Blood Price

One
    Ian shoved his hands deep in his pockets and scowled down the length of the empty subway platform. His hands were freezing, he was in a bitch of a bad mood, and he had no idea why he'd agreed to meet Coreen at her apartment. All things considered, neutral ground might have been a better idea. He shifted his scowl to the LED clock hanging from the ceiling. 12:17. Thirteen minutes to get from Eglinton West to Wilson Station, six blocks worth of bus ride, and then a three block run to Coreen's. It couldn't be done.

    I'm going to be late. She's going to be pissed. And there goes our chance to make up. He sighed. It had taken two hours of arguing on the phone to get her to agree to a meeting.
    Maintaining a relationship with Coreen might be time-consuming, but it sure as hell wasn't boring. Lord, but the woman had a temper. . . . His lips curled up into a smile almost without him willing the motion; the flip side of that temper made all the effort of staying on the roller coaster worthwhile. The smile broadened. Coreen packed a lot of punch for a woman barely five foot two.

    He glanced up at the clock again.

    Where the hell was the train?

    12:20.

    Be there by 12:30 or forget it, she'd said, completely ignoring the fact that on Sunday the Toronto Transit Commission, the ubiquitous TTC, drastically cut back on the number of trains and at this hour he'd be lucky to get the last one they ran.

    Looking at the bright side, when he finally got there, given the time of night and the fact that they both had an eight o'clock class, he'd have to stay over. He sighed. If she'll even let me into her apartment.

    He wandered down to the southernmost end of the platform and peered into the tunnel. No sign of lights, but he could feel wind against his face and that usually meant the train wasn't far.
    He coughed as he turned away. It smelled like something had died down there; smelled like it did at the cottage when a mouse got between the walls and rotted.

    "Big mother of a mouse," he muttered, rubbing his fist against his nose. The stench caught in his lungs and he coughed again. It was funny the tricks the mind played; now that he was aware of it, the smell seemed to be getting stronger.

    And then he heard what could only be footsteps coming up the tunnel, out of the darkness.
    Heavy footsteps, not at all like a worker hurrying to beat the train after a day's overtime, nor like a bum staggering for the safety of the platform. Heavy footsteps, purposefully advancing toward his back.

    Ian gloried in the sharp terror that started his heart thudding in his chest and trapped his breath in his throat. He knew very well that when he turned, when he looked, the explanation would be prosaic, so he froze and enjoyed the unknown while it remained unknown, delighted in the adrenaline rush of fear that made every sense more alive and made the seconds stretch to hours.

    He didn't turn until the footsteps moved up the half dozen cement stairs and onto the platform.

    Then it was too late.

    He almost didn't have time to scream.

    * * *
    Tucking her chin down into her coat-it might be April but it was still damp and cold, with no sign of spring- Vicki Nelson stepped off the Eglinton bus and into the subway station.

    "Well, that was a disaster," she muttered. The elderly gentleman who had exited the bus right behind her made an inquiring noise. She turned a bland stare in his general direction, then picked up her pace. So I'm not only "lousy company, and so uptight I squeak," but I also talk to myself. She sighed. Lawrence was pretty, but he wasn't her type. She hadn't met a man" who was her type since she'd left the police force eight months before. I should've known this was going to happen when I agreed to go out with a man significantly better looking than I am. I don't know why I accepted the invitation.

    That wasn't exactly true; she'd accepted the invitation because she was lonely. She knew it, she just had no intention of admitting it.

    She was halfway down the first set of stairs leading to the southbound platform when she heard the scream. Or rather the half-scream. It choked off in mid-wail. One leap took her to the first landing. From where she stood, she could see only half of each platform through the glass and no indication of which side the trouble was on. The south was closer, faster.

    Bounding down two, and then three steps at a time she yelled, "Call the police!" Even if no one heard her, it might scare off the