Blood Price

Fitzroy."

    "Evening, Greg. Anything happening?"

    The security guard smiled and reached for the door release. "Quiet as a tomb, sir."

    Henry Fitzroy raised one red-gold eyebrow but waited until he had the door open and the buzzer had ceased its electronic flatulence before asking, "And how would you know?"

    Greg grinned. "Used to be a guard at Mount Pleasant Cemetery."

    Henry shook his head and smiled as well. "I should've known you'd have an answer."

    "Yes, sir, you should've. Good night, sir."

    The heavy glass door closed off any further conversation, so as Greg picked up his newspaper Henry waved a silent good night and turned toward the elevators. Then he stopped.
    And turned back to face the glass.

    "VAMPIRE STALKS CITY"

    Lips moving as he read, Greg laid the paper flat on his desk, hiding the headline.

    His world narrowed to three words, Henry shoved the door open.

    "You forget something, Mr. Fitzroy?"

    "Your paper. Let me see it."

    Startled by the tone but responding to the command, Greg pushed the paper forward until Henry snatched it out from under his hands.

    '"VAMPIRE STALKS CITY"

    Slowly, making no sudden movements, Greg slid his chair back, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the man on the other side of the desk. He wasn't sure why, but in sixty-three years and two wars, he'd never seen an expression like the one Henry Fitzroy now wore. And he hoped he'd never see it again, for the anger was more than human anger and the terror it invoked more than human spirit could stand.

    Please, God, don't let him turn it on me. . . .

    The minutes stretched and paper tore under tightening fingers.

    "Uh, Mr. Fitzroy ..."

    Hazel eyes, like frozen smoke, lifted from their reading. Held by their intensity, the trembling security guard had to swallow once, twice, before he could finish.

    ". . . you can, uh, keep the paper."

    The fear in Greg's voice penetrated through the rage. There was danger in fear. Henry found the carefully constructed civilized veneer that he wore over the predator and forced it back on. "I hate this kind of sensationalism!" He slapped the paper down on the desk.

    Greg jumped and his chair hit the back wall, ending retreat.

    "This playing on the fears of the public is irresponsible journalism." Henry sighed and covered the anger with a patina of weary annoyance. Four hundred and fifty years of practice made the false face believable regardless of how uncomfortable the fit had grown lately. "They make us all look bad."

    Greg sighed in turn and wiped damp palms on his thighs, snatching at the explanation. "I guess writers are kind of sensitive about that," he offered.

    "Some of us," Henry agreed. "You sure about the paper? That I can keep it?"

    "No problem, Mr. Fitzroy. I checked the hockey scores first thing." His mind had already begun to dull what he had seen, adding rationalizations that made it possible, that made it bearable, but he didn't slide his chair back to the desk until the elevator door had closed and the indicator light had begun to climb.

    Muscles knotted with the effort of standing still, Henry concentrated on breathing, on controlling the rage rather than allowing it to control him. In this age his kind survived by blending in, and he'd made a potentially fatal mistake by letting his reaction to the headline show.
    Allowing his true nature to emerge in the privacy of an empty elevator could do little harm, but doing so before a mortal witness was quite another matter. Not that he expected Greg to suddenly start pointing his finger and screaming vampire. . . .

    Helping to dampen the rage was the guilt he felt at terrifying the old man. He liked Greg; in this world of equality and democracy it was good to meet a man willing to serve. The attitude reminded him of the men who'd worked on the estate when he was a boy and took him back, for a little while at least, to a simpler time.

    Barriers firmly in place, he got off the elevator at the fourteenth floor, holding the door so Mrs. Hughes and her mastiff could get on. The big dog walked past him stiff-legged, the hairs on the back of his neck up, and a growl rumbling deep in his throat. As always, Mrs. Hughes made apologetic sounds.

    "I really don't understand this, Mr. Fitzroy. Owen is usually such a sweet dog. He never . . .
    Owen!"

    The mastiff, trembling with the desire to attack, settled for maneuvering his huge body between his owner and the man in the door, putting as much