Blood Debt

ghosts have got me jumpy, that's all. There's no reason he has to be here at sunset. He's almost forty years old, for chrisakes; it's not like he can't take care of himself."
    "I should imagine that he's very good at taking care of himself."
    "I wasn't asking for reassurance," she snarled.
    Tony opened his mouth, but Henry raised a cautionary hand, and he closed it again.
    A heartbeat later, Vicki sighed. "All right. Yes, I was." Releasing the drapes, she glanced around for her notes, found them on the end table by Henry's knees, stepped forward, and stopped.
    Henry's gaze dropped to the spiral-bound notebook, then rose to lock with Vicki's.
    She shifted her weight onto the balls of her feet, ready for whatever he chose to do but unwilling to make the first move. The unexpected conclusion to last night's carnage had reminded her of what she'd arrived in Vancouver believing. If they were willing to try, they could get along. All right, if we're willing to kill a dozen people we can get along, she amended silently at memory's prod.
    Without looking down again, Henry bent, picked up the notebook, and held it out.
    The hair lifted off the back of Tony's neck and continued lifting until it felt as though every hair on his head stood on end. Jeez, you could play "Dueling Banjos" on the tension between them. He fought the completely irrational urge to reach out and pluck at the air as he waited and wondered what, if anything, he should do. He knew what he wanted to do; he wanted to turn on another lamp. They never considered that the people around them found shadows frightening.
    Slowly, each step stiff-legged and graceless, Vicki crossed the room.
    Her fingers closed around the book.
    Cue the ominous music . Too emotionally abraded to cope, Tony closed his eyes.
    "Tony? Are you okay."
    He opened his eyes. Vicki was sitting in an overstuffed chair by the window, notebook on her knee. Henry'd propped one thigh on the arm of the couch. He looked from one to the other and back again. More than ever, they reminded him of cats; smug, self-righteous, and wearing identical, guarded expressions.
    "We both fed heavily last night," Henry said when Tony turned a questioning glance toward him. "It seems to be helping."
    "Feeding makes you less territorial?" That didn't sound right.
    They'd both fed the first night; it hadn't helped.
    "Heavy feeding," Vicki reiterated, without looking up.
    Tony had the uncomfortable feeling that, had she been able, she would have been blushing. While curious about what could possibly embarrass Victory Nelson, Tony decided not to press the point. The eleven bodies found in the Richmond warehouse had been front-page news, the press dwelling lovingly on the gory details, and if either Vicki or Henry were responsible, he didn't want to know. Some days, he could barely contain the knowledge that vampires existed— the fewer details he had to lock away with that knowledge, the better.
    "I don't even know why I'm here," he sighed, rubbing his hand over his hair and dropping onto a stool.
    "You're a part of this, Tony."
    "Am I?" He wiped his hands on his jeans and stared down at the damp imprints of his palms. "Yeah, I guess I am."
    Henry stood and took a step forward. Tony'd showered and changed and insisted he was fine, that the ghosts' shriek had done no actual damage, but obviously he wasn't and it had.
    "So what's the story on the new spook?" Vicki demanded before he could speak.
    Amazed that she could be so insensitive to what Tony was going through, Henry turned to glare at her. She met his gaze and shook her head. His brows dipped down over the bridge of his nose. How dared she. Stay out of this. Tony is mine, not yours. The words were in his mouth, ready to be spoken aloud when he looked in Tony's direction and realized it was no longer true.
    Worst of all, it came as no great surprise.
    Four-hundred-and-fifty-odd years of living masked among mortals allowed him to hide his reaction. "The second specter," he said slowly, answering her question because there wasn't really anything else he could say, not there, not then, "is a younger man, with hands. He looks like a street kid, pierced nose, lace-up boots…"
    "A grinning skull on a sleeveless black T-shirt." A reprise of the scream threaded through the cadences of Tony's voice.
    "You know him?" Eyes gleaming, Vicki leaned forward. Henry growled low in his throat and she whirled around, her own teeth bared. "What is your problem? If Tony knows him,