Blood Lines

of his feeding, he saw no reason to hold back. Not one of the deaths could be traced to him- necessity had taught him millennia ago to take the mundane into account-and very shortly even that would cease to be a consideration. When the police and their political masters gave themselves to Akhekh, he, as High Priest, would be inviolate.
    He had no idea how many sworn acolytes his lord needed in order to gain the strength to create another such as he.
    Forty-three had been the greatest number he had ever been able to gather in the past but, as that had been just before Thoth's priests had been instructed to intervene, he suspected that forty-four or forty-five would be enough. That the thirty ka to be gathered up in this time had been coerced would make only a minimal difference. He had used the smallest pieces of their ka necessary to convince them-in two cases those had been very small pieces indeed-and enough truth had been spoken during the spellbinding that their pledges would hold. The thirty coerced would be equivalent to no less than twenty free; a respectable beginning.
    After the ceremony, he would not need to be as magically involved and would, therefore, need to feed less often.
    'And when I find you, my bright and shining one…" He placed his empty cup down with the rest of the breakfast dishes and scooped up the opera cloak the Solicitor General had found outside the library door. "…1 may never need to feed again." As the satin folds slid across his fingers, he basked in the remembered glow. This ka would stand out like a blaze of glory against the others in this city; now that he had touched it, it would not be able to hide from him.
    He was mildly curious about what kind of a man-for it had been only a man, there had been no mark of god or wizard about the presence-would carry such a ka, but curiosity paled beside his desire.
    The opera cloak pooled about his feet. Perhaps he would return the young man's forgotten garment, and as their fingers touched he would look into his eyes and…
    With such power at his command there would be nothing he could not do.
    Tony wasn't sure what had driven him from his basement room this morning, but something had nagged him up out of sleep and onto the street. Two coffees and a double chocolate chip muffin in Druxy's had brought him no closer to an answer.
    Hands shoved deep into the pockets of his jacket, he stood on the corner of Yonge and Bloor and waited for the light, effortlessly eavesdropping on the conversations around him, filtering out the yuppie concerns, paying close attention to a cluster of street kids complaining about the cold. At this time of the year, those who lived in parks and bus shelters worried first about surviving the coming winter and then about their next meal, their next smoke, their next bit of cash.
    They talked about the best places to panhandle, to turn tricks, what doorways were safe, what cop would cut a little slack, who'd been picked up, who'd died. Tony had survived on the street for almost five years and knew what talk had substance behind it and what talk was just wind. No one seemed to be saying anything that would clue him into whatever it was that had him so jumpy.
    He walked west on Bloor, thin shoulders hunched high. The new jacket he wore, bought with money from a real honest-to-God steady job, kept him plenty warm enough, but old habits took time to break. Even after two months, he was still a little unsure about the job, afraid that it would vanish as suddenly as it had appeared and with it the room, the warmth, the regular meals… and Henry.
    Henry trusted him, believed in him. Tony didn't know why, didn't really care why. The trust and the belief were enough. Henry had become his anchor. He didn't think it had anything to do with Henry being a vampire-although he had to admit that was pretty fucking awesome and it certainly didn't hurt that the sex was the best he'd ever had and just remembering it made him hot-he thought it had more to do with Henry just being a… well, being Henry.
    The feeling that had driven him out and onto the street had nothing to do with Henry, not specifically at least. Henry feelings, he could always recognize.

    Dropping down onto the low wall in front of the Manulife Center, Tony rubbed at his temples and wished the feeling would go away. He had better things to do with his Sunday afternoon than wander about trying to find where the ants between his ears came from.
    He kicked his heels