Blood Trail [Anglais] [Poche]

One

It was the bottom of the seventh, the score three to five, the Jays behind two runs, two out and a man on second with Mookie Wilson at bat. Wilson was hitting over three hundred against right-handers and Vicki could see that the Brewers’ pitcher was sweating. At which point, the phone rang.

“It figures.” She stretched a long arm down and dragged the phone up onto her lap. Sunset had been at eight forty-one. It was now nine oh five. It had to be Henry.

Ball one.

“Yeah, what?”

“Vicki? It’s Henry. Are you all right?”

Strike one.

“Yeah, I’m fine. You just called at a bad time.”

“I’m sorry, but I have some friends here who need your help.”

“My help?”

“Well, they need the help of a private investigator and you’re the only one I know.”

Strike two.

“They need help right now?” There were only two innings left in the game. How desperate could it be?

“Vicki, it’s important.” And she could tell by his voice that it was.

She sighed as Wilson popped out to left field, ending the inning, and thumbed the television off. “Well, if it’s that important...”

“It is.”

“...then I’ll be right over.” With the receiver halfway back to the cradle, a sudden thought occurred to her and she snapped it back up to her mouth. “Henry?”

He was still there. “Yes?”

“These friends, they aren’t vampires are they?”

“No.” Through his concern, he sounded a little amused. “They aren’t vampires.”

Greg gave the young woman a neutral nod as he buzzed her through the security check and into the lobby. Vicki Nelson her name was and she’d dropped by a number of times over the summer while he was on the desk. Although she looked like the kind of person he’d have liked under other circumstances he simply couldn’t get over the impressions he’d formed during their initial meeting last spring. It didn’t help when observation confirmed that she was not the sort who would normally answer the door half dressed, proving, to his mind, his feeling that she’d been hiding something that night.

But what?

Over the last couple of months his belief that Henry Fitzroy was a vampire had begun to fade. He liked Mr. Fitzroy, respected him, realized that all his idiosyncrasies could stem from being a writer rather than a creature of the night but one last lingering doubt remained.

What had the young woman been hiding that night? And why?

Occasionally, just for his peace of mind, Greg considered asking her outright, but a certain set to her jaw had always stopped him. So he wondered. And he kept an eye on things. Just in case.

Vicki felt a distinct sense of relief as the elevator doors closed behind her. Scrutiny by that particular security guard always made her feel, well, dirty. Still, it’s my own fault. I’m the one who answered the door practically naked. It had been the only solution she could think of at the time and as it had worked, distracting the old man from his intention of pounding a croquet stake through Henry’s heart, she supposed she shouldn’t complain about the aftereffects.

She pushed the button for the fourteenth floor and tucked her white golf shirt more securely into her red walking shorts. The little “adventure” last spring had melted off a few pounds and so far she’d managed to keep them from finding their way back. She carried too much muscle to ever be considered slim—a secret desire she’d admitted to no one—but it was nice to have a little more definition at the waist. Squinting in the glare of the fluorescent lights, she studied her reflection in the stainless steel walls of the elevator.

Not bad for an old broad, she decided, shoving the hated glasses up her nose. She wondered briefly if maybe she should have dressed more formally then decided that any friends of Henry Fitzroy, bastard son of Henry the VIII, ex-Duke of Richmond, et cetera, et cetera, were not likely to care if the private investigator showed up in shorts.

When the elevator reached Henry’s floor, Vicki settled her purse on her shoulder and put on her professional face. It lasted right up until the condo door swung open and the only creature in the entrance hall was a huge russet colored dog.

It—no, he—has to be a dog. Vicki extended her hand for him to sniff. Wolves don’t come in that color. Or that size. Do they? She could have added that wolves don’t generally hang out in condominiums in downtown Toronto, but given that it was Henry’s condo all bets were off.

The animal’s eyes were outlined in black, adding to a remarkably expressive face. He enthusiastically sniffed the offered hand, then pushed his head demandingly under Vicki’s fingers.

Vicki grinned, pulled the door closed, then obediently began to scratch in the thick ruff behind the pointed ears. “Henry?” she called as a tail heavy enough to knock a grown man to the ground slammed rhythmically into the wall. “You home?”

“In the living room.”

Something in the tone of his voice drew her brows down but a saucerlike paw on her instep almost instantly distracted her. “Get off, you great brute.” The dog obediently shifted his weight. She grabbed his muzzle lightly in one hand and shook his massive head from side to side. “Come on, fella, they’re waiting for us.”

He smiled—there really was no other word for it—whirled around and bounded into the living room, Vicki following at a slightly more sedate pace.

Henry stood in his usual place by the huge wall of windows that looked down on the city. The lights he used on the infrequent occasions he had company picked up the red highlights in his fair hair and turned his hazel eyes almost gold. Actually, Vicki was guessing about the effect on his eyes as she couldn’t see details over that great a distance. She never tired of looking at him though, he had a presence that lifted his appearance from merely pleasing to extraordinary and she could certainly understand how poor Lucy and Mina hadn’t stood a chance against his well-known fictional counterpart.

He wasn’t alone. The young woman fiddling with the CD player turned as Vicki came into the living room and Vicki hid a smile as she found herself being thoroughly and obviously looked over. She took a good long look in return.

A dancer? Vicki wondered. Although small, the girl was sleekly muscled and held herself in a way that could almost be interpreted as challenging. Don’t try it, kid. If I’m not quite twice your age—the girl could be no older than seventeen or eighteen—I’m definitely meaner. The short mane of silver blond hair, Vicki realized with a start, was natural; the brows could have been lightened but not the lashes. While not exactly pretty, the pale hair made for an exotic contrast with the deep tan. And that sundress certainly leaves little tan to the imagination.

Their eyes met and Vicki’s brows rose. Just for an instant she almost had a grasp of what was really going on, then the instant passed and the girl was looking up through her lashes and smiling shyly.

The large red dog had gone to sit by Henry’s side, his head level with Henry’s waist, and now the two of them walked forward. Henry wore a carefully neutral expression. The dog looked amused.

“Vicki, I’d like you to meet Rose Heerkens. Her family is having some trouble I think you can help them with.”

“Pleased to meet you.” Vicki held out her hand and after a quick glance at Henry—What did he tell her about me? —the younger woman put hers in it. Very few women are any good at shaking hands, not having been raised to do it, but Vicki was surprised by both a grip that matched her own and a callus-ridged palm.

As Rose released her hold, she extended the motion to indicate the dog now leaning against her legs. “This is Storm.”

Storm held up a paw.

Bending over to take it, Vicki grinned. “Pleased to meet you too, Storm.”

The big dog gave a short bark and leaned forward, dragging his tongue across Vicki’s face with enough force to almost dislodge her glasses.

“Storm, stop it!” With both hands buried in the russet ruff, Rose yanked the dog back. “Maybe she doesn’t want to be covered in slobber.”

“Oh, I don’t mind.” She wiped her face off with her palm and resettled her glasses on her nose. “What kind of a dog is he? He’s beautiful.” Then she laughed, for Storm obviously recognized the compliment and was looking smug.

“Please don’t encourage him, Ms. Nelson, he’s vain enough already.” Rose dug her knee in behind the big dog’s shoulder and shoved, knocking him over. “And as for what kind he is—he’s a nuisance.”

Storm didn’t look at all put out by being so unceremoniously dumped. Tongue lolling, he rolled over on his back, all four feet in the air, and looked expectantly up at Vicki.

“Do you want your stomach rubbed, then?”

“Storm.” Henry’s command brought the animal off the floor, to stand looking remarkably chastened.

Vicki glanced at Henry in astonishment. What was with him?

“Perhaps,” he met Vicki’s eyes then swept his gaze over the girl and the dog, “we should get on with things.”

Vicki found herself moving toward the couch without having made a conscious decision to move. She hated it when he did that. She hated the way she responded to it. And she really h...

Although she left Nova Scotia at three, and has lived most of her life since in Ontario, Tanya Huff still considers herself a Maritimer. On the way to the idyllic rural existence she shares with her partner Fiona Patton, six cats, and a Chihuahua, she acquired a degree in Radio and Television Arts from Ryerson Polytechnic—an education she was happy to finally use while writing her recent Smoke novels. Of her previous twenty-three books, the five—Blood Price, Blood Trail, Blood Lines, Blood Pact, Blood Debt—featuring Henry Fitzroy, bastard son of Henry VIII, romance writer, and vampire are among the most popular.