Blood Price

gold.
    Candlelight glittered off colored bits of broken glass caught in the folded tops of his wide boots.
    Sweat had darkened his short hair, blunt cut to follow the curve of his head, and his lips were drawn back to reveal the yellow slabs of his teeth.

    He rocked to a halt at the entrance to the alcove, caught his breath, and raised the ax.

    It stopped short of the Madonna's smile, the haft slapping into the upraised hand of the young man who had suddenly appeared in its path. The axman swore and tried to yank the weapon free. The ax stayed exactly where it was.

    From Vicki's point of view it appeared that the young man twisted his wrist a gentle half turn and then lowered his arm, but he must have done more for the axman swore again, lost his grip, and almost lost his footing. He stumbled back and Vicki got her first good look at the young man now holding the ax across his body.

    Henry. The tiers of flickering candle flame behind him brought out the red-gold highlights in his hair and created almost a halo around his head. He wore the colors of the Madonna; wide bands of snowy white lace at collar and cuff, a white shirt billowing through the slashed sleeves of his pale blue jacket. His eyes, deep in shadow, narrowed and his hands jerked up.

    The ax haft snapped. The sound of its shattering reverberated through the alcove, closely followed by the rattle of both pieces striking the floor. Vicki didn't see Henry move, but the next thing she knew he had the axman hanging from his fist by the front of his vest, feet dangling a foot off the marble floor.

    "The Blessed Virgin is under my protection," he said, and the quiet words held more menace than any weapon.

    The axman's mouth opened and closed, but no sound emerged. He hung limp and terrified.
    When dropped, he collapsed to his knees, apparently unable to take his eyes from Henry's face.

    To Vicki, the vampire looked like an avenging angel, ready to draw a flaming sword at any moment and strike down the enemies of God. The axman apparently agreed, for he moaned softly and raised trembling hands in entreaty.

    Henry stepped back and allowed his captive to look away. "Go," he commanded.

    Still on his knees, the axman went, scrambling backward until he moved from Vicki's line of sight. Henry watched him go a moment longer, than turned, made the sign of the cross, and knelt.
    Above his bowed head, Vicki met the painted eyes of the Madonna. Her own grew heavy and, of their own volition, slid slowly closed.

    When she opened them again a second later, the spotlight had returned, the candles were back in their red glass containers, and a red-gold head remained bowed beneath the mural.

    The inability to move seemed gone, so she pulled herself to her feet and slid out of the pew heading toward the alcove. "Henry. . . ."

    At the sound of his name, he crossed himself, stood, and turned to face her, pulling closed his black leather trenchcoat as he moved.

    "Wha . . ."

    He shook his head, put his finger to his lips, and taking her arm gently in one hand, led her out of the sanctum.

    "Did you have a pleasant nap?" he asked, releasing her arm as the heavy wooden door closed behind them.

    "Nap?" Vicki repeated, running a hand up through her hair. "I, I guess I did."

    Henry peered up into her face with a worried frown. "Are you all right? Your head took a nasty blow earlier."

    "No, I'm fine." Obviously, it had been a dream. "You don't have an accent." He'd had one in the dream.

    "I lost it years ago. I came to Canada just after World War I. Are you sure you're all right?"

    "I told you, I'm fine." She started down the cathedral steps.

    Henry sighed and followed. He seemed to remember reading that sleeping after a concussion was not necessarily a good thing, but he'd entered the church right behind her and she hadn't been asleep very long.

    It was just a dream, Vicki told herself firmly as the two of them headed north. Vampires and demons I can handle, but holy visions are out. Although why she should dream about Henry Fitzroy defending a painting of the Virgin Mary from what looked like one of Cromwell's roundheads she had no idea. Maybe it was a sign. Maybe it was the blow she'd taken on the head.
    Either way, her few remaining doubts about his ex-royal bastard highness seemed to have vanished and while she was more willing to bet on her subconscious working it out than on God intervening, she decided to keep an open mind. Just in case. Wait a minute. . .