white powder. Only weak fools destroyed themselves with drugs. Weak fools who had helped to make him rich, perhaps, but that made them no less weak, no less foolish.
    He passed his hands under the taps and, as the warm water poured over them, glanced up at his reflection in the mirror. "There's never enough fucking light when…" The rest of the sentence caught in his throat. Death looked over his shoulder.
    Behind him, Henry smiled, showing teeth. "Harry Chen, I presume?
    "

    He stiffened, recognizing it was not a question and that the pale-haired man knew exactly whose life he held. Dripping hands held out from his sides, he turned.
    "If you call for help, you'll be dead before the first word reaches air," Henry told him as he opened his mouth.
    "I'm dead anyway." But he wasn't dead yet, so he kept his voice low, ignoring the quaver because he couldn't prevent it, hope warring with fear. "Who sent you? Was it Ngyn, that Vietnamese prick? No,"
    he answered his own question. "Ngyn wouldn't use a fuc…" Suddenly realizing that some racial slurs might not be wise under the circumstances, Chen began again. "Nygn wouldn't use you. Look, you're a professional, right? So am I. Whoever sent you, I can pay you more. Lots more. Cash. Drugs. Girls. Whatever the fuck you want, man. I can get it for you." Finding courage in the silence, he raised his eyes. The small, nonshrieking part of his mind decided it was very glad he'd just relieved himself. "You're… not… possible."
    The protest emerged one word to each short, shallow breath. Even Henry had to strain to hear it. "Aren't I?" he asked quietly, impressed by the strength of will in spite of his contempt for the man. "Then you're in no danger, are you?"
    "Just… do it, you… son of a bitch."
    "Not until you answer a few questions."
    He swallowed and fought the urge to lift his chin. "Fuck… you."
    Henry growled low in his throat.
    A few minutes later, as another song began, the enforcer in front of the door pushed it open a crack. "You okay, Mr. Chen? Mr. Chen?"
    There wasn't a mark on the body. No way to show how he died.
    Harry Chen had known nothing. Henry threw the leather driving gloves down on the seat beside him, slammed the BMW into gear, and jerked it out into traffic. He needed to feed, needed to let the Hunger free to wash away the memory of men he'd questioned with blood.
    He'd barely been able to stop himself from feeding on Harry Chen.
    But to feed on such a man would mean he fed on all the lives that man had destroyed, and that he would not do.
    But he needed to feed.

    Bars were closing. After hours clubs, tucked into lofts and behind stage entrances, were opening. There was a lot more traffic on the streets than Celluci had expected.
    "It's 'cause people live in the West End, they don't just drink and shop here." Tony waved a hand to include the apartment towers that rose to block the stars amidst the five- and six-story brownstones tucked along both sides of the street. "It's not like Toronto, it's all mixed. Last fall, some American guys came up from Seattle to see how we make it work so well."
    Celluci smiled at the pronoun, then jerked around as a crash of falling cans, a soft thud, and assorted profanity spilled out of the alley they'd just passed.
    "Relax." Tony grabbed his arm. "It's just dumpster divers."
    "It's just what?" Celluci asked, allowing himself to be pulled to a stop.
    "Street people who go through dumpsters looking for stuff they can sell. Some of 'em got hooks, some just dive right in." He shoved his hands into the front pocket of his jeans and kicked at a bit of broken sidewalk. Although his face was in shadow, Celluci got the impression he was embarrassed by his comparative affluence. "Lotta homeless people here. Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, it beats freezing your ass to death back East." You wanna make something of it, his tone added.
    But Celluci, who'd bagged the bodies of those who froze to death every winter