Chapter 1: Hollow Meal
Henry Fitzroy strode among the patrons of the club like a god among men. The crowd parted easily for him as he made his way to his target. She was pretty enough, he supposed, but more importantly, she was alone. Single, but not for long.
He oozed charisma from every plane of his perfectly proportioned body as he came up behind her. Artistic fingers outstretched, he plucked her free hand from its perch on the bar. She turned to see who was so brazen as to touch her before introducing themself. Her grey eyes met alluring hazel ones. It took a moment for her to process the spectacle before her.
Indeed, Henry Fitzroy was quite a sight, the sort of being one would expect a child of the Sirens to be. A wreath of rippling chestnut hair loosely framed the perfectly formed face. His hazel eyes danced wickedly, promising all sorts of things, some the woman couldn't begin to discern. A winsome, yet curiously predatory, smile hung from his lips. Mystery clung to him like a lover. All in all, he was irresistible. He knew it too.
"Do you dance?" he asked in a strangely carrying voice.
Sharon, for that was her name, was a woman wise in the ways of men. Even so she stood no chance against more than four hundred years he had spent perfecting the art of seduction. He stood before her, perfection incarnate. She smiled coyly, momentarily taken aback and not entirely familiar with the feeling. Sharon rose from the chair and spun gracefully into his arms, her half finished drinks forgotten. They meandered to the dance floor, somehow managing to carve out a niche between other dancing couples.
There they stayed for several songs, rippling their way through dance moves. They rocked and swayed in time to the music. The night progressed at a relaxed pace: Henry was interested in dining, not eating. Eventually even his patience came to an end. He encircled one arm around her slinkily clad waist and pulled her even closer.
"Let's go somewhere more private, shall we?" he spoke in her ear. In response Sharon leaned back into him. He raised her hand to his lips and started planting kisses. Henry's practiced lips trailed up her slender arms. In between kisses, he led her to the exit with the expert ease of leading a dance partner. She practically purred in his arms. Never let it be said that Henry was a selfish lover. He'd make sure she'd die happy.
They were almost to the door when a young blonde entered. How she had gotten past the bouncer, Henry had no idea. The blonde gave him a startled, almost knowing, look and quickly moved on. Even complicated by the wall-shaking racket that counted as music in this decade, Henry could hear her heart take off racing. That in itself wasn't unusual: Henry had ignited many hearts in his time. The sharp scent of fear that was released simultaneously was an anomaly, as was the deeper scent she carried. Interesting, the experiences a new territory brought with it. He'd look into it later, for now it was time to eat.
Sharon had noticed nothing: the exchange had taken all of a fraction of a second. Another two and they were out the door and on their way to Henry's newest abode.
It was a few blocks apart from the club, but in the balmy fall weather the walk was not at all unpleasant. Henry passed through the door to the lobby with no complication. The deskman barely looked up from his Sudoku as Henry crossed the lobby. Honestly, Henry had no idea why he even paid what he did for such lacking service. It did have its occasional advantages though. That brief glance wouldn't be enough for the deskman to remember Sharon. Henry smiled. Sometimes neglect had its perks. He put his key in the slot next to the penthouse button and twisted.
Sharon sidled up to him, pressing him up against the rail. Women had certainly changed in the last few hundred years. He leaned over and kissed her full on the lips, making the transition from elevator to bedroom a seamless affair. Too far gone was she to realize that the closing door destroyed any minute chance of escape she had.
The Orientally furnished penthouse was a far cry from his home in Toronto, an entirely conscious decision of course. Sharon, lost to passion, noticed nothing of the décor. Henry made it his business to notice everything: it wouldn't do to have someone ambush him in his own stronghold. Everything was in order, all objects in their proper place, no foreign scents, no reek of magic.
Though it was his, the penthouse still felt foreign to him. Henry silently admonished himself. It was for the greater good. Familiar furnishings would have only amplified his discomfort. Over the last year, a certain detective's frequent presence had irrevocably linked her everything he kept in his Toronto penthouse. He had hoped a change of environment, both in territory and surroundings, would put Vicki far from his mind.
As he bit into Sharon, he had a feeling that thinking of Vicki twenty five hundred miles away from where they had last talked wasn't a good indication of progress. It seemed that not only could he not protect her from herself but he could not protect himself from the emotions he still harbored for her.
Sensing the flow of lifeblood ebb, Henry detached himself, feeling bloated. Humans contained so much blood. It was as he watched Sharon draw her last contented breath on his bed, and part of him wondered if she was a Vicki to someone else, that he knew that it was a lost cause. The kill, his first feed kill since meeting Vicki, hadn't eased the craving that had been growing since their last encounter with Astoroth. He had hoped that the emptiness would have been filled with blood. Apparently that was too much to ask. He was suddenly glad the Vicki wasn't there to see him like this.
Everything reminded him of her. From the way the light played on the ashen blonde hair of the corpse on his bed, to the memory of the near familiarity of the young blonde in the club there was no way to escape Vicki's pull on him. Henry might not have been able to save Vicki from herself, but he would give anything to be able to. Vicki was Vicki—she wouldn't let him. He'd be a fool to believe otherwise and Henry Fitzroy was no fool.
He'd taken precautions to protect her from as much of the supernatural as he could. Henry had seen to it that Augustus include a list of off-limit human clause in the Toronto territory contract. Vicki, Correen, and Rajani were on the list. Even Celuci had wormed his way on in. Henry told himself that Mike was the logical choice to protect her—he'd take care of her the best he could if only out of human decency. Another, deeper part of Henry knew that if the new owner of the Toronto territory, whoever it was, killed Mike, Vicki would never forgive him. Though he didn't think he'd ever see her again, the thought of Vicki hating his memory was altogether unpleasant.
He sighed. The sun was coming up. He'd deal with the body in the evening. For now, he rolled the bloodless corpse off and under his bed, just in case he had any unexpected visitors. Slipping out of the remainder of his sharp clothes, he settled into the newly vacated bed just as the sun rose.
