Blood Debt

quoted in reports on crime and poverty, was one of the darkest. Theoretically, social assistance paid most of the bills, but the reality was considerably less benign.
    The dividing line between the haves and have-nots was astonishingly abrupt. Leaving the lights and tourist attractions of Gastown on one side of the intersection, Henry began to drive past boarded-up and abandoned stone buildings—once the main Vancouver branches of the seven chartered banks—standing shoulder to shoulder with shabby hotels and rooming houses. Back in the forties and the fifties, this was the bustling center of town, but the core had moved west and left only the architecture behind.
    As they drove down Cordova, where the hotels and equally shabby bars seemed to be the only thriving businesses, Tony glanced over at Henry and frowned at the vampire's expression. "Why are you looking worried? There's nothing here you can't handle."
    "Actually," Henry admitted dryly, "I'm a little concerned about parking the car."
    Tony snorted. "It's a BMW. I'd be a lot concerned."
    An unshaven man in a pajama top, dress pants, and rubber flip-flops stepped off the curb, ignored the squeal of tires, and wandered aimlessly across the street.
    Watching the pedestrians a little more closely, Henry put his foot back on the gas. "Another six inches and I'd have hit him."

    "He probably wouldn't have noticed."
    As they approached the Youth Center, the sidewalks became more crowded. A group of First Nation teens, backs against the wire-covered window of a convenience store under siege, watched them pull to the curb, heads turning in unison.
    "Don't lock it," Henry advised as Tony reached in to depress the mechanism.
    "Are you crazy?"
    "No, I'd just prefer not to have the windows shattered. If anyone opens the door, I'll be back here before they take the car anywhere."
    The Youth Center was next to the Cordova Arms.
    "People are actually living here?" Henry muttered as he glanced over the front of the building.
    "Hey, this is an expensive city," Tony replied, fighting to keep his shoulders from hunching forward in the old wary posture. "Where else can a person on welfare afford to live?"
    Over the centuries, Henry had certainly seen worse. From a historical perspective, the area was neither particularly violent nor destitute. Problem was, this wasn't the fifteenth century. He'd never hunted this neighborhood and never would—unlike most four-legged predators, he preferred not to feed on the injured or the sick.
    Stepping over the legs of a sleeping drunk, they picked up the pace as the pungent smell of old urine and fresh vomit wafted by on a warm breeze.
    Compared to the streets, the Center itself was painfully clean. The plywood-and-plastic decor might indicate a lack of funds but not a lack of commitment.
    Tony froze just inside the door.
    "Are you all right?" Henry asked softly, moving up close behind him and laying a hand on each shoulder.
    "Yeah. No. It's just, well, memories…" He jerked forward, out of Henry's grip, trying not to resent the knowledge that he couldn't have broken free had Henry not allowed it. "Come on. Let's find whoever's in charge."
    "Him." Henry nodded toward a tall man with graying hair tied back off a pocked face.
    "How can you tell?"
    "Power recognizes power."
    "Oh, that's fucking profound," Tony complained, following Henry through the crowd. He could feel the hair lifting off the back of his neck, and he had to fight the feeling that the last couple of years had been a lie, that this was where he belonged, that he couldn't break free.

    Henry turned and caught Tony's gaze before he could look away.
    "You're out," he said. "You've gone too far to go back."
    "What're you talking about?"
    "I could smell your fear."
    "What?" Tony jerked his head to either side. "In this lot?" When Henry nodded, Tony sighed. "Jeez, I guess I'm changing my shirt when I get home." They held their positions for a heartbeat, then Tony shrugged. "Look, thanks, okay?"
    He didn't say what for. Henry didn't ask.

    Except that he was cleaner than most of the people in the room, both physically and chemically, Joe Tait, the director of the Center, could've been one of the many drinking free coffee and hoping for an hour or two without fear. He had an edge that could only have been acquired on the street, a look that said, I'm not one of them where they were the people who talked about how something had to be done and did nothing.
    "Yeah, I might know them."