Blood Price - By Tanya Huff Page 0,101

and a coffee table frame were piled in the entryway, ready to go down to the garbage room. He wasn't sure what he was going to do about the couch. Frankly, he didn't care about the couch. Why didn't she call?

9:29. There were stains in the carpet and the balcony still had no door-though he'd blocked the opening with plywood-but essentially all signs of the battle had been erased from the condo. No mindless task remained to keep him from thinking. And somehow he couldn't stop thinking of a woman's broken body hanging from a rusted hook.

"Damn it, Vicki, call!"

The empty space on the bookshelf drew his gaze and the guilt he'd been successfully holding at bay stormed the barricades. The grimoire was his. The responsibility was his. If he'd been stronger. If he'd been faster. If he'd been smarter. Surely with four hundred and fifty years of experience he should be able to outthink one lone mortal with not even a tenth of that.

He looked down at the city regretfully. "I should have... " He let his voice trail off. There was nothing he could have done differently. Even had he continued to believe the killer an abandoned child of his kind, even had Vicki not stumbled onto him bending over that corpse, even had he not decided to trust her, it wouldn't have changed last night's battle with the demon, his loss, and the loss of the grimoire. The only thing that could have prevented that would have been his destruction of the grimoire back when he first acquired it in the 1800s, and, frankly, he wasn't sure he could have destroyed it, then or now.

"Although," he acknowledged, right hand wrapped lightly around left forearm, skin even paler than usual against the stark white of the gauze, "had Vicki not worked her way into the equation, I would have died." And there would have been no one to stop the Demon Lord from rising. His lips drew up off his teeth. "Not that I seem to be doing much to prevent it."

Why didn't she call?

He began to pace, back and forth, back and forth, before the window.

She'd lost a lot of blood the night before. Had she run into trouble she was too weak to handle?

He remembered the feel of Ginevra's dead flesh under his hands as he cut her down. She'd been so alive. Like Vicki was so alive...

Why didn't she call?

She'd been conscious now for some time and had been lying quietly, eyes closed, waiting for the pounding at her temples to stop echoing between her ears. Time was of the essence, yes, but sudden movement would have her puking her guts out and she couldn't see where that would help. Better to wait, to gather information, and to move when she might actually have some effect.

She licked her lips and tasted blood, could feel the warm moisture dribbling down from her nose.

Her feet were tied at the ankles. Her arms lashed together almost from wrists to elbows; the binding around her wrists fabric not rope. She'd been dumped on her side, knees drawn up, left cheek down on a hard, sticky surface-probably the floor. Someone had removed her jacket. Her glasses were not on her nose. She fought back the surge of panic that realization brought.

She could hear-or maybe feel-footsteps puttering about behind her and adenoidal breathing coming from the same direction. Norman. From the opposite direction, she could hear short sharp breaths, each exhalation an indignant snort. And Coreen.

So she's still alive. Good. And she sounds angry, not hurt. Even better. Vicki suspected that Coreen was also tied or she wouldn't be so still. Which, all things considered, is a good thing. Few people get dead faster than amateur heroes. Not, she added as a flaming spike slammed through the back of her head, that the professionals are doing so hot.

She lay there for a moment, playing if Coreen hadn't interfered until the new pain faded into the background with the old pain.

The residual stench of the demon was very strong-only in a building used to students could Norman have gotten away with it-overlaid with burning charcoal, candles, air freshener, and toast.

"You know, you could offer me some. I'm starving."

"You'll eat after."

Vicki wasn't surprised to hear that Norman talked with his mouth full. He probably picks his nose and wears socks with sandals, too. An all-around great guy.

"After what?"

"After the Demon Lord makes you mine."

"Get real, Birdwell! Demons don't come that powerful!"

Norman laughed.

Cold fingers