Blood Price

balcony. Not a loud sound-more like the rustle of dead leaves in the wind-but a sound that didn't belong.

    He reached the living room in less than seconds, the overpowering smell of rotting meat warning him of what he'd face. Two hundred years of habit dropped his hand to his hip although he had not carried a sword since the early 1800s. The only weapon he owned, his service revolver, was wrapped in oilcloth and packed away in the basement of the building. And I don't think I have time to go get it.

    The creature stood, silhouetted against the night, holding the glass door between its claws. It almost filled the tiny solarium that linked the dining room to the balcony, Woven like a red cord through the stench was the odor of fresh blood, telling Henry the demon had just fed and reminding him how long it had been since he had done the same. He drew in a long, shuddering breath. I was a fool not to have protected the apartment! An open pentagram like the trap he'd prepared by the Humber. . . . I should have known. Now, it all came down to this.

    "Hold, demon, you have not been asked to enter!"

    Huge, lidless, yellow eyes turned in his direction, features reshaping to accommodate the movement. "Ordered," it said, and threw the door.

    Henry dove forward and the glass crashed harmlessly to the floor where he had been. He twisted past talons, leapt, and slammed both clenched fists into the demon's head. The surface collapsed upon itself like wet cork, absorbing the blow and reforming. The demon's back-swing caught him on the way down and flung him crashing through the coffee table. He rolled, narrowly avoiding a killing blow, and scrambled to his feet with a metal strut in his hand, the broken end bright and sharp.

    The demon opened Henry's arm below the elbow.

    Biting back a scream, Henry staggered, almost fell, and jabbed the strut into its hip.

    A flap of wing almost held him then, but panic lent him strength and he kicked his way free, feeling tissue give beneath his heels. His shoulder took the blow meant for his throat. He dropped with it, grabbed above a misshapen foot, and pulled with all he had left. The back of the demon's head proved more resilient than Henry's television, but only just.

    * * *
    "Down, Owen! Be quiet!" Mrs. Hughes leaned back against the leash, barely managing to snag her door and close it before Owen, barking hysterically, lunged forward and dragged her down the hall. "Owen, shut up!" She could hardly hear herself think, the dog was so loud. The sound echoed, louder even than it had been in the confines of her apartment, and no matter how extensive the soundproofing between units, noise always seemed to carry in from the hall. She had to get Owen out of the building before he got them thrown out by the residents' committee.

    A door opened at the end of the corridor and a neighbor she knew slightly emerged. He was a retired military man and had two small dogs of his own, both of whom she could hear barking through the open door-no doubt in response to Owen's frenzy.

    "What's wrong with him?" he yelled when he was close enough to make himself heard.

    "I don't know." She stumbled and almost lost her footing when Owen suddenly threw his powerful body up against Henry Fitzroy's door, scrabbling with his claws around the edges and when that didn't work, trying to dig his way under. Mrs. Hughes attempted to pull him away without much success. She wished she knew what her Owen had against Mr. Fitzroy-of course, at the moment she'd settle for knowing they weren't going to be evicted for disturbing the peace.
    "Owen! Sit!" Owen ignored her.

    "He's never acted like this before," she explained. "All of a sudden he just started barking, like he'd been possessed. I thought if I got him outside. . . ."

    "It'd be quieter, anyway," he agreed. "Can I give you a hand?"

    "Please." Her voice had become a little desperate.

    Between the two of them, they dragged the still barking mastiff into the elevator.

    "I don't understand this," she panted. "He usually wouldn't hurt a fly."

    "Well, he hasn't hurt anything but a few eardrums," he reassured her, moving his blocking knee out of the way as the doors closed. "Good luck!"

    He could hear Owen's deep chested bark still sounding up the elevator shaft, could hear the frenzied barking of his own two. Then, as suddenly as it began, it stopped. He paused, frowning, heard one final whimper, and then complete and utter silence. Shaking his head, he went