Blood Pact

these. He no longer knew what he would do when he found her.

    We give them to Detective Fergusson. So easy to decide in the abstract.

    And what will Detective Fergusson do?

    He opened the box.

    The smell of recent death, free of any taint, rose with the lid and for an instant Henry hoped, but the body in the box had never belonged to Marjory Nelson. A young Oriental male wearing a band of purple finger marks around his throat, eyes bulging, tongue protruding, lay stretched out in the padded plastic hollow. He'd been dead for such a short time that the flush of blood caused by strangulation had not yet left his face.

    Marjory Nelson suddenly became of lesser importance. She had already been lost and he could do no more for her than find her.
    This boy he could save.

    Moving quickly, he closed the staring eyes then slid his arms behind knees and shoulders and lifted the chilled body free. The weight meant nothing but the load was awkward and he had to shuffle sideways until he cleared the row of boxes and could turn.

    "What do you think you're doing?”

    Drowning in the stink of abomination, Henry hadn't scented her approach nor, with ears tuned only to a heart that should be making no noise, had he heard her. In no mood to be subtle, he raised his head to meet her eyes, to order her away, and found behind a surface veneer of normalcy nothing he could touch. Her thoughts spiraled endlessly; starting nowhere, going nowhere.

    Pale eyes narrowed. Pale cheeks flushed. "Stop him," she said.

    Hands clamped onto Henry's shoulders and yanked him back. Across the top of his head, he could feel death breathing. This is not life! his senses screamed. His skin crawled in revulsion. He lost his grip on the boy, felt himself lifted and slammed down onto a surface that gave beneath the force of the blow. He twisted and looked up in time to see the lid coming down.

    "NO!”

    "He's not back yet.”

    Celluci jerked away, head snapping up painfully, muscles suddenly tense. "Wha . . .?”

    "He's not back yet," Vicki repeated from the center of the living room, arms wrapped tightly around herself. "And it's nearly dawn.”

    "Who's not back? Fitzroy?" Shoving his fist in front of a jaw-cracking yawn, Celluci glanced down at his watch. "6:12. When's the sun due up?”

    "6:17," Vicki told him. "He's got five minutes." She kept her face and voice expressionless, reporting the facts, just the facts, because if she gave the screaming panic clawing at her from inside any chance to get free she was horribly afraid she'd never be able to control it again.

    Celluci recognized the defense. There wasn't a cop on the planet who hadn't used police training to cover a personal terror at least once. The ones who cared too much used it frequently. Occasionally, it started to use them. Joints protesting, he heaved himself up out of the armchair he'd fallen asleep in, muttering, "How the hell do you know when the sun comes up?”

    All at once, a terrifying possibility hit him. Had Fitzroy been . . . been . . . his mind shied away from the whole concept of sucking blood, of feeding. Had Fitzroy been with her long enough that she was becoming like him? Wasn't that how it worked? He shot an anxious glance at the mirror over the couch and was relieved to see her reflection still in it. Then he remembered that it had reflected Fitzroy just as clearly. "You're not turning into a . . . a . . . one of them, are you?" he snarled.

    Vicki pushed at her glasses with the back of one hand. "What the hell are you talking about?”

    "How do you know that sunrise is at 6:17?" He wanted to cross the room and shake the answer from her and barely managed to hold himself back.

    "I read it in the paper last night." Her brows drew in, confused by the unexpected attack. "What is your problem , Mike?”

    She read it in the paper last night. "Sorry, I, uh . . ." The surge of relief was so intense it left him feeling weak and a little dizzy.
    He spread his hands in apology and sighed. "I thought you were becoming like him," he said quietly, "and I was afraid I was going to lose you.”

    Drawing her lower lip between her teeth, Vicki stared at him for a long moment, although in the dim dawn light she could barely make out individual features. With no resources left to throw at denial, she could sense his caring, his fear, his love, and knew he put no conditions on it, no conditions on her. To her surprise, rather than diminishing her sense of self, it added to it