Blood Pact

mere moments ago.”

    "Well . . .”

    "Doesn't your research deserve to have your full attention?”

    She drew herself up indignantly. "Without question.”

    "Distracted by hunger, who knows what damage you could do. Come on." He picked up her coat. "I hate to eat alone.”

    Recognizing truth in the last statement at least, Catherine allowed herself to be herded to the door. "What about them?”

    "Them?" For a moment, he had no idea of who she was referring to, then he sighed. "We'll bring them back a pepperoni special, pop it in a blender, and feed it to them through the IV, okay?”

    "That's not what I meant. They're just sitting there, out of the boxes. Shouldn't we . . .”

    "Leave them. We're coming right back." He pulled her over the threshold. "You're the one who said they needed the stimulation.”

    "Yes. I did.”

    With Catherine safely in the hall, Donald reached back and flicked off the overhead lights. "Don't do anything I wouldn't do," he caroled into the room, and pulled the door closed.

    One by one, the distractions ceased. First the voices. Then the responses she couldn't control or understand. Finally, the painful brightness. It grew easier to hold on to thought. To memory.

    There was something she had to do.

    Raise your right leg.

    Raise your left leg.

    Walk.

    She remembered walking.

    Slowly, lurching to compensate for a balance subtly wrong, she crossed the room.

    Door.

    Closed.

    Open.

    It took both hands, fingers interlaced, to turn the handle, not the way memory said it should work, but memory lay in shredded pieces.

    There was something she had to do.

    Needed to do.

    Number nine watched. Watched the walking. Watched the leaving.

    This new one was not like the other. The other had no . . .

    No . . .

    The other was empty.

    This new one was not empty. This new one was like him.

    Him.

    He.

    Two new words.

    He thought they might be important words.

    He stood and walked, as he'd been taught, toward the door.

Six
    "This isn't the eighteenth century, Fitzroy. Medical schools stopped hiring grave diggers some time ago.”

    Henry tugged at the lapels of his black leather trench coat, settling it forward on his shoulders. "You have a better idea, Detective?”

    Celluci scowled. He didn't, and they both knew it.

    "Historical precedents aside," Henry continued, "Detective Fergusson seems certain that there were medical students involved; an opinion based, no doubt, on local precedents.”

    "Detective Fergusson blames Queen's students for everything from traffic jams to the weather," Celluci pointed out acerbically.
    "And I thought your opinion of Detective Fergusson wasn't high.”

    "I've never even met the man.”

    "You said . . .”

    "Enough," Vicki interrupted from her place on the couch, the tap, tap, tap of her pencil end against the coffee table a staccato background to her words. "Logically, all the storage facilities in the city should be searched. Also logically, for historical reasons, if nothing else, the medical school is the place to start.”

    "Those who refuse to learn from history," Henry agreed quietly, "are doomed to repeat it.”

    "Spare me the wisdom of the ages," Celluci muttered. "These places don't do public tours at midnight, you know; how are you planning on getting in?”

    "It's hardly midnight.”

    "At twenty to nine, it's hardly open house either.”

    "It's April, the end of term, there'll be students around, and even if there aren't, it isn't easy to deny me access.”

    "Don't tell me. You turn into mist?" He raised a weary hand at Henry's expression. "I know; I watch too many bad movies. Never mind, I meant it when I said don't tell me. The less I know about your talents for be the better.”

    "You have the photograph?" Vicki asked. Tap. Tap. Tap. "You'll be able to make an identification?”

    "Yes." Henry doubted Marjory Nelson still looked much like her picture, but it was a place to start.

    Tap. Tap. Tap. "I should go with you.”

    "No." He crossed the room and dropped to one knee by her side. "I'll be able to move faster on my own.”

    "Yes, but . . ." Tap. Tap.

    Henry covered her hand with his, stopping the pencil from rising to fall again. Her skin felt heated and he could feel the tension sizzling just under the surface. "I'll be able to move faster," he repeated, "on my own. And the faster I move, the sooner you'll have the information.”

    She nodded. "You're right.”

    He waited a moment, but when she said nothing