2 Blood Trail Page 5

  The world was rapidly taking on the enclosed dimensions of a slide show. Snap on the scene in front of her. Turn her head. Snap on the scene in front of her. Turn her head. Snap on the scene in front of her. And could someone please get the lights.

  What bloody good am I going to be to a pack of werewolves anyway? How am I supposed to stop a killer I can’t see? The more rational part of her mind tried to interject that the wer were hiring her for her detective abilities and her experience, not her eyes, but she was having none of it. Maybe I’ll get lucky and one of them’s been trained as a guide dog.

  “Yo! Victory!”

  Frowning, she looked around. Her anger had carried her almost to Parliament and Gerrard, farther than she’d expected. “What are you doing in this part of town?”

  Tony grinned as he sauntered up. “What happened to, ‘Hi, how are ya?’”

  Vicki sighed and attempted not to take the day out on Tony. When she’d gone to him for help and together they’d saved Henry, their relationship had changed, moved up a level from cop and kid—not that he’d actually been a kid for some time. Four years ago, when she first busted him, he’d been a scrawny troublemaker of fifteen. Over the years, he’d become her best set of eyes and ears on the street. Now, they seemed to be moving toward something a little more equal, but old habits die hard and she still felt responsible for him.

  “All right.” She flicked a drop of sweat off her chin. “Hi. How are you?”

  “How come,” he asked conversationally, falling into step beside her, “when you ask, ‘How are you?’ it comes out sounding like, ‘How much shit are you in?’ ”

  “How much?”

  “None.”

  Vicki turned her head to look at him but he only smiled beatifically, the picture of wronged innocence. He was looking pretty good, she had to admit, his eyes were clear, his hair was clean, and he’d actually begun to gain a little weight. “Good for you. Now back to my first question, what are you doing in this part of town?”

  “I got a place here.” He dropped that bombshell with all the studied nonchalance a young man of almost twenty could muster.

  “You what!” The exclamation was for Tony’s benefit, as he so obviously wanted her to make it. Her mood began to lighten under the influence of his pleasure.

  “It’s just a room in a basement.” He shrugged—no big deal. “But I got my own bathroom. I never had one before.”

  “Tony, how are you paying for this?” He’d always turned the occasional trick, and she hoped like hell he hadn’t gone into the business full time—not only because it was illegal but because the specter of AIDS now haunted every encounter.

  “I could say it’s none of your business. . . .” As her brows drew down, he raised his hands appeasingly. “But I won’t. I got a job. Start on Monday. Henry knows this guy who’s a contractor and he needed a wiffle.”

  “A what?”

  “Guy who does the joe jobs.”

  “Henry found you this?”

  “Yup. Found me the place too.”

  All the years she’d known Tony, the most he’d ever been willing to take from her had been the occasional meal and a little cash in return for information. Henry Fitzroy had known him less than five months and had taken over his life. Vicki had to unclench her teeth before she could speak. “Have you been spending a lot of time with Henry?” The question held an edge.

  Tony glanced over at her appraisingly, squinting a little in the bright afternoon sun. “Not much. Hear you’re gonna be doing some howling with him this weekend though.” At her frown, he leaned closer and in an excellent imitation of a monster movie matinee, intoned, “Verevolves.”

  “And did he discuss the case with you too?”

  “Hey, he just mentioned it.”

  “I’m surprised he didn’t invite you along.”

  “Jeez, Victory,” Tony shook his head. “There’s just no talking to you in this mood. Get laid or something and lighten up, eh.” He waved jauntily and raced to catch the streetcar at the lights.

  Vicki’s reply got lost in traffic sounds and it was probably just as well.

  “Is it something I said?”

  Vicki didn’t bother to lift her head off the cool glass of the car window. The highway lights were less than useless as illumination so why bother turning to face a man she couldn’t see. “What are you talking about?”

  Her tone was so aggressively neutral that Henry smiled. He concentrated for a moment on slipping the BMW into the just barely adequate space between two transports then out the other side to a clear section of road where he actually managed to achieve the speed limit for seven or eight car lengths before he caught up to another section of congested traffic. “You haven’t said two civil words to me since I picked you up. I was wondering if I’d done something to annoy you.”

  “No.” She shifted position, drummed her fingers on her knee, and took a deep breath. “Yes.” Personal differences must not be allowed to influence the case; things were going to be difficult enough already. If they didn’t deal with this now, odds were good it’d turn up sometime a lot more dangerous. “I spoke with Tony today.”

  “Ah.” Jealousy, he understood. “You know I must feed from a number of mortals, Vicki, and you yourself chose the other night to. . . .”

  She turned to glare at the indistinct outline his body made against the opposite window. “What the hell does that have to do with anything?” Her left fist slammed down on the dash. “For four years I couldn’t get Tony to take anything from me but a couple of hamburgers and some spare change. Now all of a sudden you’ve found him a job and a place to live.”

  Henry frowned. “I don’t understand the problem.” He knew her anger was genuine, both her breathing and her heartbeat had accelerated, but if it wasn’t the sexual aspect that bothered her. . . . “You don’t want Tony to be off the streets?”

  “Of course I do, but . . .” . . . but I wanted to be the one to save him. She couldn’t say that, it sounded so petty. It was also completely accurate. Abruptly anger changed to embarrassment. “. . . but I don’t know how you did it,” she finished lamely.

  The pause and the emotional change were as clear an indication of her thoughts as if she’d spoken them aloud. Four hundred and fifty years having taught discretion if nothing else, Henry wisely responded only to Vicki’s actual words. “I was raised to take care of my people.”

  Vicki snorted, grateful for a chance to change the subject. “Henry, your father was one of the greatest tyrants in history, burning Protestants and Catholics impartially. Disagreement of any kind, personal or political, usually ended in death.”

  “Granted,” Henry agreed grimly. “You needn’t convince me. I was there. Fortunately, I wasn’t raised by my father.” Henry VIII had been an icon for his bastard son to gaze at in awe and, more than that, he’d been king in a time when the king was all. “The Duke of Norfolk saw to it that I was taught the responsibilities of a prince.” And only fate had prevented the Duke of Norfolk from being the last death of King Henry’s reign.

  “And Tony is one of ‘your people’?”

  He ignored the sarcasm. “Yes.”

  It was as simple as that for him, Vicki realized, and she couldn’t deny that Tony had responded to it in a way he’d never responded to her. She was tempted to ask, “What am I?” but didn’t. The wrong answer would likely throw her into a rage and she had no idea of what the right answer would be. She fiddled with the air-conditioning vents for a moment. “So tell me about werewolves.”

  Definitely a safer topic.

  “Where should I start?”

  Vicki rolled her eyes. “How about with the basics? They didn’t cover lycanthropy at the police academy.”

  “All right.” Henry drummed his fingers on the steering wheel and thought for a moment. “For starters, you can forget everything you’ve ever seen at the movies. If you’re bitten by a werewolf, all you’re going to do is bleed. Humans cannot become wer.”

&nbs
p; “Which implies that werewolves aren’t humans.”

  “They aren’t.”

  “What are they then, small furry creatures from Alpha Centauri?”

  “No, according to the oldest of their legends, they’re the direct descendants of a she-wolf and the ancient god of the hunt.” He pursed his lips. “That one’s pretty much consistent throughout all the packs, although the name of the god changes from place to place. When the ancient Greek and Roman religions began to spread, the wer began calling themselves Diana’s chosen, the hunting pack of the goddess. Christianity added the story of Lilith, Adam’s first wife, who, when she left the garden, lay with the wolf God created on the fifth day and bore him children.”

  “What do you believe?”

  “That there are more things in heaven and earth than are dreamed up in your philosophy.”

  Vicki snorted. “What a cop-out,” she muttered. “And misquoted.”

  “How do you know? Remember, I heard the original. Had the hardest time convincing Shakespeare not to call the poor guy Yoluff.” He sounded perfectly serious but he had to be pulling her leg. “Yoluff, Prince of Denmark. Can you imagine?”

  “No. And I don’t really care about mythic wer. I want to know what I can expect tonight.”

  “What do you know about wolves?”

  “Only what I’ve learned from National Geographic specials on PBS. I suppose we can discount the character assassination indulged in by the Brothers Grimm?”

  “Please. Brothers Grimm aside, wer function much the same way wolves do. Each pack is made up of a family group of varying ages, with a dominant male and a dominant female in charge.”

  “Dominant? How?”

  “They run the pack. The family. The farm. They do the breeding.”

  “The Stuart and Nadine you mentioned the other night?”

  “That’s right.”

  Vicki pulled thoughtfully on her lower lip. “For something this important, you’d think that they’d have come and spoken to me.”

  “The dominant pair almost never leave their territory. They’re tied to the land in ways we just can’t understand.”

  “You mean, in ways I can’t understand,” she said testily, his tone having made that quite clear.

  “Yes.” He sighed. “That’s what I mean. But before you accuse me of, well, whatever it was you were about to accuse me of, you might consider that four hundred and fifty odd years of experience counts for something.”

  He had a point. And an unfair advantage. “Sorry. Go on.”

  “Donald, Rose and Peter’s father, used to be the alpha male, so I imagine the hold is still strong on him. Sylvia and Jason are dead and Colin works nights, which makes it difficult to use me as an intermediary. Rose and Peter, while not adults by wer standards, were the only remaining choice.”

  “And they were, after all, only the icing on a cake you were perfectly capable of baking on your own.”

  Henry frowned, then smiled as he worked his way through the metaphor. “I didn’t think you’d be able to turn them down,” he said softly. “Not after you’d seen them.”

  And what makes you think I’d be able to turn you down, she wondered, but all she said aloud was, “You were telling me about the structure of the pack.”

  “Yes, well, about thirteen years ago, when Rose and Peter’s mother died, their Uncle Stuart and Aunt Nadine took over. Stuart was originally from a pack in Vermont but had been beta male in this pack for some time.”

  “He’d just wandered in?”

  “The young males often leave home. It gives them a better chance to breed and mixes the bloodlines. Anyway, Donald gave up without a fight. Marjory’s death hit him pretty hard.”

  “Fight?” Vicki asked, remembering the white gleam of Peter’s teeth. “You mean that metaphorically, I hope?”

  “Not usually. Very few dominant males will just roll over and show their throat and Stuart had already made a number of previous attempts.”

  Vicki made a bit of a strangled sound in her own throat and Henry reached over and patted her on the shoulder. “Don’t worry about it,” he advised. “Basically, the wer are just nice, normal people.”

  “Who turn into wolves.” This was not the way Vicki had been raised to think of normal. Still, she was sitting in a BMW with a vampire—things couldn’t get much stranger than that. “Do, uh, all you supernatural creatures hang out together or what?”

  “What?” Henry repeated, confused.

  Vicki pushed her glasses up her nose. It didn’t help in the dark but it was a reassuring gesture nevertheless. “Just tell me your doctor’s name isn’t Frankenstein.”

  Henry laughed. “It isn’t. And I met Perkin Heerkens, Rose and Peter’s grandfather, in a perfectly normal way.”

  Slowly, as the day released its hold on the world, he became aware. First his heartbeat, gaining strength from the darkness, the slow and steady rhythm reassuring him that he’d survived. Then breathing, shallow still for little oxygen reached this far below ground. Finally, he extended his senses up and out, past the small creeping things in the earth to the surface. Only when he was sure that no human lives were near enough to see him emerge, did he begin to dig his way out.

  His hiding place was more a collapsed foxhole than anything else, although, if discovered, Henry hoped that the Nazis would believe it a shallow grave. Which, he supposed as he pushed through the loose dirt, was exactly what it would be if the Nazis discovered it. Being unearthed in daylight would kill him more surely than enemy fire.

  “I really, really hate this,” he muttered as his head broke free and he unhooked the small perforated shield that kept the earth out of his nose and mouth. He dug in only as a last resort, when dawn caught him away from any other shelter. Once or twice he’d almost left it too long and had had to claw the dirt aside with the heat of the sun dancing fire along his back. Burial reminded him too much of the terror of his first awakening, trapped in his common coffin, immortal and alone, hunger clawing at him.

  He had all but one leg clear when he caught sight of the animal lying motionless in the pool of darker night under a fir.

  Wolves? In the Netherlands? he wondered as he froze. No, not a wolf, for the russet coloring was wrong, but it definitely had wolf in its bloodline and not so very far back. It crouched carefully downwind, ears back flat against its skull, plumed tail tucked in tight against its flanks. It was reacting to the scent of another hunter, preparing to attack to defend its territory.

  White teeth gleamed in the darkness and a low growl rumbled deep in the massive throat.

  Henry’s own lips drew back and he answered the growl.

  The animal looked surprised.

  And even more surprised a second later when it found its spine pressed against the forest floor and both Henry’s hands clamped deep in its ruff. It struggled and snapped, digging at its captor with all four feet. Although the growls continued, it made no louder noises. When it found it couldn’t get free, it squirmed around until it managed to lick Henry’s wrist with the tip of its tongue.

  Cautiously, Henry let it up.

  It shook itself vigorously, had a good scratch, and sat, head to one side, studying this strange creature, nose wrinkled and brows drawn down in an expression so like a puzzled frown that Henry had to hide a smile—showing his teeth at this moment would only start the whole thing off again.

  With dominance determined, Henry brushed the worst of the dirt from his heavy workman’s clothes and slipped a hand beneath the shirt to check the canvas pouch taped around his waist. He knew the documents were safe, but the faint crackle of the papers reassured him anyway.

  He’d need most of the night to reach the village where he’d meet his contact in the Dutch Resistance and as he needed to feed before he arrived—it made working with mortals bearable—he’d better be on his way. Checking his course with the small compass SOE had provided, he started off toward the northeast. The dog rose and followed. He heard it moving through the brush beh
ind him for a time, its movements barely distinguishable from the myriad sounds of a forest at night. As he began to pick up speed, even that trace faded away. He wasn’t surprized. A full blood wolf would have trouble keeping up. A dog, regardless of its heritage would have no chance at all.

  The German patrol crossed his path about three hours before dawn, not far from the village. As they passed him, standing motionless beside the trail with barely inches to spare, Henry smiled grimly at the skull and crossbones that fronted each cap. Totenkopf. An SS unit used for internal security in occupied territory, especially where the Resistance was active.

  The straggler was a barrel-chested young man who somehow managed to strut in spite of the hour and the ground condition, and whose more-master-race-than-thou attitude radiated off of him. It seemed safe to assume that his comrades had deliberately let him fall a little behind; there were limits, apparently, even in the SS.

  Henry had a certain amount of sympathy for the common soldier in the German army but none whatsoever for the Nazis among them. He took the young man from behind with a savage efficiency that had him off the trail and silenced between one breath and the next. As long as the heart continued to beat, damage to the body was irrelevant. Quickly, for he was vulnerable while he fed, Henry tore open the left wrist and bent his head to drink. When he finished, he reached up, wrapped one long-fingered hand about the soldier’s skull, twisted, and effortlessly broke his neck. Then he froze, suddenly aware of being watched.

  The forest froze with him. Even the breeze stilled until the only sound became the soft phut, phut of blood dripping slowly onto leaf mold. Still crouched over the body, muscles tensed and ready, Henry turned to face downwind.

  The big dog regarded him steadily for another few seconds, then faded back until not even the vampire’s eyes could separate it from the shifting shadows.

  The dog shouldn’t have been able to track him. Foreboding ran cold fingers along Henry’s spine. Swiftly he stood and moved toward the place where the huge animal had disappeared. A heartbeat later he stopped. He could feel the lives of the patrol returning, no doubt searching for the missing soldier.