Blood Pact

Celluci's spine. He knew she was speaking out of pain. He knew she meant every word. "This is Fitzroy's influence," he growled. " He taught you to take the law into your own hands.”

    "Don't blame this on Henry." The tone became a warning. "I take responsibility for my own actions.”

    "I know." Celluci sighed, suddenly very, very tired. "But Henry Fitzroy . . .”

    "Doesn't know what you're talking about." The quiet voice from the doorway pulled them both around. Henry looked from Vicki to Celluci then settled himself on a kitchen chair. "Why don't you tell me what went wrong?”

    Henry stared at Celluci in some astonishment. "Why on earth do you think I would know the reason the body is missing?”

    "Well, you're . . . what you are." It might have been said, but Celluci still wasn't going to say it. Not right out. "It's the sort of thing you should know about, isn't it?”

    "No. It isn't." He turned to Vicki. "Vicki, I'm so sorry, but I have no idea why anyone in this day and age would be body snatching.”

    She shrugged. She really didn't care why, all she wanted to know was who.

    "Unless it wasn't body snatching." Celluci frowned, turning over a new and not very pleasant idea.

    Henry's eyes narrowed. "What do you mean?”

    "Suppose Marjory's body wasn't taken." He paused, working at the thought. "Suppose she got up and walked out of there.”

    Vicki's coffee mug hit the floor and shattered.

    "You're crazy!" Henry snapped.

    ”Am I?” Celluci slammed both palms down on the table and leaned forward. "A year ago, some asshole tried to sacrifice Vicki to a demon. I saw that demon, Fitzroy. Last summer, I met a family of werewolves. In the fall, we saved the world from the mummy's curse. Now I may be a little slow, but lately I've come to believe that there's a fuck of a lot going on in this world that most people don't know shit about. You exist; you tell me why Marjory couldn't have got up and walked out of there!”

    "Henry?”

    Henry shook his head and caught one of Vicki's hands up in his. "They embalmed her, Vicki. There's nothing that could survive that.”

    "Maybe they didn't." Her fingers turned until she clutched at him. "They were confused about the rest. Maybe they didn't.”

    "No, Vicki, they did." Celluci touched her gently on the arm, wondering why he couldn't learn to keep his big mouth shut. He'd forgotten about the embalming. "I'm sorry. I should’ve thought it through. He's right.”

    "No." There was a chance. She couldn't let it go. "Henry, could you tell?”

    "Yes, but . . .”

    "Then go. Check. Just in case."

    “Vicki, I assure you that your mother did not rise . . .”

    "Henry. Please.”

    He looked at Celluci, who gave the smallest of shrugs. Your choice, the motion said. I'm sorry I started this. Henry nodded at the detective, apology accepted, and pulled his hand free of Vicki's as he stood. She'd asked for his help. He'd give it. It was a small enough thing to do to bring her at least a little peace of mind. "Is the casket still at the funeral home?”

    "Yes." She began to rise as well, but he shook his head.

    "No, Vicki. The last thing you need right now is to be picked up by the police while breaking and entering. If they're watching the place, I can avoid them in ways you can't.”

    Vicki shoved at her glasses and dropped back in her chair, acknowledging his point but not happy about it.

    "If I thought you suggested this merely to remove me," Henry said quietly to Celluci at the door as he pocketed the directions, "I would be less than pleased.”

    "But you don't think it," Celluci replied, just as quietly. "Why not?”

    Henry looked up into the taller man's eyes and smiled slightly. "Because I know an honorable man when I meet one.”

    An honorable man. Celluci shot the bolt behind his rival and let his head drop against the molding. Goddamnit, I wish he 'd stop doing that.

    If the embalming had been done, the blood drawn out and replaced by a chemical solution designed to disinfect and preserve, to discourage life rather than sustain it, and from both Vicki's and Celluci's reports, the younger funeral director was certain it had, then there was no way that Marjory Nelson had risen to hunt the night. Nor did the manner of her death suggest the change.

    Henry parked the BMW and stared into the darkness for a moment, one hundred percent certain that he would find nothing at the funeral home that the police had not already found. But I'm not going for