"Henry, it's been over a year." She sounded amused. "You should know by now that most private investigating consists of days and days of boring, tedious research. Thrilling and exciting life-threatening situations are few and far between."
Henry raised one red-gold brow.
Vicki looked a little sheepish. "Look, it's not my fault people keep trying to kill me. And you. And anyway, you know those were the exceptions that prove the rule." She straightened, tucking one sneakered foot up under her butt. "Tonight, I needed to convince a sleazebag, who deserved to be terrified after what he put his wife and kids through, to stay put until the police arrive. Tonight, I needed you. Henry Fitzroy, vampire. No one else could've done it."
Upon reflection, he was willing to grant her that no one else could have done the job as well although a couple of burly mortals and fifty feet of rope would have had the same general effect. "You really didn't like him, did you?"
"No. I didn't." Her lip curled. "It's one thing to walk out of your responsibilities, but it takes a special kind of asshole to do it in such a way that everyone thinks he's dead. They mourned him, Henry. Cried for him. And the son of a bitch was off building a new life, fancy-free, while they were bringing flowers, every Saturday, to an empty grave. If he hadn't gotten into the background of that national news report, they'd still be crying for him. He owes them. In my book, he owes them big."
"Well, then, you'll be happy to know that I did, as you so inelegantly put it, scare the living shit out of him."
"Good." She loosened her grip on the throw pillow. "Did you... uh... feed?"
"Would it matter if I had?" Would she admit it if it mattered. "Blood's blood, Vicki. And his fear was enough to raise the Hunger."
"I know. And I know you feed from others. It's just..." She dragged one hand through her hair, standing it up in dark blonde spikes. "It's just that... "
"No. I didn't feed from him." Her involuntary smile was all he could have asked, so he crossed the room to see it better.
"You're probably hungry, then."
"Yes." He took her hand and gently caressed the inner skin of her wrist with his thumb. Her pulse leapt under his touch.
She tried to stand, but he pushed her back, bent his head, and ran his tongue down the faint blue line of a vein. "Henry, if we don't go soon, I won't be able to... " Her voice faded out as her brain became preoccupied with other things. With a mighty effort, she forced her throat to open and her mouth to work. "We'll end up staying on the... couch."
He lifted his mouth long enough to murmur, "So?" and that was the last coherent word either of them spoke for some time.
"Four o'clock in the morning," Vicki muttered, digging for the keys to her apartment. "Another two hours and I'll have seen the clock around. Again. Why do I keep doing this to myself?" Her wrist throbbed, as if in answer, and she sighed. "Never mind. Stupid question."
Muscles tensed across her back as the door unexpectedly swung fully open. The security chain hung loose, unlocked, arcing back and forth, scraping softly, metal against wood. Holding her breath, she filtered out the ambient noises of the apartment, the sound of the refrigerator motor, a dripping tap, the distant hum of the hydro substation across the street, and noted a faint mechanical whir. It sounded like...
She almost had it when a sudden noise drove off all hope of identification. The horrible crunching, grinding, smashing, continued for about ten seconds, then muted.
"I'II grind his bones to make my bread... " It was the closest she could come to figuring out what could possibly be happening. And all things considered, I'm not denying the possibility of a literal translation. After demons, werewolves, mummies, not to mention the omnipresent vampire in her life, a Jack-eating giant in her living room was less than impossible no matter how unlikely.
She shrugged the huge, black leather purse off her shoulder and caught it just before it hit the floor. With the strap wrapped twice around her wrist it made a weapon even a giant would flinch at. Good thing I hung onto that brick...
The sensible thing to do would involve closing the door, trotting to the phone booth on the corner, and calling the cops.
I am way too tired for this shit. Vicki stepped silently into the apartment. Four in the morning courage. Gotta love it.
Sliding each foot a centimeter above the floor and placing it back down with exaggerated care, she made her way along the short length of hall and around the corner into the living room, senses straining. Over the last few months she'd started to believe that, while the retinitis pigmentosa had robbed her of any semblance of night sight, sound and smell were beginning to compensate. The proof would be in the pudding; although she knew the streetlight outside the bay window provided a certain amount of illumination in spite of the blinds and the apartment never actually got completely dark, as far as her vision was concerned, she might as well be wearing a padded blindfold.
Well, not quite a blindfold. Even she couldn't miss the blob of light that had to be the television flickering silently against the far wall. She stopped, weapon ready, cocked her head, and got a whiff of a well known after-shave mixed with... cheese?
The sudden release of tension almost knocked her over.
"What the hell are you doing here at this hour, Celluci?"
"What does it look like?" the familiar voice asked mockingly in turn. "I'm watching an incredibly stupid movie with the sound off and eating very stale taco chips. How long have you had these things sitting around, anyway?"
Vicki groped for the wall, then walked her fingers along it to the switch for the overhead light. Blinking away tears as her sensitive eyes reacted to the glare, she gently lowered her purse to the floor. Mr. Chin, downstairs in the first floor apartment, wouldn't appreciate being woken up by twenty pounds of assorted bric-a-brac slamming into his ceiling.
Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci squinted up at her from the couch and set the half-empty bag of taco chips to one side. "Rough night?" he growled.
Yawning, she shrugged out of her jacket, tossing it over the back of the recliner. "Not really. Why?"
"Those bags under your eyes look more like a set of matched luggage." He swung his legs to the floor and stretched. "Thirty-two just doesn't bounce back the way thirty-one used to. You need more sleep."