Blood Price

always talk to his machine."

    "I see him most nights," Greg pointed out, leaning back in his chair.

    "Yeah, that's my point. You see him nights. I bet you never see him before the sun sets."

    Greg frowned. "What are you getting at?"

    "Those killings where the blood was sucked out; I think Mr. Fitzroy did it. I think he's a vampire."

    "I think you're out of your mind," Greg told him dryly, allowing the front legs of his chair to come to ground with a thud. "Henry Fitzroy is a writer. You can't expect him to act like a normal person. And about those vampires. . . ." He reached down and pulled a copy of the day's tabloid out of his old leather briefcase. "I think you better read this."

    With the Leafs actually winning the division playoffs after the full seven games, the front page was dedicated to hockey. Anicka Hendle had to settle for page two.

    Tim read the article, brows drawn down over some of the larger words. When he finished, Greg raised a hand to cut off his reaction and turned the page. Anne Fellows' column didn't attempt to appeal to the reason of her readers, she played Anicka Hendle's death for every ounce of emotion it held. She placed the blame squarely in the arms of the media, admitting her own involvement, and demanding that the scare tactics stop. Are there not enough real terrors on our streets without creating new ones ?

    "They made up all that stuff about vampires?"

    "Looks that way, doesn't it?"

    "Just to sell papers." Tim shook his head in disgust. He pushed the tabloid back across the desk, tapping the picture on the front page. "You think the Leafs are going to go all the way this year?"

    Greg snorted. "I think there's a better chance that Henry Fitzroy's a vampire." He waved the younger guard out of the building then came around the desk to hold the door open for Mrs.
    Hughes and her mastiff.

    "Get down, Owen! He doesn't want your kisses!"

    Wiping his face, Greg watched as the huge dog bounded into the elevator, dragging Mrs.
    Hughes behind him. The lobby always seemed a little smaller after Owen had passed through.
    He checked that the lock on the inner door had caught-it was a little stiff, he'd have to have a word with maintenance-before returning to the desk and picking up his paper.

    Then he paused, memory jogged by the smell of the ink or the feel of the newsprint, suddenly recalling the first night the vampire story had made the paper. He remembered Henry Fitzroy's reaction to the headline and he realized that Tim was right. He'd never seen the man before sunset.

    "Still," he shook himself, "man's got a right to work what hours he chooses and sleep what hours he chooses." But he couldn't shake the memory of the bestial fury that had shone for a heartbeat in the young man's eyes. Nor could he shake a feeling of disquiet that caressed the back of his neck with icy fingers.

    * * *
    As the light released its hold on the city, Henry stirred. He became aware of the sheet lying across his naked body, each thread drawing a separate line against his skin. He became aware of the slight air current that brushed his cheek like a baby's breath. He became aware of three million people living their lives around him and the cacophony nearly deafened him until he managed to push through it and into the silence once again. Lastly, he became aware of self. His eyes snapped open and he stared up into the darkness.

    He hated the way he woke, hated the extended vulnerability. When they finally came for him, this was when it would happen; not during the hours of oblivion, but during the shadow time between the light and dark when he would feel the stake and know his death and be able to do nothing about it.

    As he grew older, it happened earlier-creeping closer to the day a few seconds at a time-but it never happened faster. He woke the way he had when he was mortal- slowly.

    Centuries ago, he'd asked Christina how it was for her.

    "Like waking out of a deep sleep-one moment I'm not there, the next I am."

    "Do you dream ?"

    She rolled over on her side. "No. We don't. None of us do. "

    ' I think I miss that most of all."

    Smiling, she scraped a fingernail along his inner thigh. "We learn to dream while we wake.
    Shall I show you how ?"

    Occasionally, in the seconds just after he woke, he thought he heard voices from his past, friends, lovers, enemies, his father once, bellowing for him to get a move on or they'd be late. In over four hundred years, that was as close as he'd come to