Blood Price

course, he'd never be able to convince the professor that. Professor Leigh thought he knew everything. "How do they differ for a Demon Lord?"

    "Well, just for starters, you need a name."

    "Where do I find one?"

    "I am not going to do your research for you, Norman." The professor picked up his briefcase and headed for the door, expecting Norman to move out of his way. Norman stayed right where he was. Faced with a shoving match or surrender, Professor Leigh sighed and surrendered. "I suggest you have a word with Dr. Sagara at the University of Toronto's Rare Book Room. She might have something that can help."

    Norman weighed the worth of that information for a moment then nodded, stepping back against the blackboard. It was less than he wanted, but it was a beginning and he still had ten hours until midnight.

    "Fine. I'll call Dr. Sagara and tell her you'll be coming down." Once safely out in the corridor, the professor grinned. He almost wished he could be there to see the irresistible force come up against the immovable object. Almost.

    A few flakes of snow slapped wetly against his face as Norman stood waiting for the bus.

    He shifted his weight from foot to foot, glad he'd worn his sneakers-cowboy boots, he'd discovered, had next to no insulation against the cold. The black leather jacket kept him reasonably warm, although the fringe kept flapping up and whipping him in the back of the neck.

    When he saw the bus approaching, he moved to the curb, only to be engulfed by the waiting pack of students and pushed back almost to the end of the line. All his efforts to regain his place met with failure and finally he gave in, shuffling forward with the line and fuming.

    Just wait. . . . Norman shifted his grip on his briefcase, ignoring the way it cracked against the shins of the person next to him. When I have my Demon Lord, there'll be no more lines, no more buses, no more sharp elbows. He glared at the back of the tall skinny young man attached to the elbow in question. As soon as he got a chance, that guy was going on the list.

    * * *
    Vicki allowed herself to be caught up in the rush of students and carried with them out through the back doors of the bus. Intensive eavesdropping during the long trip had taught her two things; that nothing had changed much since she'd gone to university and that the verb
    "says" seemed to have disappeared from common usage.

    ". . .so then my dad goes, if you're going to take the car out I gotta know where you're going like and ..."

    And what's really depressing is that she's probably an English major. Out on the sidewalk at last, Vicki fastened her jacket and took a quick look back at the bus. The doors were just closing behind the last of the students fleeing the campus and, as she watched, the heavily loaded vehicle lumbered away. Well, that was that, then; no changing her mind for another forty minutes.

    She felt a little foolish, but this was the best idea she could come up with. With any luck, the head of the computer science department would be able-and willing-to tell her who'd be likely to own and use the stolen computer system. Coreen might have had information that could help sort the living needle out of the haystack, after all, she was a student out here, but when Vicki'd called her apartment at about 8:30 there'd been no answer.

    Pushing her glasses up her nose, she started across the parking lot, watching for black leather jackets. As Celluci had pointed out, there were a number of them on males and females both. Vicki knew Ml well that physical characteristics had nothing to do with the ability to commit crime, but she looked anyway. Surely a demon-caller must show some outward manifestation of that kind of evil.

    * * *
    Norman pushed into the first available seat. His injured hand should've entitled him to one the moment he got on the bus but not one of his selfish, self-centered fellow students would get up although he'd glared at all and sundry. Still sulking, he fished his calculator out of his shirt pocket, and began to work out the time he'd need to spend downtown. He was, at that very moment, missing an analytical geometry class. It was the first class he'd ever skipped. His parents would have fits. He didn't care. As much as he'd hoarded every A and A plus-he had a complete record of every mark he'd ever received-he'd realized in the last couple of days that some things were more important.

    Things like getting even.

    When the bus finally