1 Blood Price by Tanya Huff Page B

Harper shook his head. The night had been making him jumpy lately; exposing nerves and plucking at them. “I guess you’re right. There’s nothing there.”
    “Of course I’m right.” The car continued down the block and she reached over to shut the searchlight off. “You’re just letting all this vampire stuff in the press get to you.”
    “You don’t believe in vampires, do you?”
    “Course not.” Wojtowicz settled more comfortably into her seat. “Don’t tell me you do?”
    It was Harper’s turn to snort. “I,” he told her dryly, “have been audited.”
    Back on the lawn, one of the shadows lay, face pressed against the dirt, and remembered. The scent was stronger here, mixed a third part with earth and blood, and it brushed away the centuries.
    It was London, 1593. Elizabeth was on the throne and had been for some time. He’d been dead for fifty-seven years. He’d been walking back from the theater, having just seer the premiere presentation of Richard the Third. On the whole, he’d enjoyed himself although he had a feeling the playwright had taken a few liberties with the personality of the king.
    Out of a refuse-strewn alleyway, a young man had stumbled—thin and disheveled but darkly handsome, very drunk, and, clinging about him like his own personal bit of fog, had been that same smell.
    Henry had already fed from a whore behind the theater, but even if he hadn’t, he would not have fed from this man. The scent alone was enough to make him wary, the not quite sane glitter in the dark eyes had only added further warning.
    “Most humbly, I beg your pardon.” His voice, the voice of an educated man, had been slurred almost beyond understanding. “But I have been in Hell this night and am having some small difficulty in returning.” He’d giggled then, and executed a shaky bow in Henry’s direction. “Christopher Marlowe at your service, milord. Can you spare a few coppers for a drink?”
    “Christopher Marlowe,” Henry repeated softly into a night more than four hundred years after that unhappy man had died. He rolled onto his back and gazed up at the clouds closing ranks over the stars. Although he had read the play just after its posthumous publication in 1604, he wondered tonight for the first time just how much research Marlowe had done before writing The Tragical History of Dr. Faustus.

    “Vicki, it’s Rajeet. Sorry to call so late—uh, it’s 11:15, Monday night, I guess you’ve gone to bed—but I figured you’d want to know the results of the tests. You have positive matches with both Ian Reddick and Terri Neal. I don’t know what you’ve found, but I hope it helps.”

Five
    “. . . although the police department refuses to issue a statement at this time, the Coroner’s Office has confirmed that Mark Thompson, the fifth victim, has also been drained of blood. A resident, who wishes to remain nameless, living in the area of Don Mills Road and St. Dennis Drive, swears he saw a giant bat fly past his balcony just moments before the body was found . Jesus H. Christ.” Vicki punched the paper down into a tightly wadded mass and flung it at the far wall. “Giant bats! No surprise he wants to remain nameless. Shit!”
    The sudden shrill demand of the phone lifted her about four inches out of her chair. Scowling, she turned on it but at the last instant remembered that the call might be business and modified her response accordingly. A snarled, “What!” seldom impressed potential clients.
    “Private investigations, Nelson speaking.”
    “Have you seen this morning’s paper?!”
    The voice was young, female, and not instantly identifiable. “Who is this, please?”
    “It’s me. Coreen Fergus. Have you seen this morning’s paper?”
    “Yes, Coreen, I have, but. . . .”
    “Well, that proves it then, doesn’t it.”
    “Proves what?” Tucking the phone under her chin, Vicki reached for her coffee. She had a feeling she was going to need it.
    “About the vampire.