1 Blood Price Read Online Free Page B

one of the things he liked best about this part of the city, the fact that it never really slept, and it was why he had his home as close to it as he could get. Two blocks past Yonge, he turned into a circular drive and followed the curve around to the door of his building.
    In his time, he had lived in castles of every description, a fair number of very private country estates, and even a crypt or two when times were bad, but it had been centuries since he’d had a home that suited him as well as the condominium he’d bought in the heart of Toronto.
    “Good evening, Mr. Fitzroy.”
    “Evening, Greg. Anything happening?”
    The security guard smiled and reached for the door release. “Quiet as a tomb, sir.”
    Henry Fitzroy raised one red-gold eyebrow but waited until he had the door open and the buzzer had ceased its electronic flatulence before asking, “And how would you know?”
    Greg grinned. “Used to be a guard at Mount Pleasant Cemetery.”
    Henry shook his head and smiled as well. “I should’ve known you’d have an answer.”
    “Yes, sir, you should’ve. Good night, sir.”
    The heavy glass door closed off any further conversation, so as Greg picked up his newspaper Henry waved a silent good night and turned toward the elevators. Then he stopped. And turned back to face the glass.
    “VAMPIRE STALKS CITY.”
    Lips moving as he read, Greg laid the paper flat on his desk, hiding the headline.
    His world narrowed to three words, Henry shoved the door open.
    “You forget something, Mr. Fitzroy?”
    “Your paper. Let me see it.”
    Startled by the tone but responding to the command, Greg pushed the paper forward until Henry snatched it out from under his hands.
    “VAMPIRE STALKS CITY.”
    Slowly, making no sudden movements, Greg slid his chair back, putting as much distance as possible between himself and the man on the other side of the desk. He wasn’t sure why, but in sixty-three years and two wars, he’d never seen an expression like the one Henry Fitzroy now wore. And he hoped he’d never see it again, for the anger was more than human anger and the terror it invoked more than human spirit could stand.
    Please, God, don’t let him turn it on me. . . .
    The minutes stretched and paper tore under tightening fingers.
    “Uh, Mr. Fitzroy . . .”
    Hazel eyes, like frozen smoke, lifted from their reading. Held by their intensity, the trembling security guard had to swallow once, twice, before he could finish.
    “. . . you can, uh, keep the paper.”
    The fear in Greg’s voice penetrated through the rage. There was danger in fear. Henry found the carefully constructed civilized veneer that he wore over the predator and forced it back on. “I hate this kind of sensationalism!” He slapped the paper down on the desk.
    Greg jumped and his chair hit the back wall, ending retreat.
    “This playing on the fears of the public is irresponsible journalism.” Henry sighed and covered the anger with a patina of weary annoyance. Four hundred and fifty years of practice made the false face believable regardless of how uncomfortable the fit had grown lately. “They make us all look bad.”
    Greg sighed in turn and wiped damp palms on his thighs, snatching at the explanation. “I guess writers are kind of sensitive about that,” he offered.
    “Some of us,” Henry agreed. “You sure about the paper? That I can keep it?”
    “No problem, Mr. Fitzroy. I checked the hockey scores first thing.” His mind had already begun to dull what he had seen, adding rationalizations that made it possible, that made it bearable, but he didn’t slide his chair back to the desk until the elevator door had closed and the indicator light had begun to climb.
    Muscles knotted with the effort of standing still, Henry concentrated on breathing, on controlling the rage rather than allowing it to control him. In this age his kind survived by blending in, and he’d made a potentially fatal mistake by letting his reaction to the