Blood Bank (20 page)

Henry could hear the smile in her voice. It was a half smile, a crooked smile, the kind of smile that could appreciate irony. He found himself smiling in response.

"Although I can quite happily be into the bar scene, I do think they're the worst possible place to meet someone for the first time. How about a coffee? I can probably be free any evening this week."

And then she left her phone number.

Still smiling, he called it.

*

If American troops had invaded Canada during the War of 1812 with half the enthusiasm Starbucks had exhibited when crossing the border, the outcome of the war would have been entirely different. While Henry had nothing actually against the chain of coffee shops, he found their client base to be just a little too broad. In the cafe on Denman that he preferred, there were never any children, rushing junior executives, or spandex shorts. Almost everyone wore black and, in spite of multiple piercings and overuse of profanity, the younger patrons were clearly imitating their elders.

Their elders were generally the kind of artists and writers who seldom made sales but knew how to look the part. They were among the very few in Vancouver without tans.

Using the condensation on a three-dollar bottle of water to make rings on the scarred tabletop, Henry watched the door and worried about recognizing Lilah when she arrived. Then he worried a bit that she wasn't going to arrive. Then he went back to worrying about recognizing her.

You are way too old for this nonsense,
he told himself sternly.
Get a...

The woman standing in the doorway was short, vaguely Mediterranean with thick dark hair that spilled halfway down her back in ebony ripples. If she'd passed her midtwenties it wasn't by more than a year or two. She'd clearly ignored the modern notion that a woman should be so thin she looked like an adolescent boy with breasts. Not exactly beautiful, something about her drew the eye. Noting Henry's regard, she smiled, red lips parting over very white teeth and it was exactly the expression that Henry had imagined. He stood as she walked to his table, enjoying the sensual way she moved her body across the room and aware that everyone else in the room was enjoying it, too.

"Henry?" Her voice was throatier in person, almost a purr.

"Lilah." He gave her name back to her as confirmation.

She raised her head and locked her dark gaze to his.

They blinked in unison.

"Vampire."

Henry Fitzroy, bastard son of Henry VIII, once Duke of Richmond and Somerset, dropped back into his chair with an exhalation halfway between a sigh and a snort. "Succubus."

*

"So are you saying you
weren't
planning to feed off whoever answered your ad?"

"No, I'm saying it wasn't the primary reason I placed it."

The overt sexual attraction turned off, Lilah swirled a finger through a bit of spilled latte and rolled her eyes. "So you're a better man than I am, Gunga Din, but I personally don't see the difference between us. You don't kill anymore, I don't kill anymore."

"I don't devour years off my..." He paused and frowned, uncertain of how to go on.

"Victims? Prey? Quarry? Dates?" The succubus sighed. "We've got to come up with a new word for it."

Recognizing she had a point, Henry settled for the lesser of four evils. "I don't devour years off my date's life."

"Oh, please. So they spend less time having their diapers changed by strangers in a nursing home, less time drooling in their pureed mac and cheese. If they knew, they'd thank me. At least I don't violate their structural integrity."

"I hardly think a discreet puncture counts as a violation."

"Hey, you said puncture, not me. But..." She raised a hand to stop his protest. ". . . I'm willing to let it go."

"Gracious of you."

"Always."

In spite of himself, Henry smiled.

"You know, hon, you're very attractive when you do that."

"Do what?"

"When you stop looking so irritated about things not turning out the way you expected. Blind dates
never
turn out the way you expect." Dropping her chin she looked up at him through the thick fringe of her lashes. "Trust me, I've been on a million of them."

"A million?"

"Give or take."

"So you're a pro..."

A sardonic eyebrow rose. "A gentleman wouldn't mention that."

"True." He inclined his head in apology and took the opportunity to glance at his watch. "
Run Lola Run
is playing at the Caprice in ninety minutes; did you want to go?"

For the first time since entering the cafe, Lilah looked startled. "With you?"

A little startled himself, Henry shrugged, offering the only reason that explained the unusually impulsive invitation. "I'd enjoy spending some time just being myself, without all the implicit lies."

Dark brows drew in and she studied him speculatively. "I can understand that."

An almost comfortable silence filled the space between them.

"Well?" Henry asked at last.

"My German's a little rusty. I haven't used it for almost a century."

Henry stood and held out his hand. "There're subtitles."

Shaking her head, she pushed her chair out from the table and laid her hand in his. "Why not?"

*

Sunset. A slow return to awareness. The feel of cotton sheets against his skin. The pulse of the city outside the walls of his sanctuary. The realization he was smiling.

After the movie, they'd walked for hours in a soft mist, talking about the places they'd seen and when they'd seen them. A primal demon, the succubus had been around for millennia but politely restricted her observations to the four and a half centuries Henry could claim. Their nights had been remarkably similar.

When they parted about an hour before dawn, they parted as friends although it would never be a sexual relationship; sex was too tied to feeding for them both.

"World's full of warm bodies,"
Lilah had pointed out,
"but how many of them saw Mrs. Siddon play Lady Macbeth at Covent Garden Theater on opening night and felt the hand washing scene was way, way over the top?"

How many indeed,
Henry thought, throwing back the covers and swinging his legs out of bed. Rather than deal with the balcony doors in the master suite, he'd sealed the smallest room in the three bedroom condo against the light. He'd done the crypt thing once, and didn't see the attraction.

After his shower, he wandered into the living room and picked up the remote. With any luck he could catch the end of the news. He didn't often watch it but last night's... date?... had left him feeling reconnected to the world.

"...when southbound travelers waited up to three hours to cross the border at the Peace Arch as U.S. customs officials tightened security checks as a precaution against terrorism."

"Canadian terrorists." Henry frowned as he toweled his hair. "Excuse me while I politely blow up your building?"

"Embarrassed Surrey officials had to shut down the city's Web site after a computer hacker broke into the system and rewrote the greeting, using less-than- flattering language. The hacker remains unknown and unapprehended.

"And in a repeat of our top story, police have identified the body found this morning on Wreck Beach as Taylor Johnston, thirty-two, of Haro Street. They still have no explanation for the condition of the body, although an unidentified constable commented that 'it looked like he had his life sucked out of him.'

"And now to Rajeet Singh with our new product report."

Jabbing at the remote, Henry cut Rajeet off in the middle of an animated description of a battery- operated cappuccino frother. Plastic cracked as his fingers tightened. A man found with the life sucked out of him. He didn't want to believe....

*

As part of an ongoing criminal investigation, the body was at the City Morgue in the basement of Vancouver General Hospital. The previous time Henry'd made an after hours visit, he'd been searching for information to help identify the victim. This time, he needed to identify the murderer.

He walked silently across the dark room to the drawer labeled TAYLOR JOHNSTON, pulled it open, and flipped back the sheet. LEDs on various pieces of machinery and the exit sign over the door provided more than enough light to see tendons and ligaments standing out in sharp relief under desiccated, parchment-colored skin. Hands and feet looked like claws and the features of the skull had overwhelmed the features of the face. The unnamed constable had made an accurate observation; the body did, indeed, look as if all the life had been sucked out of it.

Henry snarled softly and closed the drawer.

"You don't kill anymore, I don't kill anymore . ..."

He found the dead man's personal effects in a manila envelope in the outer office. A Post-it note suggested that the police should have picked the envelope up by six pm. The watch was an imitation Rolex—but not a cheap one. There were eight keys on his key ring. The genuine cowhide wallet held four high end credit cards, eighty-seven dollars in cash, a picture of a golden retriever, and half a dozen receipts. Three were out of bank machines. Two were store receipts. The sixth was for a credit card transaction.

Henry had faxed in both his personal ad and his credit information. It looked as though Taylor Johnston had dropped his off in person.

"Blind dates never turn out the way you expect. Trust me, I've been on a million of them."

*

In a city the size of Vancouver, a phone number and a first name provided no identification at all. Had Lilah answered when he called, Henry thought he'd be able to control his anger enough to arrange another meeting but she didn't, and when he found himself snarling at her voice mail, he decided not to leave a message.

"Although I can quite happily be into the bar scene ..."

She'd told him she liked jazz. It was a place to start.

*

She wasn't at O'Doul's, although one of the waiters recognized her description. From the strength of his reaction, Henry assumed she'd fed—but not killed. Why kill Johnston and yet leave this victim with only pleasant memories? Henry added it to the list of questions he intended to have answered.

A few moments later, he parked his BMW, illegally, on Abbot Street and walked around the corner to Water Street, heading for The Purple Onion Cabaret. There were very few people on the sidewalks—a couple, closely entwined, a small clump of older teens, and a familiar form just about to enter the club.

Henry could move quickly when he needed to and he was in no mood for subtlety. He was in front of her before she knew he was behind her.

An ebony brow rose, but that was the only movement she made. "What brings you here, hon? I seem to recall you saying that jazz made your head ache."

He snarled softly, not amused.

The brow lowered, slowly. "Are you Hunting me, Nightwalker? Should I scream? Maybe that nice young man down the block will disentangle himself from his lady long enough to save me."

Henry's lips drew up off his teeth. "And who will save him as you add another death to your total?"