Blood Price

drew up off his teeth. "Not that I seem to be doing much to prevent it."

    Why didn't she call?

    He began to pace, back and forth, back and forth, before the window.

    She'd lost a lot of blood the night before. Had she run into trouble she was too weak to handle?

    He remembered the feel of Ginevra's dead flesh under his hands as he cut her down. She'd been so alive. Like Vicki was so alive. . . .

    Why didn't she call?

    * * *
    She'd been conscious now for some time and had been lying quietly, eyes closed, waiting for the pounding at her temples to stop echoing between her ears. Time was of the essence, yes, but sudden movement would have her puking her guts out and she couldn't see where that would help. Better to wait, to gather information, and to move when she might actually have some effect.
    She licked her lips and tasted blood, could feel the warm moisture dribbling down from her nose.

    Her feet were tied at the ankles. Her arms lashed together almost from wrists to elbows; the binding around her wrists fabric not rope. She'd been dumped on her side, knees drawn up, left cheek down on a hard, sticky surface-probably the floor. Someone had removed her jacket. Her glasses were not on her nose. She fought back the surge of panic that realization brought.

    She could hear-or maybe feel-footsteps puttering about behind her and adenoidal breathing coming from the same direction. Norman. From the opposite direction, she could hear short sharp breaths, each exhalation an indignant snort. And Coreen.

    So she's still alive. Good. And she sounds angry, not hurt. Even better. Vicki suspected that Coreen was also tied or she wouldn't be so still. Which, all things considered, is a good thing.
    Few people get dead faster than amateur heroes. Not, she added as a flaming spike slammed through the back of her head, that the professionals are doing so hot.

    She lay there for a moment, playing if Coreen hadn't interfered until the new pain faded into the background with the old pain.

    The residual stench of the demon was very strong-only in a building used to students could Norman have gotten away with it-overlaid with burning charcoal, candles, air freshener, and toast.

    "You know, you could offer me some. I'm starving."

    "You'll eat after."

    Vicki wasn't surprised to hear that Norman talked with his mouth full. He probably picks his nose and wears socks with sandals, too. An all-around great guy.

    "After what?"

    "After the Demon Lord makes you mine."

    "Get real, Birdwell! Demons don't come that powerful!"

    Norman laughed.

    Cold fingers traced a pattern up and down Vicki's spine, and she fought to keep herself from flipping over so that the thing Norman Birdwell had become was no longer at her exposed back.
    She'd heard a man laugh like that once before. The SWAT team had needed seven hours to take him out and they'd still lost two of the hostages.

    "You'll see," his voice matter-of-fact around the toast. "First I was just going to have you ripped into little pieces, real slow. Then I was going to use you as part of the incantation to call the Demon Lord. Did I tell you it needed a life? Until you showed up I was going to grab the kid down the hall." His voice drew closer and Vicki felt a pointed toe prodding her in the back.
    "Now I've decided to use her and keep you for myself."

    "You're disgusting, Birdwell!"

    "DON'T SAY THAT!"

    Concussion or not, Vicki opened her eyes in time to see Norman dart forward and slap Coreen across the face. Without her glasses details were a blur, but from the sound of it, it hadn't been much of a blow.

    "Did I hurt you?" he asked, the rage gone as suddenly as it had appeared.

    The bright mass of Coreen's hair swept up and back as she tossed her head. "No," she told him, chin rising. Fear had crept into her voice but it was still vastly outweighed by anger.

    "Oh." Norman finished his toast and wiped his fingers on his jeans. "Well, I will."

    Vicki could understand and approve of Coreen's anger. She was furious herself-at Norman, at the situation, at her helplessness. Although she would have preferred to rant and bellow, she held her rage carefully in check. Releasing it now, when she was bound, would do neither her, nor Coreen, nor the city any good. She drew in a deep breath and slowly exhaled. Her head felt as though it were balanced precariously on the edge of the world and one false move would sent it tumbling into infinity.

    "Excuse me." She hadn't intended to