Blood Sisters_ Vampire Stories by Women - Paula Guran Page 0,130

thing she knew how to do.

Part of his diatribe was based on concern. After all their years together playing cops and lovers she knew how he thought; if something as basic as sunlight could kill her, what else waited to strike her down. It was only human nature for him to want to protect the people he loved—for him to want to protect her.

But, that was only the basis for part of the diatribe.

“You can’t have been happy with me lazing around your house. I can’t cook and I don’t do windows.” She stepped towards him. “I should think you’d be thrilled that I’m finding my feet again.”

“Vicki.”

“I wonder,” she mused, holding tight to the Hunger, “how you’d feel about me being involved in this if it wasn’t your case. I am, after all, better equipped to hunt the night than, oh, detective-sergeants.”

“Vicki …” Her name had become a nearly inarticulate growl.

She leaned forward until her lips brushed his ear. “Bet you I solve this one first.” Then she was gone, moving into shadow too quickly for mortal eyes to track.

“Who you talking to, Mike?” Dave Graham glanced around the empty alley. “I thought I heard …” Then he caught sight of the expression on his partner’s face. “Never mind.”

Vicki couldn’t remember the last time she felt so alive. Which, as I’m now a card-carrying member of the bloodsucking undead, makes for an interesting feeling. She strode down Queen Street West, almost intoxicated by the lives surrounding her, fully aware of crowds parting to let her through and the admiring glances that traced her path. A connection had been made between her old life and her new one.

“You must surrender the day,” Henry had told her, “but you need not surrender anything else.”

“So what you’re trying to tell me,” she’d snarled, “is that we’re just normal people who drink blood?”

Henry had smiled. “How many normal people do you know?”

She hated it when he answered a question with a question but now, she recognized his point. Honesty forced her to admit that Celluci had a point as well. She did need to prove to herself that she was still herself. She always had. The more things changed, the more they stayed the same.

“Well, now we’ve got that settled …” She looked around for a place to sit and think. In her old life, that would have meant a donut shop or the window seat in a cheap restaurant and as many cups of coffee as it took. In this new life, being enclosed with humanity did not encourage contemplation. Besides, coffee, a major component of the old equation, made her violently ill—a fact she deeply resented.

A few years back, CITY TV, a local Toronto station, had renovated a deco building on the corner of Queen and John. They’d done a beautiful job and the six-story, white building with its ornately molded modern windows, had become a focal point of the neighborhood. Vicki slid into the narrow walkway that separated it from its more down-at-the-heels neighbor and swarmed up what effectively amounted to a staircase for one of her kind.

When she reached the roof a few seconds later, she perched on one crenellated corner and looked out over the downtown core. These were her streets; not Celluci’s and not some out-of-town bloodsucker’s. It was time she took them back. She grinned and fought the urge to strike a dramatic pose.

All things considered, it wasn’t likely that the Metropolitan Toronto Police Department—in the person of Detective-Sergeant Michael Celluci—would be willing to share information. Briefly, she regretted issuing the challenge then she shrugged it off. As Henry said, the night was too long for regrets.

She sat and watched the crowds jostling about on the sidewalks below, clumps of color indicating tourists amongst the Queen Street regulars. On a Friday night in August, this was the place to be as the Toronto artistic community rubbed elbows with wanna-bes and never-woulds.

Vicki frowned. Mac Eisler had been killed before midnight on a Thursday night in an area that never completely slept. Someone had to have seen or heard something. Something they probably didn’t believe and were busy denying. Murder was one thing, creatures of the night were something else again.

“Now then,” she murmured, “where would a person like that—and considering the time and day we’re assuming a regular, not a tourist—where would that person be tonight?”

She found him in the third bar she checked, tucked back in a corner, trying desperately to get drunk, and failing. His