Blood Price

account by the woman who had found the body, was a description of a mutilated corpse that exactly matched the one Vicki had found in the Eglinton West Station.

    "Damn."

    "Homicide investigator Michael Celluci," the story continued, "says there is little doubt in his mind that this is not a copycat case and whoever killed Terri Neal also killed Ian Reddick on Sunday night. "

    Vicki strongly suspected that was not at all what Mike had said, although it might have been the information he imparted. Mike seldom found it necessary to cooperate with, or even hide his distaste for, the press. And he was never that polite.

    She read over the details again and a nameless fear ran icy fingers down her spine. She remembered the lingering presence she'd felt and knew this wouldn't be the end of the killing.
    She'd dialed the phone almost before she came to a conscious decision to call.

    "Mike Celluci, please. What? No, no message."

    And what was I going to tell him? she wondered as she hung up. That I have a hunch this is only the beginning? He'd love that.

    Tossing the tabloid aside, Vicki pulled the other city paper toward her. On page four it ran much the same story, minus about half the adjectives and most of the hysteria.

    Neither paper had mentioned that ripping a throat out with a single blow was pretty much impossible.

    If I could only remember what was missing from that body. She sighed and rubbed at her eyes.

    Meanwhile, she had five Foo Chans to visit. . . .

    * * *
    There was something moving in the pit. DeVerne Jones leaned against the wire fence and breathed beer fumes into the darkness, wondering what he should do about it. It was his pit. His first as foreman. They'd be starting the frames in the morning so that when spring finally arrived they'd be ready to pour the concrete. He peered around the black lumps of machinery. And there was something down there. In his pit.

    Briefly he wished he hadn't decided to swing by the site on his way home from the bar. It was after midnight and the shape he'd seen over by the far wall was probably just some poor wino looking for a warm place to curl up where the cops would leave him alone. The crew could toss the bum out in the morning, no harm done. Except they had a lot of expensive equipment down there and it might be something more.

    "Damn."

    He dug out his keys and walked over to the gate. The padlock hung open. In the damp and the cold, it sometimes didn't catch, but he'd been the last man out of the pit and he'd checked it before he left. Hadn't he?

    "Damn again," It had just become a very good thing he'd stopped by.

    Hinges screaming in protest, the gate swung open.

    DeVerne waited for a moment at the top of the ramp, to see if the sound flushed his quarry.

    Nothing.

    A belly full of beer and you're a hero, he thought, just sober enough to realize he could be walking into trouble and just drunk enough to not really care.

    Halfway down into the pit, his eyes growing accustomed to the darkness, he saw it again.
    Man-shaped, moving too quickly to be a wino, it disappeared behind one of the dozers.

    As silently as he was able, DeVerne quickened his pace. He'd catch the son-of-a-bitch in the act. He made a small detour and pulled a three foot length of pipe from a pile of scrap. No sense taking chances, even a cornered rat would fight. The scrape of metal against metal rang out unnaturally loud, echoing off the sides of the pit. His presence announced, he charged around the dozer, bellowing a challenge, weapon raised.

    Someone was lying on the ground. DeVerne could see the shoes sticking out of the pool of shadow. In that pool of shadow-or creating it, DeVerne couldn't be sure- crouched another figure.

    DeVerne yelled again. The figure straightened and turned, darkness swirling about it.

    He didn't realize the figure had moved until the pipe was wrenched from his hand. He barely had time to raise his other hand in a futile attempt to save his life.

    There's no such thing! he wailed silently as he died.

    * * *
    Wednesday morning, the tabloid headline, four inches high, read: "VAMPIRE STALKS
    CITY."

Two
    He lifted her arm and ran his tongue down the soft flesh on the inside of her wrist. She moaned, head back, breath coming in labored gasps.

    Almost.

    He watched her closely and when she began to go into the final climb, when her body began to arch under his, he took the small pulsing vein at the base of her thumb between the sharp points of his