Blood Debt (14 page)

“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, questioning 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 English 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 audience. He stepped aside as two of the club's less distinguished 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 reflection 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. Whatever 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, shallow 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 include 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 sidewalk. 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?” Celluci 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 convertible 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 disappeared 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 forward, 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 surrounding shadow.

“You don't have to take this,” one of the six announced belligerently from behind David's left shoulder.

“Let's hear Mr. Dyshino's suggestion of compromise.”

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 Dyshino'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 . . .”