Blood Price

wheezed into the subway station, Norman was deep in a pleasant fantasy of rearranging the world so that jocks and their sort were put where they belonged and he got the recognition and the women he deserved. Chin up, he strutted down to the trains, oblivious to the raised brows and the snickers that followed him. A Norman Birdwell run world would be set up to acknowledge the value of Norman Birdwell.

    "Dr. Sagara?"

    "What?"

    Norman was a little surprised at the vehemence in the old lady's voice; he hadn't even asked her for anything yet. "Professor Leigh said I should talk to you."

    "What about?" She glared up at him over the edge of her glasses.

    "I'm doing a project on demons. . . ."

    "The ones on the Board of Directors?" She sniggered, then shook her head at his complete lack of reaction. "That was a joke."

    "Oh." Norman peered down at her, annoyed at the lack of light. Bad enough that the Rare Book Room itself was so dark-a few banks of fluorescents would be a decent start until the whole smelly mess could be transcribed onto a mainframe-but it really was unnecessary to carry the conceit over into the offices. The brass lamp threw a pool of gold onto the desk, but Dr.
    Sagara's face itself was in shadow. He looked around for a wall switch but couldn't see one.

    "Well?" Dr. Sagara tapped the fingers of one hand against her desk blotter. "What does Professor Leigh think your project has to do with me? He was singularly nonspecific on the phone."

    "I need to find out about Demon Lords." His voice picked up the rhythm of the throbbing.

    "Then you need a grimoire."

    "A what?"

    "I said," she spoke very slowly and distinctly as though to an idiot, "you need a grimoire; an ancient, practically mythological book of demon lore."

    Norman bent forward, squinting a little as he came within the sphere of the desk lamp. "Do you have one?"

    "Well, your Professor Leigh seems to think I do."

    Grinding his teeth, Norman wished U of T paid more attention to its retirement regulations.
    The old lady was obviously senile. "Do you?"

    "No." She laced her fingers together and leaned back in her chair. "But if you really want one, I suggest you contact a young man by the name of Henry Fitzroy. He came to visit me when he first moved to Toronto. Spitting image of his father as a young man. His father had a great love of antiquities, books in particular. Donated a number of the books we have in our collection here. God knows what young Henry inherited."

    "This Henry Fitzroy has a grimoire?"

    "Do I look like God? I don't know what he has, but he's your best bet in the city."

    Norman pulled his electronic address book out of his briefcase. "Do you have his number?"

    "Yes. But I'm not going to give it to you. You have his name, look it up. If he's not in the phone book, he obviously doesn't want to be bothered."

    Norman stared at her in astonishment. She couldn't just not tell him, could she? The throbbing became a kettledrum between his ears.

    Yes, she could.

    "Good afternoon, young man."

    Norman continued to stare.

    Dr. Sagara sighed. "Good afternoon," she repeated more firmly.

    "You have to tell me. . . ."

    "I don't have to tell you anything." Whining topped her rather considerable list of character traits she couldn't abide. "Get out."

    "You can't talk to me like that! "Norman protested.

    "I can talk to you anyway I like, I have tenure. Now are you going to leave or am I going to call library security?"

    Breathing heavily through his nose, he whirled and stamped toward the door.

    Dr. Sagara watched him go, brows drawn down and two vertical lines cutting into her forehead. Professor Leigh would be hearing from her about this. Obviously, he still bore a grudge for that C minus.

    She’ll be sorry. Norman charged through the dim quiet of the Rare Book Room and careened off the entrance turnstile. They'll all be sorry! The exit was on the other side of the guard's desk. If anyone laughs at me, they're dead.

    He slammed into the exit bar and got his briefcase caught between it and the desk. The grinding noise brought a startled exclamation from the guard.

    "No, I don't need your help!" Norman snarled. Bandaged hand waving, he yanked at the case and jammed it more tightly. "This is all your fault," he growled as the guard came around to see what could be done. "If you built these things properly, there'd be room!"

    "If you were more careful going through them. . . ." the guard muttered, jiggling the mechanism