Blood Price

closely approximating a mortal's pace. He snarled as he swung his weight around on the banister, frustrated by the refusal of muscles to respond as they should. Rather than touching down only once on every half flight, he actually had to use every other step.

    He was in a bad mood when he reached his car and he took the exit ramp from the underground garage much faster than he should have, his exhaust pipe screaming along concrete.
    The sound forced him to calm. He wouldn't get there any faster if he destroyed his car or attracted the attention of the police.

    At the curb, while he waited impatiently for the light to change, he caught a familiar scent.

    "A BMW? You've got to be kidding." Tony leaned his forearms through the open window and clicked his tongue. "If that watch is a Rolex," he added softly, "I want my blood back."

    Henry knew he owed the boy a great deal, so he tried bury the rage he was feeling. He felt his lips pull back off his teeth and realized he hadn't been significantly successful.

    If Tony had doubted his memory of what had happened the night before, Henry's expression would have convinced him for there was very little humanity in it. Had the anger been directed at him, he would've run and not stopped until sunrise and safety. As it was, he pulled his arms back outside the car, just in case. "I thought you might want to talk. . . ."

    "Later." If the world survived the night, they'd talk. It wasn't of immediate concern.

    "Yeah. Right. Later's good. Say. . . ." Tony frowned. "Is Victory okay?"

    "I don't ..." The light changed. He slammed the car into gear. ". . . know."

    Tony stood watching the car speed away, lips pursed, hands shoved deep in his pockets. He rolled a quarter over and over between his ringers.

    " This is my home number." Vicki handed him the card and turned it over so he could see the other number handwritten on the back. "And this is who you call if you're in trouble and you can't get to me."

    "Mike Celluci ?" Tony shook his head. "He don't like me much, Victory. "

    "Tough."

    "I don't like him much."

    "Do I look like I care ? Call him anyway."

    He pulled the quarter from his pocket and headed to the pay phone on the corner. Four years in a variety of pockets had turned the card limp but the number on the back was still legible. He'd already called the number on the front and wasted a quarter on a stupid machine. Everybody knew Victory never turned the machine on if she was home.

    "I gotta talk to Mike Celluci."

    "Speaking."

    "Victory's in trouble." He was as sure of it as he'd ever been sure of anything in his life.

    "Who?"

    Tony rolled his eyes at the receiver. And they called them the city's finest. What a dork.
    "Vicki Nelson. You remember-tall, blonde, pushy, used to be a cop."

    "What kind of trouble?"

    Good. Celluci sounded worried. "I don't know."

    "Where?"

    "I don't know." Tony could hear teeth grinding on the other end of the line. If this wasn't so serious, he'd be enjoying himself. "You're the cop, you figure it out."

    He hung up before the explosion. He'd done what he could.

    Mike Celluci stared at the phone and swore long and loudly in Italian. Upon reflection, he'd recognized the voice as Vicki's little street person and that lent just enough credibility to the message that it couldn't be completely ignored. He dumped a pocket load of little pink slips on the kitchen table and began sorting through them.

    "Norman Birdwell. York University." He held it up to the light in a completely futile gesture then tossed it back with the others.

    Vicki had never been a grandstander. She'd always played by the rules, made them work for her. She'd never go in to pick up a suspected mass murderer-a suspected psychotic mass murderer-without backup. But then, she doesn't have backup anymore, does she? And she just might feel like she's got something to prove. . . .

    He'd hit the memory dial to headquarters before he finished the thought.

    "This is Celluci. Darrel, I need the number for someone in Administration at York University. I know it's the middle of the night, I want a home number. I know I'm off duty.
    You're not paying my overtime, what the hell are you complaining about?" He balanced the phone under his chin and pulled his shoulder holster up off the back of the chair, shrugging into it as he waited. "So call me at home when you find it. And Darrel, give it top priority. I want that number yesterday."

    He reached for his jacket and laid it