Blood Pact

It stays out.”

    Catherine shot him a triumphant look.

    "When you finish there, one of you can close while the other starts the pump and begins replacing the sterile solution. I want that circulatory system up and running ASAP. Now, if you think you can manage without my having to act as referee, I'm going to open up the skull.”

    "He's still looking at me," Donald growled a moment later, his voice barely audible over the whine of the bone saw.

    "Hopefully, he's learning from you.”

    "Yeah?" One latex-covered finger lifted in salute. "Well, learn this.”

    Across the room, three of the fingers on number nine's right hand curled slowly inward and tucked under the support of the folded thumb. Although the face remained expressionless, a muscle twitched below the leathery surface of the skin.

    * * *
    Henry guided the BMW smoothly around the curves of the highway off-ramp at considerably more than the posted speed. Two hours and forty-two minutes, Toronto to Kingston, not as fast as it could be done, but considering the perpetual traffic congestion he'd faced leaving the city and the high number of provincial police patrolling the last hundred kilometers, it was a respectable time.

    Although he enjoyed high speeds and his reflexes made possible maneuvers that left other drivers gaping, Henry had never understood the North American love affair with the automobile. A car to him was a tool, the BMW a compromise between power and dependability. While mortal drivers blithely risked their lives straining the limits of their machinery, he had no intention of abruptly ending four hundred and fifty years because of metal fatigue or design flaws, but then, unlike mortal drivers, he had nothing to prove.

    Vicki's mother's apartment was easy enough to find. Not only did Division Street run directly from the 401, but even from a block away there was no mistaking the man emerging from the late model sedan parked in front of the building. Henry swung into the tiny parking lot and settled the BMW into the adjoining space.

    "You made good time," he remarked as he got out of his car and stretched.

    "Thanks." The word had left his mouth before Celluci realized he had no reason to feel so absurdly pleased by the observation.
    " You obviously broke a few laws," he snarled. "Or don't you feel our speed limits apply to you?”

    "No more than you feel they apply to you," Henry told him with an edged smile. "Or don't the police have to follow the laws they're sworn to uphold?”

    "Asshole," Celluci muttered. Nothing dampened righteous anger faster than forced recognition of shaky ethical ground. "And I don't see why you came any-how. Vicki needs the living around her, not more of the dead.”

    "I am no more dead than you are, Detective.”

    "Yeah, well, you're not . . . I mean, you're . . .”

    "I am Vampire." Henry spread his hands. "There, it no longer hangs between us. The word has been said.” He caught Celluci's gaze and held it but this time used no force to keep the contact. "You might as well acknowledge it, Detective. I won't go away.”

    Curiosity overcame better judgment and Celluci found himself asking, "What were you?”

    "I was a Prince. A royal bastard.”

    The corners of the detective's mouth twitched. "Well, you're a royal bastard, that's for sure." He fought his way back to a more equal footing, ignoring the suspicion that a more equal footing was allowed him. "Why isn't anyone ever a fucking peasant?”

    "Anyone?" Henry asked, brows rising.

    "You, Shirley MacLaine . . . Never mind." He leaned back against his car and sighed. "Look, she doesn't need both of us.”

    "So why don't I just go home? I don't think so.”

    "What can you give her?”

    "Now? In her grief? The same things you can.”

    "But I can give them night and day. You only have the night.”

    "Then why are you so worried about me being here? Surely you have the advantage. Mind you," Henry continued, his tone thoughtful, "I left sanctuary for her, risked the sun in order to be at her side. That should count for something.”

    "What do you mean, count for something?" Celluci snorted. "This isn't a contest! Man against . . ." His eyes narrowed. ". . .
    romance writer. We're supposed to be here for her .”

    "Then maybe," Henry starting moving toward the building, "we'd better work a little harder at remembering that.”

    Goddamned patronizing son of a bitch! Fortunately, longer legs allowed Celluci to catch up without having to run.