Blood Pact - By Tanya Huff Page 0,100

lid flew open, slapping her hand aside.

She caught a glimpse of a pale face under red-gold hair. Then, before she could react, something black and heavy swooped down upon her and she stumbled back, blind. Cold and clammy, it wrapped tightly around her head and draped over her shoulders with obscene familiarity. Her throat pumping out shrill sounds of incoherent terror, she tore at it in panicked frenzy.

Finally, as terror began to pick up some of the shading of rage, she wrenched it loose and flung it to the floor. Her glasses, secured over only one ear, began to fall, and the greater fear their loss roused brought her back to sanity as she shoved them back into place.

At her feet lay a pile of black leather.

Henry's trench coat.

All at once, as if recognition had thrown a switch, she became aware of snarling, cursing, and the impact of flesh on flesh. Looping the strap of her bag over her wrist, it was the only weapon she had, she whirled in time to see Celluci get a leg between his body and Henry's and use it to fling the smaller man across the room.

Naked to the waist, Henry's torso gleamed like alabaster, amethyst bruises marking the inside of both arms. He used the momentum of the blow to roll up onto his feet and, snarling, charged again.

Celluci grunted under the impact and slammed his elbow into the side of Henry's head, to no apparent effect.

Once or twice over the last year, Vicki had been given a glimpse of what lay behind the mask of civilization Henry wore. Had, even while cold sweat beaded her skin and common sense screamed "Run!" been aroused by so much deadly power so lightly held in control.

He had warned her once, "The beast is much closer to the surface in my kind."

The beast was loose.

Celluci had barely registered that the box was open when he found himself flat on his back and fighting for his life. He'd hit the floor with Henry Fitzroy's hands around his throat and had only survived those first few seconds because one hand, swollen and nearly useless, had not been able to maintain its grip.

With his left forearm shoved up under Fitzroy's chin and his right hand trying to rip the crushing fingers from his windpipe, Celluci had a sudden, unavoidable epiphany about vampires.

He'd caught a glimpse of the reality last August when Mark Williams had died, but that had been easy to bury in the tangled mix of reaction that Henry evoked. Even through his jealousy, he'd recognized and responded to Fitzroy's personal power. Respect had been inevitable when stopping Anwar Tawfik had thrown them together. Other emotions, less easily defined, had been, for the most part, ignored.

Now, it all distilled down to survival.

He's stronger. Faster. The frenzy of the attack gave him an opening. Hooking his foot into the top of Fitzroy's pelvis, Celluci heaved the smaller man across the room. Less than a heartbeat later, the vampire charged him again.

"Fuck!"

Nails gouged into his cheek. He knew the skin had been broken by the intensity of Fitzroy's response. Frantically twisting his head to one side, he heard teeth snap beside his ear. I never noticed his fucking teeth were so god-damned long!

I'm meat to him.

I'm a dead man.

This isn't something they did to him. He's after the blood! Emotional response insisted she throw herself into the battle, ripping Henry off Celluci's throat. A more visceral reaction suggested she run for her life. She stomped down hard on both and stood trembling where she was. Goddamnit, Vicki, think! Remember what he's told you!

He'd talked about his desire to feed like it was a force separate from the rest of him, a force over which he had to exert a certain amount of conscious control.

All right. He's lost control. He's hungry. It wasn't a difficult deduction; his need was a tangible presence, beating against the walls of the small room. Those bastards have probably been drawing blood for tests all day. Blood's all Henry has. He has to replace it. He'll rip Mike's throat out to get to it.

So I give him an easier source. One he doesn't have to fight for.

Dropping to her knees, Vicki upended her purse, searching for her knife.

Mike Celluci was a large man in excellent physical condition, speed and strength enhanced by the certain knowledge that if he lost, he died.

Fortunately for him, Henry Fitzroy had been not only weakened by blood loss but also exhausted