Victoria Nelson - Blood Trail Part 1

Victoria Nelson.

Blood Trail.

by Tanya Huff.

For DeVerne Jones, who patiently answered hundreds of questions including a few it never occurred to me to ask.

With special thanks to Ken Sagara, whose generosity was responsible for me finishing this ma.n.u.script on time, vision intact.

One.

The three-quarter moon, hanging low in the night sky, turned even tamed and placid farmland into a mysterious landscape of silver light and shadows. Each blade of gra.s.s, toasted golden brown by two months of summer heat, had a thin black replica stretching out behind it. The bushes along the fence bottom, highways for those too timid to brave the open fields, rustled once and then were silent as some nocturnal creature went about its business.

Their summer-shorn fleece turned milky white by the moonlight, a large flock of sheep had settled for the night in one corner of the meadow. Except for the rhythmic motion of a number of jaws and the occasional flick of an ear or twitch of a lamb unable to be still for long, even in sleep, they appeared to be an outcropping of pale stone. An outcropping come suddenly to life as several heads rose at once, aristocratic noses pointed into the breeze.

They were obviously familiar with the creature that bounded over the fence and into the meadow, for although the ewes remained alert they watched it approach with mild curiosity rather than alarm.

The huge black beast paused to mark a fence post, then trotted a few steps into the field and sat down, gazing back at the sheep with a proprietary air. Something in its general outline, in the shape of its head, said wolf just as its coloring, its size, its breadth of chest, and the reaction of the flock said dog.Convinced that all was as it should be, it began to lope along the edge of the fence bottom, plumed tail streaming behind it like a banner, moon-silvered highlights rippling through its thick fur with every movement. Picking up speed, it leapt a thistle - more for the sheer joy of leaping than because the thistle was in its way - and cut diagonally across the lower end of the pasture.

With no more warning than a distant cough, the gleaming black head exploded in a shower of blood and bone. The body, lifted off its feet by the impact, spasmed for a frenzied moment and then lay still.

Bleating in terror at the sudden blood scent, the sheep panicked, racing to the far end of the field and pressing in a huddled noisy ma.s.s against the fence. Fortunately, the direction they'd taken had moved them upwind, not down. When nothing further happened, they began to calm and a few of the older ewes moved themselves and their lambs out of the crowding and began to settle once again.

It was doubtful that the three animals who leapt the fence a short time later even noticed the sheep. Huge paws seeming to barely touch ground, they raced to the body. One of them, russet hackles high, started back along the slain animal's trail but a growl from the bigger of the two remaining called it back.

Three pointed muzzles lifted and the howl that lifted with them panicked the sheep yet again. As the sound rose and fell, its primal cadences wiped out any remaining resemblance the three howling might have had to dogs.

Vicki hated August. It was the month in which Toronto proved what a world cla.s.s city it had become; when the heat and humidity hung on to the car exhaust and the air in the concrete and gla.s.s canyon at Yonge and Bloor took on a yellowish-brown hue that left a bitter taste in the back of the throat; when every loose screw in the city decided to take a walk on the wild side and tempers were baked short. The police, in theirnavy blue pants and hats and heavy boots, hated August for both personal and professional reasons. Vicki had moved quickly out of uniform, and out of the force entirely a year ago, but she still hated August. In fact, as August was now forever linked with her leaving a job she'd loved, this least congenial of months had been blackened beyond redemption.

As she unlocked the door to her apartment, she tried not to smell herself. She'd spent the day, the last three days, working as an order picker in a small coffee processing factory up onRailside Drive . In the last month the company had been plagued with a number of equipment failures that the owners had finally come to realize were sabotage. Desperate - a small specialty company couldn't afford the downtime ifthey hoped to complete with the multinationals - the owners had hired Vicki to find out what was going on.

"And Vicki Nelson, private investigator, comes through again." She closed the door behind her and thankfully peeled off her damp T-shirt. She'd been able to pinpoint who was jamming the processing machines on her first day but even knowing that, it took her two further days to discover how and to gather enough evidence to bring charges. Tomorrow she'd go in, lay the report on Mr. Gla.s.sman's desk and never go near the place again.

Tonight, she wanted a shower, something to eat that didn't smell like coffee, and a long vapid evening spent sucking at the b.o.o.b tube.

She kicked the filthy T-shirt into a corner as she peeled off her jeans. The only up side about the entire experience was that smelling as she did, she'd gotten a seat on the subway coming home and no one had tried to crowd her.

The hot water had just begun to pound the stink and stiffness away when the phone rang. And rang. She tried to ignore it, to let the shower drown it out, but had little success. She'd always been a compulsive phone answerer. Muttering under her breath, sheturned the water off, quickly wrapped herself in towels, and raced for the receiver.

"Oh there you are, dear. What took you so long?"

"It's a very small apartment, Mom." Vicki sighed. She should have known. "Didn't it occur to you at about the seventh ring that maybe I wasn't going to answer the phone?"

"Of course not. I knew you were home or you'd have had your machine plugged in."

She never left her machine on when she was home. She considered it the ultimate in rudeness. Maybe it was time to reconsider. The towel began to unwind and she made a grab for it - a second floor apartment was not high enough up for walking around in skin. "I was in the shower, Mom."

"Good, then I didn't get you away from anything important. I wanted to call you before I left work ...""So that the Life Sciences Department would pay for the call,"Vicki added silently. Her mother had been working as a secretary at Queen's University inKingston for longer than most of the tenured professors and she stretched job perks as far and as often as she could.

"... and find out when you had vacation this year so maybe we could spend some time together."

Right. Vicki loved her mother but more than three days in her company usually had her ready to commit matricide. "I don't get vacations anymore, Mom. I'm self-employed now and I have to take what jobs come my way. And besides, you were here in April."

"You were in the hospital, Vicki, it wasn't exactly a social visit."

The two vertical scars on her left wrist had faded to fine red lines against the pale skin. It looked like a suicide attempt and it had taken some extremely fancy footwork to avoid telling her mother how she'd actually gotten them. Being set up as a sacrifice for a demon by a sociopathic hacker was not something her mother would deal with well. "As soon as I get a free weekend, I'll come by. I promise. I have to go now, I'm dripping on the carpet."

"Bring that Henry Fitzroy with you. I'd like to meet him."

Vicki grinned. Henry Fitzroy and her mother. That might be worth a weekend inKingston . "I don't think so, Mom."

"Why not? What's wrong with him? Why was he avoiding me at the hospital?"

"He wasn't avoiding you and there's nothing wrong with him."Okay, so he died in 1536. It hadn't slowed him down. "He's a writer. He's a little . . .unusual."

"More unusual than Michael Celluci?""Mother!"

She could almost hear her mother's brows rise. "Honey, you may not remember this, but you've dated a number ofunusual boys in your time."

"I'm not dating boys anymore, Mom. I'm almost thirty-two years old."

"You know what I mean. Remember that young man in high school? I don't recall his name but he kept a harem. ..."

"I'll call you, Mom."

"Soon."

"Soon," Vicki agreed, rescued the towel again and hung up. "Dated unusual boys in my time. ..." She snorted and headed back toward the bathroom. All right, a couple of them may have been a bit strange but she was over one hundred percent certain that none of them were vampires.

She turned the water back on and grinned, imagining the scene.Mom, I'd like you to meet Henry Fitzroy. He drinks blood. The grin widened as she stepped under the water. Her mother, infinitely practical, would probably ask what type. It took a lot to disrupt her mother's view of the world.

She'd just dumped a pan of scrambled eggs onto a plate when the phone rang again.

"It figures," she muttered, grabbing a fork andcrossing into the living room. "d.a.m.n thing never rings when I'm not doing anything." Sunset wouldn't be for a couple of hours yet - it wasn't Henry.

"Vicki? Celluci." With so many Michaels on the Metropolitan Toronto Police Force, most of them hadgotten into the habit of perpetually referring to themselves by their last names, on duty and off. "You remember the name of Quest's alleged accomplice? The guy who never got charged."

"Good evening, Mike. Nice to hear from you. I'm fine thanks." She shoveled a forkful of egg into her mouth and waited for the explosion.

"Cut the c.r.a.p, Vicki. He had some woman's name ... Marion, Maralyn. ..."

"Margot. Alan Margot. Why?"

Even over the sounds of traffic, she could hear the self-satisfied smile in his voice. "It's cla.s.sified."

"Listen you son of a b.i.t.c.h, when you pick my brains 'cause you're too lazy to look it up, you don't come back with 'it's cla.s.sified.' Not if you want to live to collect your pension."

He sighed. "Use the brain you're accusing me of picking."

"You pulled another body out of the lake?"

"Mere moments ago."

So he was still at the site. That explained the background noise. "Same pattern of bruises?"

"Near as I can tell. Coroner just took the body away."

"Nail the b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

"That," he told her, "is the plan."

She hung up and slid into her leather recliner, eggs balanced precariously on the arm. Two years ago, the case had been hers. Hers had been the responsibility of finding the sc.u.m who'd beaten a fifteen-year-old girl senseless and then dropped the unconscious body inLakeOntario . Six weeks of work and they'd picked up a man named Quest, picked him up, charged him, and made it stick. There'd been a another man involved, Vicki had been sure of it, but Quest wouldn't talk and they hadn't been able to lay charges.

This time ....

She yanked her gla.s.ses of her nose. This time, Celluci would get him, and Vicki Nelson, ex-fair-haired girl of the metro police would be sitting on her duff. The room in front of her blurred into an indistinguishable ma.s.s of fuzz-edged colors and she shoved the gla.s.ses back on.

"s.h.i.t!"

Breathing deeply, she forced herself to calm. After all, what mattered was catching Margot - not who made the collar. She scooped up the remote and flicked on the television. The Jays were inMilwaukee .

"The boys of summer," she sighed, and dug into her cooled eggs, giving herself over to the hypnotic accents of the announcers doing the pregame show. Like most Canadians over a certain age, Vicki was a hockey fan first but it was almost impossible to live inToronto and not have baseball make inroads into your affections.

It was the bottom of the seventh, the score three to five, the Jays behind two runs, two out and a man on second with Mookie Wilson at bat.Wilson was. .h.i.tting over three hundred against right-handers and Vicki could see that the Brewers' pitcher was sweating. At which point, the phone rang.

"It figures." She stretched a long arm down and dragged the phone up onto her lap. Sunset had been at eight forty-one. It was now nine-oh-five. It had to be Henry.

Ball one."Yeah, what?"

"Vicki? It's Henry. Are you all right?"

Strike one.

"Yeah, I'm fine. You just called at a bad time."

"I'm sorry, but I have some friends here who need your help."

"My help?"

"Well, they need the help of a private investigator and you're the only one I know."

Strike two.

"They need help right now?" There were only two innings left in the game. How desperate could it be?

"Vicki, it's important." And she could tell by his voice that it was.

She sighed asWilson popped out to left field, ending the inning, and thumbed the television of. "Well, if it's that important ..."

"It is."

"... then I'll be right over." With the receiver halfway back to the cradle, a sudden thought occurred to her and she snapped it back up to her mouth. "Henry?"

He was still there. "Yes?"

"These friends, they aren't vampires are they?"

"No." Through his concern, he sounded a little amused. "They aren't vampires."

Greg gave the young woman a neutral nod as he buzzed her through the security check and into the lobby. Vicki Nelson, her name was, and she'd dropped by a number of times over the summer while he was on the desk. Although she looked like the kind of person he'd have liked under other circ.u.mstances he simply couldn't get over the impressions he'd formed during their initial meeting last spring. It didn't help when observation confirmed that she was not the sort who would normally answer the door half dressed, proving, to his mind, his feeling that she'd been hiding something that night.

But what?

Over the last couple of months his belief that Henry Fitzroy was a vampire had begun to fade. He liked Mr. Fitzroy, respected him, realized that all his idiosyncrasies could stem from being a writer rather than a creature of the night but one last lingering doubt remained.

What had the young woman been hiding that night? And why?

Occasionally, just for his peace of mind, Greg considered asking her outright, but a certain set to her jaw had always stopped him. So he wondered. And he kept an eye on things. Just in case.

Vicki felt a distinct sense of relief as the elevator doors closed behind her. Scrutiny by that particular security guard always made her feel, well, dirty.Still, it's my own fault. I'm the one who answered the door practically naked. It had been the only solution she could think of at the time and as it had worked, distracting the old man from his intention of pounding a croquet stake through Henry's heart, she supposed she shouldn't complain about the aftereffects.

She pushed the b.u.t.ton for the fourteenth floor and tucked her white golf shirt more securely into her red walking shorts. The little "adventure" last spring had melted off a few pounds and so far she'd managed to keep them from finding their way back. She carried too much muscle to ever be considered slim - a secret desire she'd admitted to no one - but it was nice to have a little more definition at the waist.

Squinting in the glare of the fluorescent lights, she studied her reflection in the stainless steel walls of the elevator.

Not bad for an old broad,she decided, shoving the hated gla.s.ses up her nose. She wondered briefly if maybe she should have dressed more formally then decided that any friends of Henry Fitzroy, b.a.s.t.a.r.d son of Henry the VIII, ex-Duke ofRichmond , et cetera, et cetera, were not likely to care if the private investigator showed up in shorts.

When the elevator reached Henry's floor, Vicki settled her purse on her shoulder and put on her professional face. It lasted right up until the condo door swung open and the only creature in the entrance hall was a huge russet colored dog.

It - no, he - has to be a dog.Vicki extended her hand for him to sniff.Wolves don't come in that color.

Or that size. Do they? She could have added that wolves don't generally hang out in condominiums in downtownToronto , but given that it wasHenry's condo all bets were off.

The animal's eyes were outlined in black, adding to a remarkably expressive face. He enthusiastically sniffed the offered hand, then pushed his head demandingly under Vicki's fingers.