Blood Pact - By Tanya Huff Page 0,14

how fast Henry could move, didn't, in fact, see Henry move.

Henry looked down at the address and handed the book back to the detective. "I assume I'll see you in Kingston," he said and headed for the door.

"Hey!"

He turned.

"I thought you couldn't leave your coffin?"

"You watch too many bad movies, Detective."

Celluci bristled. "You've still got to be under cover by dawn. I can see to it that you aren't. One phone call to the OPP and you'll be in a holding cell at sunrise."

"You won't do that, Detective." Henry's voice was mild as he caught Celluci's gaze with his own and let the patina of civilization drop. He played with the mortal's reaction for a moment and then, almost reluctantly, released him. "You won't do it," he continued in the same tone, "for the same reason I don't use the power I have on you. She wouldn't like it." Smiling urbanely, he inclined his head in a parody of a polite bow. "Good night, Detective."

Celluci stared at the closed door and fought to keep from trembling. Patches of sweat spread out under each arm and his palms, pressed hard against the table, were damp. It wasn't the fear that unnerved him. He'd dealt with fear before, knew he could conquer it. It was the urge to bare his throat that had him so shaken, the knowledge that in another instant he would have placed his life in Henry Fitzroy's hands.

"Goddamnit, Vicki." The hoarse whisper barely shredded the silence. "You are playing with fucking fire... ."

"Geez, Cathy, why'd you bring them?"

"I thought they could carry the body."

"Oh." Donald stepped back as Catherine helped two shambling figures out of the back of the van. "The program I wrote for them is pretty basic; are you sure they can do something that complicated?"

"Well, number nine can." She patted the broad shoulder almost affectionately. "Number eight may need a little help."

"A little help. Right." Grunting with the effort, he dragged a pair of sandbags out of the van. "Well, if they're so strong, they can carry these."

"Give them both to number nine. I'm not sure about eight's joints."

Although living muscles strained to lift a single bag off the ground, number nine gave no indication that it noticed the weight, even after both bags had been loaded.

"Good idea," Donald panted. "Bringing them along, that is. I'd have killed myself getting those things inside." Fighting for breath, he glanced around the parking lot. The light over by the garage barely illuminated the area and he'd removed the light over the delivery entrance that afternoon. "Let's just make sure nobody sees them, okay. They don't look exactly, well, alive."

"Notices them?" Catherine moved number eight around to face the door, then turned and discovered number nine had moved without help. "We better be sure that no one notices us."

"People don't look too closely at funeral homes." Still breathing heavily, Donald slipped his key into the lock. "They're afraid of what they might see." He shot a glance at number nine's gray and desiccated face perched above the collar of a red windbreaker and snickered as he pushed the door open. "Almost makes you wish someone would stumble over Mutt and Jeff here, doesn't it?"

"No. Now get going."

Long inured to his colleague's complete lack of a sense of humor, Donald shrugged and disappeared into the building.

Number nine followed.

Catherine gave number eight a little push. "Walk," she commanded. It hesitated, then slowly began to move. Halfway down the long ramp to the embalming room, it stumbled. "No, you don't... " Holding it precariously balanced against the wall, she bent and straightened the left leg.

"What took you so long," Donald demanded as the two of them finally arrived.

"Trouble with the patella." She frowned, tucking a strand of nearly white-blond hair back behind her ear. "I don't think we're getting any kind of cell reconstruction."

"Yeah, and it's starting to smell worse, too."

"Oh, no."

"Oh, yes. But hey..." he threw open both halves of the coffin lid, "let's not stand around sniffing dead people all night. We've got work to do."

Number eight's fingers had to be clamped around the corpse's ankles, but number nine took hold of the shoulders with very little prompting.

"I'm telling you, Donald," Catherine caroled as they guided the two bodies back up the ramp, "number nine has interfaced with the net. I'm sure we're getting independent brain activity."

"What does Dr. Burke say?"

"She's more worried about decomposition."

"Understandable. Always a bummer when your experiments rot before you can gather the data. Stop