Blood Debt

huddled at the base of million-dollar office towers, exposed skin stuck to the steel grates of the subway air vents, said only, "Good point."
    They walked in silence for a few minutes.
    "I got a new life here," Tony announced suddenly. "I got a job, I got school, I got a chance; and I wouldn't have if it wasn't for Henry."
    "And you feel like you owe him for that?"
    "Well, don't I?"
    "Has Henry suggested you owe him anything?" Celluci knew damned well he hadn't. Henry Fitzroy might be an arrogant, undead romance writer, but he wasn't the type to put a lien on a man's soul.
    "He doesn't have to. I feel it." One hand slapped a dramatic punctuation against his chest. "Here."
    "All right, what about the things you've done for him?"
    Tony snorted. "What things?"
    "The things that have to be done in daylight. The people who have to be dealt with. The arrangements that have to be made during office hours." He glanced down to find Tony's pale blue eyes locked on his face. "Leaving aside certain other aspects of the relationship…" His right thumb rubbed the tiny scar on his left wrist. "… I think you'll find things haven't been all that unequal."
    "He trusts me with his life." It almost sounded like a question.
    "You trusted him with yours."
    Overhead, a streetlight buzzed, the recent hit of a popular grunge band throbbed through a dark but open window, and both men jumped back as a convertible Ford Mustang roared down Granville Street toward the bridge.
    "What does sixty k mean to you, asshole!" Tony yelled, leaping out onto the street and flipping the car the finger as bright yellow molded bumpers disappeared into the night. "Idiots in fast cars think the bridge is a goddamned highway," he muttered as they crossed to the other side. "Probably wouldn't slow down if they fucking ran over you."
    "Feel better?"
    Uncertain whether the older man referred to his outburst or the conversation preceding it, Tony shrugged and discovered he did, indeed, feel better. "Yeah." After they'd walked another block, he added, "Thanks."

    When she opened the warehouse door, the blood-scent spilled out into the night. Vicki swallowed hard and fought for control. While an incredulous voice in the back of her head demanded to know just what she thought she was doing, she stepped over the threshold and moved silently along the dark corridor created by two racks of floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with industrial tile.
    At the first cross corridor, she found a body. He'd been shot four times in the back at skin-touch range— the choice of professionals as it soaked up the muzzle blast and decreased the chance of being heard.
    She could hear movement up ahead and the quiet drone of voices beyond that. It sounded very much as though the voices were being surrounded. The rising Hunger made it hard to think, hard to plan.
    She should leave. This hunt did not concern her.
    Scrubbing one hand over her face, trying to block the distraction of the spilled blood, she stood and glanced up into the steel rafters. No one appeared to have taken the high road. Smiling, she reached for the crossbrace on the closest rack and began to climb.

    "No. The bottom line is if weapons move out of this city, I move them. Me. Not me and you." The older of the two men sitting at the table leaned forward, scowling. "You're what, twenty-six? Twenty-seven? You've come far, David Eng, and you think you're hot shit, but you're not hot enough yet to take me out and you know it."
    The other man nodded, but the motion was more acknowledgment of a point made rather than agreement with it. "Street wars are bad for business, Mr. Dyshino."
    "Fuckin' A, they are. Which is why you and me are going to work this out if we have to fucking sit here until dawn."
    The table sat in the middle of the open area where the forklifts were usually stored. One section of the overhead lights had been turned on, but they didn't quite manage to illuminate the oil-stained floor. The shadows of the six men standing blended into the surrounding shadow.
    "You don't have to take this," one of the six announced belligerently from behind David's left shoulder.
    "Let's hear Mr. Dyshino's suggestion of compromise."
    Adan Dyshino rolled his eyes. "We aren't going to 'compromise,'
    you fool. You're going to stop."
    A manicured hand rose to cut off the protest from his enraged second. "Admittedly, arms dealing is a very small part of what I do, but I do not wish to stop doing it. We appear to have reached an