Blood Price - By Tanya Huff Page 0,16
leather trench coat tighter around his throat as a cold wind swept around the building and pulled tears from his eyes.
The tabloid's closest box was down the block and across the street. There wasn't really any need to look for the other local paper, Henry had every faith in the tabloid's headline. He waited at the light while the opening volley of the morning rush hour laid a nearly solid line of moving steel along Bloor Street, then crossed, digging for change.
"LEAFS LOSE BIG."
Death of playoff hopes, perhaps, but not a death Henry need worry about. With a sense of profound relief-lightly tinted with exasperation; the Leafs were in the worst division in the NHL, after all-he tucked the paper under his arm, turned, and realized the sun was about to clear the horizon.
He could feel it trembling on the edge of the world and it took all his strength not to panic.
The elevator, the red light, the headlines, all had taken more time than he had. How he had allowed this to happen after more than four hundred and fifty years of racing the sun to safety was not important now. Regaining the sanctuary of his apartment was the only thing that mattered. He could feel the heat of the sun on the edges of his consciousness, not a physical presence, not yet, although that and the burning would come soon enough, but an awareness of the threat, of how close he stood to death.
The light he needed was red again, a small mocking sun in a box. The pounding of his heart counting off the seconds, Henry flung himself onto the street. Brakes squealed and the fender of a wildly swerving van brushed against his thigh like a caress. He ignored the sudden pain and the driver's curses, slammed his palm against the hood of a car almost small enough to leap, and dove through a space barely a prayer wider than his twisting body.
The sky turned gray, then pink, then gold.
Leather soles slamming against the pavement, Henry raced along shadow, knowing that fire devoured it behind him and lapped at his heels. Terror fought with the lethargy that daylight wrapped around his kind, and terror won. He reached the smoked glass door to his building seconds before the sun.
It touched only the back of one hand, too slowly snatched to safety.
Cradling the blistered hand against his chest, Henry used the pain to goad himself toward the elevator. Although the diffused light could no longer burn, he was still in danger.
"You all right, Mr. Fitzroy?" The guard frowned with concern as he buzzed open the inner door.
Unable to focus, Henry forced his head around to where he knew the guard would be. "Migraine," he whispered and lurched forward.
The purely artificial light in the elevator revived him a little and he managed to walk down the corridor dragging only a part of his weight along the wail. He feared for a moment that the keys were beyond his remaining dexterity, but somehow he got the heavy door open, closed, and locked behind him. Here was safety.
Safety. That word alone carried him into the shelter of the bedroom where thick blinds denied the sun. He swayed, sighed, and finally let go, collapsing across the bed and allowing the day to claim him.
"Vicki, please!"
Vicki frowned, a visit to the ophthalmologist never put her in what could be called a good mood and all this right-eye, left-eye focusing was giving her a major headache. "What?" she growled through gritted teeth-only incidentally a result of the chin rest.
"You're looking directly at the test target."
"So?"
Dr. Anderson hid a sigh and, with patience developed during the raising of two children, explained, not for the first time, her tone noncommittal and vaguely soothing. "Looking directly at the test target negates the effects of the test and we'll just have to do it all over again."
And they would, too. Over and over again if necessary. Holding back a sharp comment behind the thin line of her lips, Vicki attempted to cooperate.
"Well?" she prodded at last as Dr. Anderson flicked off the perimeter light and motioned for her to raise her head.
"It hasn't gotten any worse... "
Vicki leaned back, watching the doctor's face. "Has it gotten any better?" she asked pointedly.
This time, Dr. Anderson didn't bother to hide the sigh. "Vicki, as I've told you before, retinitis pigmentosa doesn't get better. Ever. It only gets worse. Or," she rolled the perimeter back against the wall, "if you're very