Blood Price - By Tanya Huff Page 0,105

head. "He don't like me much, Victory. "

"Tough."

"I don't like him much."

"Do I look like I care ? Call him anyway."

He pulled the quarter from his pocket and headed to the pay phone on the corner. Four years in a variety of pockets had turned the card limp but the number on the back was still legible. He'd already called the number on the front and wasted a quarter on a stupid machine. Everybody knew Victory never turned the machine on if she was home.

"I gotta talk to Mike Celluci."

"Speaking."

"Victory's in trouble." He was as sure of it as he'd ever been sure of anything in his life.

"Who?"

Tony rolled his eyes at the receiver. And they called them the city's finest. What a dork. "Vicki Nelson. You remember-tall, blonde, pushy, used to be a cop."

"What kind of trouble?"

Good. Celluci sounded worried. "I don't know."

"Where?"

"I don't know." Tony could hear teeth grinding on the other end of the line. If this wasn't so serious, he'd be enjoying himself. "You're the cop, you figure it out."

He hung up before the explosion. He'd done what he could.

Mike Celluci stared at the phone and swore long and loudly in Italian. Upon reflection, he'd recognized the voice as Vicki's little street person and that lent just enough credibility to the message that it couldn't be completely ignored. He dumped a pocket load of little pink slips on the kitchen table and began sorting through them.

"Norman Birdwell. York University." He held it up to the light in a completely futile gesture then tossed it back with the others.

Vicki had never been a grandstander. She'd always played by the rules, made them work for her. She'd never go in to pick up a suspected mass murderer-a suspected psychotic mass murderer-without backup. But then, she doesn't have backup anymore, does she? And she just might feel like she's got something to prove...

He'd hit the memory dial to headquarters before he finished the thought.

"This is Celluci. Darrel, I need the number for someone in Administration at York University. I know it's the middle of the night, I want a home number. I know I'm off duty. You're not paying my overtime, what the hell are you complaining about?" He balanced the phone under his chin and pulled his shoulder holster up off the back of the chair, shrugging into it as he waited. "So call me at home when you find it. And Darrel, give it top priority. I want that number yesterday."

He reached for his jacket and laid it beside the phone. He hated waiting. He'd always hated waiting. He dug the pink slip back out of the pile.

Norman Birdwell.

"I don't know what hat you pulled this name out of, Nelson," he growled. "But if I ride to the rescue and you're not in deep shit, bad eyes and insecurity are going to be the least of your problems."

Norman was talking to the grimoire and had been for some time. His low mumble had become a constant background noise as Vicki drifted in and out of consciousness. Occasionally she heard words, mostly having to do with how the world would now treat Norman the way he deserved. Vicki was all for that.

"Hey, Norman!"

The mumbling stopped. Vicki tried to focus on Coreen. The younger woman looked... embarrassed?

Grimoire clutched to his chest, Norman came into her line of sight. She shuddered at the thought of holding that book that closely. The one time she'd touched it back in Henry's apartment had made her skin crawl and the memory still left an unpleasant feeling in her mind.

"Look, Norman, I have really got to go to the bathroom." Coreen's voice was low and intense and left no doubt as to her sincerity and Vicki suddenly found herself wishing she hadn't said that.

"Uh... " Norman obviously had no idea of how to deal with the problem.

Coreen sighed audibly. "Look, if you untie me, I'll walk quietly to the bathroom and then come right back to my chair so you can tie me up again. You can keep me covered with your silly gun the entire time. I really have to go."

"Uh... "

"Your Demon Lord isn't going to be too impressed if he shows up and I've peed on his pentagram."

Norman stared at Coreen for a long moment, his hands stroking up and down the dark leather cover of the grimoire. "You wouldn't," he said at last.

"Try me."

It might have been the smile, it might have been the tone of voice, but Norman decided