BY parking across an access alley, Vicki managed to find curb space only two blocks from the video store where Tony worked.
Celluci opened the passenger door, then closed it again. "Will you do something for me?"
"Anything."
His snort was an eloquent testimony to his disbelief. "Just try to be careful. Don't expect anything as civi?lized as the Godfather ..."
"Not even the bit where Sonny gets of fed or the brother-in-law gets strangled? Or where they dump Fredo in the lake?" Her brow furrowed dramatically. "And didn't they kill the Pope in part three?"
"Vicki... "
"Michael," she mimicked. "Look, I was a cop. I helped bag the bodies. I know these aren't the good guys."
"Yeah, well, organized crime has changed over the last few years." He twisted in the seat until he faced her. "Most of the old school has been buried, one way or another, and the new lot's a group of vicious young punks who kill because they can. There used to be rules of a sort. The rules are gone." Once, he might have thought he gripped her arm too tightly. Now, he didn't think he could hold her tightly enough. "Power is an end with these new guys, not just a means."
She smiled, her teeth gleaming unnaturally white in the light from the passing traffic. "Power won't be a problem."
"Maybe. Just keep two things in mind, will you? You're there to ask a few questions, not to clean up the streets." He didn't like the way her brows lifted, but he ignored them because he didn't have a lot of choice. As little as he liked it, he had to trust her judgment. "And don't forget the difference between immortal and invulnerable." He leaned forward and kissed her, then got out of the van before he could give in to the urge to ask her just what exactly she was going to do.
"I won't take any stupid risks, Mike." The pale oval of her face seemed farther away than distance alone could account for. "At the risk of sounding like some whacked-out action hero, I'll be back."
At least she hadn't told him not to worry. "Sunrise is at 4:16.''
"What the ... ?"
"What the what, Bynowski?"
"I don't know." Brow furrowed, Frank Bynowski leaned closer to the monitor that showed a long shot of the front approach. "Something flickered... "
The front door alarm went off.
Two pairs of eyes locked on the screen linked to the camera over the front door. Instead of a solid barrier between the house and the world, the steel reinforced door swung lazily back and forth on its hinges.
Gary Haiden turned a flat, accusing stare on his companion. "The boss told you to lock up!"
"I did!"
He jerked his head at the image. "That says differ?ent." His tone suggested the lapse would be reported, that Bynowski would suffer for it, and that he, Haiden, wouldn't much mind.
"Yeah? Take a closer look, shit-for-brains."
Both halves of the lock had been twisted into im?possible angles.
The monitor showing the front hall-the only view of the inside of the house-flickered, but neither man noticed. They'd kicked in too many doors to miss the significance of the broken lock.
"Shit, shit, shit, fuck!" Bynowski reached for the intercom button. A leather-covered hand closed over his finger before it had quite covered the distance. He grunted as the bone snapped, too astounded to scream. When he looked up and fell into silvered eyes, he wished he'd taken the time because screaming might've helped. A backhanded blow he never saw coming flung him out of his chair to crash against the far wall and slide down a trickle of his own blood to the floor.
Haiden whirled around to watch the arc of the other man's flight and used the motion to propel himself to his feet. Instinct took over while reason protested, and his gun had cleared the holster by the time he was standing. His eyes saw a tall woman, dressed all in black. His brain did its best to convince him that this was the last thing he was going to see if he didn't leave immediately. Haiden ignored it. He hadn't gotten off the streets by giving in to fear, and he wasn't going to start now.
Her pale gaze flicked down to his gun, then back to his face. "No," she said softly.
A lot of people had said no to him throughout the years. Some had begged. Some had shrieked. Some had repeated it, over and over, in stunned disbelief. In all its varying forms, the word had held fear, but it had never been a warning. So although it was defi-nitely a warning this time, he didn't recognize it.
He'd been a predator all his life; this was his first time as prey. He still had a lot to learn.
A heartbeat later, he gibbered in terror while fin?gertips pressed white half-moons into his throat.
Bones had been broken in both his hands, but the pain got lost behind the gleaming white smile he couldn't seem to take his eyes off of.
"Is the boss at home?" the smile said.
Up until this point, Gary Haiden had been positive he'd give his life to protect Sebastien Carl, that he'd look death in the face and say, "Fuck you." Instead, he found himself saying, "Him and his wife are up?stairs, in the big bedroom at the back, dressing for dinner." He hoped it was enough.
Mr. Carl was alone in the bedroom pulling on a pair of black silk socks. A blow-dryer running in the en suite suggested the location of his wife.
Although Vicki knew she'd never seen him before, there was something familiar about Sebastien Carl. She was across the room with one hand clamped around his throat before she realized what it was. He had an awareness of his own power that was almost vampiric in intensity. All this is mine, it declared. You are nothing unless I choose to make use of you.
She almost killed him before she brought the sud?den surge of rage under control. "I am nothing like you," she snarled, ignoring the hands that clawed at her wrist. "I only want to ask you a few questions." A silk-covered heel caught her just below the knee. "Stop it."
Smarter than Haiden, he stopped. He glared at her through narrowed eyes, fingers wrapped around her wrist, chest rising and falling in short, shallow breaths, all the remains of his windpipe would allow. Death is my weapon, his expression said. Not yours.
She let more of the Hunger rise, barely stopping it from breaking free. "Organ-legging. Are you doing it?"
"No." His answer was little more than a breath rasped out in denial. For all he might deny Death in the silvered eyes that held his, he couldn't lie to them. Nor could he look away.
"Do you know who is?"
"No."
With her free hand, she pulled one of the copies Henry'd made of the photos in the autopsy report out of her back pocket, shook out the folds, and held it up. "Have you ever seen this guy before?"
"No." Go on, his gaze dared. Do your worst.
Frustrated, she threw him to the bed. He bounced, rolled across the quilted red satin bedspread, and came up firing the .22-caliber pistol that had been laid out beside his clothes. By the time he'd squeezed the trigger the second time, he was dead.
Switching off the blow-dryer, Jenna Carl threw sun-streaked hair back off her face and frowned. "Sebas?tien?" she asked stepping out of the bathroom. "Did you just... oh, shit."
No stranger to her husband's business, the body on the floor didn't surprise her much. It surprised her only a little more when it turned out to be her hus?band. It surprised her a great deal when she discov?ered he was not, as she'd supposed from his face, lying on his back. Someone...
Or something, a whimpering little voice in the back of her head insisted as she bit back a scream.
... had turned his head completely around.
Leaping over the corpse, she crawled up the bed and fumbled open the safe built into the padded head?board. Everything was there. Breathing heavily, she clutched at the packets of bills and tried to think. She could still get out of this. All she had to do was get Sebastien's body to the foot of the stairs-thank God she'd squelched his plan to build a bungalow. A terri?ble accident. His lawyers would know what to do, who to pay. A quick funeral, and she'd take the money and . .
"I'd never get away." If the cops didn't hound her to death, her husband's business associates would as they ripped his empire to bloody shreds. "Well, screw them."
Twenty minutes later, the safe emptied, her Porsche roared out of the garage and disappeared down Ma?rine Drive.
Haiden and Bynowski stared empty-eyed at the monitors.
The part of Vancouver known as Kitsilano had be?come overtly yuppie as the tag end of the baby boom?ers-stockbrokers, system developers, securities analysts, crime lords-in the prime of their earning years had settled down with a mortgage and kids. For all of that, it was a nice neighborhood and not a place Henry'd expected to be Hunting in tonight.
Gabriel and Lori Constantine were having a barbe?cue. Standing motionless in the shadows, Henry sniffed the breeze and firmly squelched the desire to sneeze at the lingering scent of seared squid. As host, Gabriel Constantine would be among the six lives by the house.
Two cars, each containing a pair of gunmen, and two men who were definitely not a couple walking along the beach, convinced him that he'd best take an oblique approach. A few moments later, he stepped up onto the neighbor's composter, over the fence and into a pool of deep shadow cast by a clump of lilac, lip curled at the smell of dying blossoms.
Their yard could have been any of the yards he'd crossed. The house was only superficially different from the rest on the street. The gathering could have been happening anywhere up and down the block.
Except for the people involved.
Henry suspected the Constantines seldom enter?tained their immediate neighbors. After all, predators have only one reason to associate with prey.
Four large men wearing jackets over golf shirts pa?trolled the yard. Henry waited until one reached the edge of the shadows and came forward just enough to interrupt the constant sweeping movement of the enforcer's gaze. In the instant before awareness dawned, Henry grabbed onto the simple pattern of his thoughts and twisted them into new shapes. "Tell Mr. Constantine there's something he should see over by the fence. Tell him it isn't dangerous, but you thought he should take a look."
Most people caught in the Hunt responded like a rabbit caught in headlights-conscious thought com?pletely overwhelmed by their imminent and incontest-able death. Those susceptible to more overt control were few and far between, but primed to follow orders and only follow orders, the enforcer nodded, turned, and made his way toward the pool. It wouldn't last long. But then, it didn't have to.
Henry, who could hear the heartbeat of the child sleeping in an upstairs bedroom, had no difficulty hearing the conversations at the other end of the yard. Private schools and music lessons and how hard it was to find a reliable housekeeper and imported cars ver?sus domestic and how certain people never realized that expenses were going up all wrapped around each other like tangled yarn. It was all very innocent; a casual eavesdropper would never know how the bills were paid. Finally, he heard the thread that concerned his meeting with Gabriel Constantine.
Frowning, waving off a question from one of his guests, Constantine suggested that the enforcer should lead the way. There was something out there, he'd read that off the other man's face, but he had confi?dence in both his security and in the normality of the neighborhood.
What could hurt you here? Henry asked himself as they approached. Here, surrounded by satellite dishes, gas barbecues, and lawns all maintained by Mr. Weedman. What could touch you in the midst of all of that? He smiled as the two men reached the lilac. It had been, after all, a rhetorical question.
Unaware that his enforcer's mind had less in it than usual, Constantine put him on guard and threw a skeptical glance into the shadows. To his horror, the shadows threw it back.
"If you move, I'll kill you."
All the death he'd ever dealt returned to greet him. Had their night sight been good enough, his guests might have seen his shoulders stiffen and a spreading patch of sweat darken his T-shirt. Because he faced away from them, they couldn't see the expression of horror that drained the blood from his face.
A few gentle questions, voiced too low for listening ears, determined he knew nothing of selling organs for profit nor of the identity of the ghost. But he did know a great many other unpleasant things.
In spite of certain incidents that had occurred dur?ing the year Vicki had been his mortal lover, Henry had never considered himself a vampire Batman, a comic book hero out hunting down evil in the night. Although willing to destroy any that put itself in his way, much as he would a cockroach that did the same thing, he had no desire to spend immortality searching evil out and destroying it. There was just too damned much of it.
For the sake of the sleeping child, Henry let this cockroach live, merely suggesting that, in return, it go into another line of work.
"That was good food." Celluci stepped to one side of the restaurant door and was almost run over by a trio of young women. Two of them spun off to either side, the third looked him over, grinned, and hurried to catch up to her friends-now giggling around the corner on Robeson Street. Definitely not working girls-over the years he'd booked enough hookers to recognize them in any situation-they didn't look old enough to be out so late.
"Feeling your age?"
Startled, he stared down at his companion. "Did I say that out loud?"
Tony shook his head. "No. You sighed."
"Yeah, well, it's something old people do." He took a deep breath to clear the atmosphere of the restau?rant from his lungs. "At least I still have all my teeth. And I do enjoy a good meal."
"I figured if you come to the Coast, you should eat seafood. At least once."
"Yeah? I suppose Fitzroy has sailors on Friday."
Pale eyes wide, Tony stared up at the detective. "Man, you've changed. You're not as ... uh ..." During the pause, he received only a polite, ques?tioning expression. "Well, as uptight as you used to be."
"A lot of things have changed in the last few years."
"Yeah? Like what?"
"Vicki."
"Ah. She changes, and you change because you love her?"
"Something like that." Celluci sighed again and peered down Thurlow Street toward the distant waters of English Bay. "How far are we from your place? Fitzroy's place, that is, not where you're staying now."
Tony shrugged again, allowing just whose place it was, to pass. "It's a bit of a walk."
"Doable?"
"Sure. Straight down Thurlow to Davie, along Davie to Seymour and home. I go that way on my blades." He looked down at his feet and shook his head. "Tonight it'll take a while longer. You'd better not be in a hurry."
Somewhere to the south, a siren wailed.
Celluci's mouth set into a thin line. "I'm in no hurry." Stepping away from the restaurant, he tried with little success to block out the distant sounds of the night. "I'm not very good at sitting around and waiting."
The man who answered to the second name on Vicki's list had left town for a few days.
"... I don't know any more than that. I don't! Please!"
The third had been working late. She caught him just leaving the office.
There was only one enforcer between them. Then there were only the persistent fumes of a pungent aftershave. Then ...
His other three boys found him a few moments later, crouched behind a dumpster in the alley next to the office. He stood slowly as they approached, visibly pulling himself together.
"Boss? What happened?"
"The night," he said, then paused to swallow fear. Lines of sweat that had nothing to do with the cool breeze blowing in off the street glistened down both sides of his face. "I was taken by the night."
The most senior of the three shot a startled glance at his companions but switched from Chinese to En?glish if that was how the boss wanted it. "Are you okay?"
"Where's Fang?" Narrowed eyes searched behind three sets of shoulders, shying away from the shadows. "He was supposed to protect me."
"He, uh, disappeared. Right when you did."
Fingers curled into fists to hide their trembling, but the lingering terror honed a razor's edge on the voice. "Then where the fuck were you!?"
The steering wheel creaked a protest. Vicki glanced down at it, frowned, and forced her fingers to relax their grip. It was getting harder and harder not to feed, not to drink in the terror with the blood.
Once you acquire the taste, Henry had warned her, the desire for it will lead you to excess after excess. Be very, very careful.
"Yeah. Right. 'Once you turn toward the dark side, forever will it dominate your destiny.' Stuff a sock in it, Obi Wan." Grimacing, she gunned the engine, raced a yellow light, and whipped the van around the corner, the two wheels still in contact with the pavement loudly objecting.
Frustration sizzled along every nerve. It was like having sex for hours with no orgasm in sight. "Celluci'd better be well rested when I get back; he's going to need his strength."
Yuen-Zong Chen, known to his associates as Harry, waited in the corridor while one of his boys vetted the men's room-not so much from fear of assassination as that he intensely disliked pissing in front of an audi?ence. He stepped aside as two of the club's less distin?guished patrons were escorted out.
"All clear, Mr. Chen." As the crime boss entered, the enforcer nodded to a companion at the end of the hall and took up a position outside the door, one foot in its handmade size eight shoe keeping the beat that throbbed throughout the club.
Inside, Harry Chen relieved himself, sighed deeply in contentment, and crossed the room to the row of stainless steel sinks. He shook his head in unfeigned distaste at the residue of white powder. Only weak fools destroyed themselves with drugs. Weak fools who had helped to make him rich, perhaps, but that made them no less weak, no less foolish.
He passed his hands under the taps and, as the warm water poured over them, glanced up at his re?flection in the mirror. "There's never enough fucking light when ..." The rest of the sentence caught in his throat. Death looked over his shoulder.
Behind him, Henry smiled, showing teeth. "Harry Chen, I presume?"
He stiffened, recognizing it was not a question and that the pale-haired man knew exactly whose life he held. Dripping hands held out from his sides, he turned.
"If you call for help, you'll be dead before the first word reaches air," Henry told him as he opened his mouth.
"I'm dead anyway." But he wasn't dead yet, so he kept his voice low, ignoring the quaver because he couldn't prevent it, hope warring with fear. "Who sent you? Was it Ngyn, that Vietnamese prick? No," he answered his own question. "Ngyn wouldn't use a fuc... " Suddenly realizing that some racial slurs might not be wise under the circumstances, Chen began again. "Nygn wouldn't use you. Look, you're a professional, right? So am I. Whoever sent you, I can pay you more. Lots more. Cash. Drugs. Girls. What?ever the fuck you want, man. I can get it for you." Finding courage in the silence, he raised his eyes. The small, nonshrieking part of his mind decided it was very glad he'd just relieved himself. "You're... not... possible."
The protest emerged one word to each short, shal?low breath. Even Henry had to strain to hear it. "Aren't I?" he asked quietly, impressed by the strength of will in spite of his contempt for the man. "Then you're in no danger, are you?"
"Just ... do it, you... son of a bitch."
"Not until you answer a few questions."
He swallowed and fought the urge to lift his chin. "Fuck... you."
Henry growled low in his throat.
A few minutes later, as another song began, the enforcer in front of the door pushed it open a crack. "You okay, Mr. Chen? Mr. Chen?"
There wasn't a mark on the body. No way to show how he died.
Harry Chen had known nothing. Henry threw the leather driving gloves down on the seat beside him, slammed the BMW into gear, and jerked it out into traffic. He needed to feed, needed to let the Hunger free to wash away the memory of men he'd questioned with blood. He'd barely been able to stop himself from feeding on Harry Chen.
But to feed on such a man would mean he fed on all the lives that man had destroyed, and that he would not do.
But he needed to feed.
Bars were closing. After hours clubs, tucked into lofts and behind stage entrances, were opening. There was a lot more traffic on the streets than Celluci had expected.
"It's 'cause people live in the West End, they don't just drink and shop here." Tony waved a hand to in?clude the apartment towers that rose to block the stars amidst the five- and six-story brownstones tucked along both sides of the street. "It's not like Toronto, it's all mixed. Last fall, some American guys came up from Seattle to see how we make it work so well."
Celluci smiled at the pronoun, then jerked around as a crash of falling cans, a soft thud, and assorted profanity spilled out of the alley they'd just passed.
"Relax." Tony grabbed his arm. "It's just dumpster divers."
"It's just what?" Celluci asked, allowing himself to be pulled to a stop.
"Street people who go through dumpsters looking for stuff they can sell. Some of 'em got hooks, some just dive right in." He shoved his hands into the front pocket of his jeans and kicked at a bit of broken side?walk. Although his face was in shadow, Celluci got the impression he was embarrassed by his comparative affluence. "Lotta homeless people here. Well, it makes sense, doesn't it? I mean, it beats freezing your ass to death back East." You wanna make something of it, his tone added.
But Celluci, who'd bagged the bodies of those who froze to death every winter huddled at the base of million-dollar office towers, exposed skin stuck to the steel grates of the subway air vents, said only, "Good point."
They walked in silence for a few minutes.
"I got a new life here," Tony announced suddenly. "I got a job, I got school, I got a chance; and I wouldn't have if it wasn't for Henry."
"And you feel like you owe him for that?"
"Well, don't I?"
"Has Henry suggested you owe him anything?" Cel?luci knew damned well he hadn't. Henry Fitzroy might be an arrogant, undead romance writer, but he wasn't the type to put a lien on a man's soul.
"He doesn't have to. I feel it." One hand slapped a dramatic punctuation against his chest. "Here."
"All right, what about the things you've done for him?"
Tony snorted. "What things?"
"The things that have to be done in daylight. The people who have to be dealt with. The arrangements that have to be made during office hours." He glanced down to find Tony's pale blue eyes locked on his face. "Leaving aside certain other aspects of the relationship ..." His right thumb rubbed the tiny scar on his left wrist. "... I think you'll find things haven't been all that unequal."
"He trusts me with his life." It almost sounded like a question.
"You trusted him with yours."
Overhead, a streetlight buzzed, the recent hit of a popular grunge band throbbed through a dark but open window, and both men jumped back as a con?vertible Ford Mustang roared down Granville Street toward the bridge.
"What does sixty k mean to you, asshole!" Tony yelled, leaping out onto the street and flipping the car the finger as bright yellow molded bumpers disap?peared into the night. "Idiots in fast cars think the bridge is a goddamned highway," he muttered as they crossed to the other side. "Probably wouldn't slow down if they fucking ran over you."
"Feel better?"
Uncertain whether the older man referred to his outburst or the conversation preceding it, Tony shrugged and discovered he did, indeed, feel better. "Yeah." After they'd walked another block, he added, "Thanks."
When she opened the warehouse door, the blood-scent spilled out into the night. Vicki swallowed hard and fought for control. While an incredulous voice in the back of her head demanded to know just what she thought she was doing, she stepped over the threshold and moved silently along the dark corridor created by two racks of floor-to-ceiling shelves stacked with industrial tile.
At the first cross corridor, she found a body. He'd been shot four times in the back at skin-touch range- the choice of professionals as it soaked up the muzzle blast and decreased the chance of being heard.
She could hear movement up ahead and the quiet drone of voices beyond that. It sounded very much as though the voices were being surrounded. The rising Hunger made it hard to think, hard to plan. She should leave. This hunt did not concern her.
Scrubbing one hand over her face, trying to block the distraction of the spilled blood, she stood and glanced up into the steel rafters. No one appeared to have taken the high road. Smiling, she reached for the crossbrace on the closest rack and began to climb.
"No. The bottom line is if weapons move out of this city, I move them. Me. Not me and you." The older of the two men sitting at the table leaned for?ward, scowling. "You're what, twenty-six? Twenty-seven? You've come far, David Eng, and you think you're hot shit, but you're not hot enough yet to take me out and you know it."
The other man nodded, but the motion was more acknowledgment of a point made rather than agreement with it. "Street wars are bad for business, Mr. Dyshino."
"Fuckin' A, they are. Which is why you and me are going to work this out if we have to fucking sit here until dawn."
The table sat in the middle of the open area where the forklifts were usually stored. One section of the overhead lights had been turned on, but they didn't quite manage to illuminate the oil-stained floor. The shadows of the six men standing blended into the sur-rounding shadow.
"You don't have to take this," one of the six an?nounced belligerently from behind David's left shoulder.
"Let's hear Mr. Dyshino's suggestion of com?promise."
Adan Dyshino rolled his eyes. "We aren't going to 'compromise,' you fool. You're going to stop."
A manicured hand rose to cut off the protest from his enraged second. "Admittedly, arms dealing is a very small part of what I do, but I do not wish to stop doing it. We appear to have reached an impasse once again."
From her seat in the rafters, Vicki watched Eng's men take up positions just outside the open area.
Grinning ferally, she enjoyed the view. If the vermin wanted to slaughter each other, that was fine by her.
The unexpectedly close whisper of metal against metal drew her gaze to the top of the nearest rack. A prone gunman, his sights sweeping the perimeter of the light, lay half hidden behind a crate of "parquet style" vinyl tiles. Carefully searching the shadows, she spotted another three.
This could get interesting....
David Eng had the advantage in numbers, but Dy?shino's men held the high ground.
Brought up short by Vicki's scent, Henry wondered what the hell was going on. Growling low in his throat, he pushed open the warehouse door. The air inside smelled of sweat and fear and anticipation.
"We haven't reached anything, you immigrant punk!" Dyshino surged to his feet. "This isn't Hong Kong, this is Canada, and I say... "
A 9-mm round from a burst of machine gun fire caught him in the right shoulder and spun him around. The rest of the burst killed the man behind him. He hit the floor and rolled under the table as all hell broke loose.
Crouched beside the man who'd been shot in the back, Henry flinched away from the sudden roar of gun?fire. By the time answering shots had been fired, he was on his feet and racing toward the sound. Vicki. ..
Vicki watched in amazement as Henry exploded out into the light, face and hair a pale blur above the moving shadow of his body. The gunman on the near?est rack muttered something that sounded like "Po?lice!" as she realized he had Henry in his sights.
He got the shot off just as she knocked him into the air. Henry's howl of pain drowned out the ripe melon sound of the gunman's head making contact with the concrete floor, nine meters down.
The scent of Henry's blood rose to obliterate the singed sulfur smell of the gunpowder, the hot metal smell of the spent casings, and the warm, meaty smell of the men below. Henry's blood. The blood that had made her.
The Hunger ripped aside all controls.
Time slowed as Henry stared from the red stain across the fingers of his right glove to the hole in his left arm. It didn't seem to hurt. I'm in shock, he thought. When he lifted his head, he saw a cold-eyed young man swing a submachine gun around until it pointed in his direction-each movement deliberate and distinct. Feeling as though he were moving under?water, Henry reached out, grabbed the muzzle, and smashed the weapon into the gunman's face.
As the body fell, the wound throbbed once, sending a ripple of pain racing through Henry's body, and time took up its normal pace again.
He felt, rather than heard, Vicki's scream of rage, and he didn't have strength enough to stop himself from responding.
Clutching his shoulder, Dyshino stared out from under the table in horror as another of his men hit the floor. This one was dead before impact.
Shots ricocheted off the metal rafters.
Head buzzing from the adrenaline, one of Eng's people leaned around a forklift and, grinning widely, sprayed bullets in the general direction of Dyshino's bodyguard. Some of the guys thought he was crazy, but he loved this kind of stuff-the noise, the chaos, the way death was so completely impersonal. It was like being inside a video game. What fun in quiet stalking and a single shot?
All at once his grin twisted into a grimace of pain as an unbreakable grip locked onto his shoulder and yanked him up into the cab of the machine.
He screamed.
His finger tightened on the trigger.
He sent Death on an impersonal visit to two of his companions.
Both sides realized they had a common enemy at about the same time. Unfortunately, by then it was too late.
The last sniper scrambled down off the racks, des?perately trying to outrun his own death. He slipped, managed to stop his fall, and hit the floor running. One step, two...
Vicki reached out a hand and grabbed the back of his head, slamming him to his knees and exposing his throat in one motion.
This was not the slaughter David Eng had planned. Crouched behind a roll of no-wax vinyl flooring, he grabbed his second's shoulder and waved his Ingram toward the distant doors. "Let's get the fuck out of here!"
The other man nodded, and they began to make their way down the corridor, back to back, each guard?ing the other's retreat. They were almost at the door when a pale face appeared out of the darkness.
"I don't think so," Henry snarled. His hand around the barrel of the Ingram, he pushed it toward the floor. When the magazine had emptied in a spray of concrete chips, he yanked it out of Eng's hands and hurled it away.
Howling with fear, the second started back the way they'd come and ran into Vicki's outstretched arm.
A few moments later, she dropped the body and wiped her mouth on the sleeve of her sweater. When she saw Henry watching her, Eng lying lifeless at his feet, she smiled, eyes glittering silver. "There're a few left."
He half turned toward the interior of the ware?house, then shook his head. "No. Not worth the risk."
"They've seen us... "
"They saw something, but not us. They don't want to see us when we Hunt; it reminds them of why chil?dren are afraid of the dark."
"Then what's the risk?" She stepped toward him, drawing in deep breaths of the rich, meaty, blood-scented air. Another step and her palm lay flat against his chest. "They can't stand against us." Leaning for?ward, she licked a bit of blood from the corner of his mouth. Not since the earliest days after the change when the world had been a kaleidoscope of new sensa?tions had she felt so alive.
He caught her tongue between his teeth, carefully so as not to break the skin.
Her arms went around him. His good hand tangled in her hair.
She moaned against his mouth and pushed David Eng's body out of their way with the side of her foot.
It was over very quickly.
The darkness began to lift from Henry's eyes as he held out a hand to help Vicki to her feet. "We'd better get out of here before someone reports the gunfire."
"But... "
He could see the deaths not dealt glittering in her eyes. "No." When she took a step back toward the light, he caught her arm. "Vicki. Listen to me. We have to leave before the police arrive."
This was the voice that had guided her through the year of chaos that followed the change. The silver faded. Reluctantly, she allowed him to guide her out of the warehouse.
An ocean breeze tattered the bloodscent that shrouded them.
Vicki snarled softly at Henry's touch, but when he released her, she stood where she was, staring at his face.
"What?"
"Just remembering." Her tone clearly stated she wouldn't identify the memory. "It's almost dawn. Wait for me in the parking garage, and we'll ride up to?gether. I think we should talk." Then she was gone.
Peeling off gloves that were already beginning to stiffen, Henry shook his head. "She thinks we should talk," he said to the night. Once, before Vicki, he'd thought that nothing remained to astonish him. He'd been wrong.
Those still alive inside the warehouse, two of Eng's men and Adan Dyshino, gathered together in the light and waited, without knowing exactly why, for the dawn.
She was waiting for him at his parking spot, showing no outward signs of either the slaughter or the aftermath.
"Handi-wipes and hairbrush," she explained when Henry raised a red-gold brow at her clean face and slicked-back hair. "And I think I've discovered why we wear black."
They stayed a careful ten feet apart on the way to the elevator. Once inside, in opposite corners, Henry studied her carefully. "Are you all right?"
"I think I have a bruise on my butt." She rubbed it and snorted. "Next time, you're on the bottom."
"Next time." From the moment they'd met, Vicki Nelson had delighted in overturning his world, but this, this he hadn't expected. "There shouldn't have been a this time. It went against everything... "
"What? In the manual? Give it a rest, Henry. One... " She raised a finger. "... sex is a well docu?mented response to violence, and two ..." A second finger lifted. "... obviously the blood scent was over?whelming, so maybe if we wear nose plugs, we can get along, and three ..." Her eyes began to glitter again. "... it was so glorious finally being able to let go."
"You enjoyed it?" When she started to grin, he raised his hand. "No. I mean the letting go."
"Yeah, I did. And what's the harm in that? These were bad men, Henry. Leaving aside what they've done previously, tonight they were planning on killing each other."
"Suppose there aren't any bad men around the next time you want to experience that feeling?"
"I wouldn't... "
"Are you sure?"
The silver faded. "I could've controlled myself if you hadn't been shot." Had she still been able, she'd have blushed as she suddenly realized what she'd just said. "Uh, speaking of, are you okay?"
"The bullet merely grazed me." He'd tucked his left hand in his waistband to support the injured arm. Now he poked a finger through the hole in his jacket. "By sunset tomorrow you won't be able to find the wound."
"Why on earth did you run out into the open like that?"
He shrugged and winced. "When I heard the gun?fire, I thought you were in trouble."
Vicki snorted. "Christ. You're as bad as Celluci. I can take care of myself."
"I know, but you haven't lived in the night for very long."
"Henry, I hate to break this to you, but it was the guy with the centuries of experience who jumped into the middle of a gang war."
They stepped out onto the fourteenth floor and in?creased the distance between them to the width of the hall.
"So what happened tonight?"
"We'd both fed," Henry said thoughtfully but with?out much conviction.
Vicki shook her head. "I think it's more than that. I think that once we let go of control, we let go of all the baggage that comes with it. It seems that as long as we're focused on wholesale destruction, we get along fine."
"Then perhaps that's why we're solitary hunters. If what happened tonight is what happens when our kind join forces, we'd soon wipe out our food supply."
Key in hand, she paused outside the door to the borrowed condo. "What happens tomorrow night?"
"With you and me? I don't know." He smiled, and stroked the curve of her cheek into the air because they stood too far apart to touch. "But I have no doubt it will be an experience finding out."
Celluci was sound asleep. Vicki stood just inside the master bedroom and watched him. Watched the rise and fall of his chest. Traced the curve of the arm he'd flung over his head. Listened to his heartbeat.
He shifted position and a curl of hair fell down onto his face.
She stepped forward, hand outstretched to brush it back but stopped as the movement pulled the satu?rated cuff of her sweater across her wrist, drawing a dark smear on the pale skin.
All at once she didn't want Mike to see her like this.
Her clothes, all her clothes including her sneakers, went into the washing machine-cold wash, cold rinse, more soap than necessary.
Then she stepped into the shower and watched the water run red down the drain.