Blood Price

then abandoned, sharpened his loneliness to a cutting edge.

    He felt Isabelle's hand stroke his cheek, saw the puzzled compassion on her face, and with an inward curse realized his mask had slipped for the second time that night. If he didn't find someone who could accept him soon, he feared the choice would be taken from him, his need exposing him whether he willed it or not.

    "So," with an effort, he brought himself back to the moment, "how was the gig?"

    "It was March. It was Sudbury." She shrugged, returning to the moment with him, if that was how he wanted it. "Not much else to add."

    If you can't share the reality, there are worse things than having someone to share the masks.
    His gaze dropped to a faint line of blue disappearing beneath the edge of her sweater and the thought of the blood moving so close beneath the surface quickened his breath. It was hunger, not lust, but he supposed in the end they were much the same thing. "How long will you be in town?"

    "Only tonight and tomorrow."

    "Then we shouldn't waste the time we have."

    She twined her fingers in his, carefully ignoring the bandage, and pulled him with her as she stood. "I thought you'd never ask."

    * * *
    Saturday night, at 11:15, Norman realized he was out of charcoal for the hibachi and the only local store he'd been able to find it in had closed at nine. He considered substitutions and then decided he'd better not mess with a system that worked.

    Saturday night passed quietly.

    Sunday night. . . .

    * * *
    "Damn. Damn! DAMN!"

    Mrs. Kopolous clicked her tongue and frowned. Not at Vicki's profanity, as she might have on any other day, but at the headline of the tabloid now lying on her counter.

    "VAMPIRE KILLS STUDENT; Young man found drained in York Mills."

Four
    "Good God, would you look at old Norman."

    "Why?" Roger pulled his head out of his locker and turned around. He could feel his jaw quite literally drop. "'Good God' doesn't quite cover it, my man. I wish Bill were here to see this."

    "Where is he?"

    Roger shrugged, not taking his eyes from the sartorial splendor of Norman Birdwell. "Beats me. But he'll shit if he misses this."

    Norman, conscious of eyes upon him, threw a bit more of a swagger into his walk. The chain hanging from his new black leather jacket chimed softly against the small of his back. He squinted down at the sterling silver toe caps on his authentic style cowboy boots and wondered if maybe he shouldn't have gotten spurs as well. His new black jeans, tighter than he'd ever worn before, made an almost smug shik shik sound as the inseams rubbed together.

    He'd shown them. Thought he wasn't cool, did they? Thought he was some kind of a nerd, did they? Well, they'd be thinking differently now. Norman's chin went up. They wanted cool?
    He'd show them cold. Tonight he was going to ask for a red Porsche. He'd learn to drive later.

    "What the hell is that?"

    Roger grinned. "Now aren't you glad you weren't any later?" he asked, shoving a friendly elbow into Bill's ribs. "Kinda takes your breath away, doesn't it?"

    "If you mean it makes me want to gag, you're close." Bill sagged against his locker and shook his head. "How the hell is he paying for all of that?"

    "So go ask him."

    "Why not. . . ." Bill straightened and stepped away from his locker just as Norman passed by.

    Norman saw him, allowed their eyes to meet for a second, then moved on, chortling silently to himself, "Ha! Snubbed you. Let's see how you like it."

    The question of payment dead in his mouth, Bill stood staring until Roger moved up beside him and slugged him in the arm.

    "Hey, what's wrong?"

    Bill shook his head. "There's something different about Birdwell."

    Roger snorted. "Yeah, new threads and an attitude. But underneath he's the same old Norman the Nerd."

    "Yeah, I guess you're right." But he wasn't. And it wasn't something Bill could explain. He felt as though he'd reached under the bed and something rotten had squished through his fingers-a normal, everyday action gone horribly awry.

    Norman, aware he'd made an impression-Norman, who in a fit of pique had decided he didn't care if a stranger had to die-Norman strutted on.

    * * *
    "Victoria Nelson?"

    "Yes?" Vicki peered down at the young woman- girl, really, if she's out of her teens it's by hours only -standing outside her apartment door. "If you're selling something. . . ."

    "Victoria Nelson, the Private Investigator?"

    Vicki considered it a moment before answering and