The Blood Books are now available in "Blood Ties" TV tie-in editions. Vicki Nelson, formerly of Toronto’s homicide unit and now a private detective, witnesses the first of many vicious attacks that are now plaguing the city of Toronto. As death follows unspeakable death, Vicki is forced to renew her tempestuous relationship with her former partner, Mike Celluci, to stop these forces of dark magic—along with another, unexpected ally… Henry Fitzroy, the illegitimate son of King Henry VIII, has learned over the course of his long life how to blend with humans, how to deny the call for blood in his veins. Without him, Vicki and Mike would not survive the ancient force of chaos that has been unleashed upon the world—but in doing so, his identity may be exposed, and his life forfeit. Praise for the series:  “An interesting departure from the many vampire books now available. It provides  an entertaining and engrossing stor y for leisure reading.”— Kliatt “A suspenseful story that deals with the emotional content of the situation rather than the obvious potential for overt horror.”— Science Fiction Chronicle “Huff has retained her humor along with her horror, her characters have continued to develop, and  her plots are quirky and original .”— VOYA “Explores the borders of death and beyond with an intensity that is only partially lightened by touches of ironic humor. Written with the author’s usual flair for realistic fantasy.” — Library Journal "A yummy concoction of equal parts fantasy and mystery , throwing in a splash of humor and a dash of romance to beguile the palate quite delightfully.... Ms. Huff manages to develop all her different plot threads to marvelous effect. How could anyone resist this vastly entertaining pastiche?"— RT Book Reviews Tanya Huff  may have left Nova Scotia at three, and has lived most of her life since in Ontario, but she 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. ONE     IAN SHOVED HIS HANDS deep in his pockets and scowled down the length of the empty subway platform. His hands were freezing, he was in a bitch of a bad mood, and he had no idea why he’d agreed to meet Coreen at her apartment. All things considered, neutral ground might have been a better idea. He shifted his scowl to the LED clock hanging from the ceiling. 12:17. Thirteen minutes to get from Eglinton West to Wilson Station, six blocks worth of bus ride, and then a three block run to Coreen’s. It couldn’t be done.     I’m going to be late. She’s going to be pissed. And there goes our chance to make up. He sighed. It had taken two hours of arguing on the phone to get her to agree to a meeting. Maintaining a relationship with Coreen might be time- consuming, but it sure as hell wasn’t boring. Lord, but the woman had a temper. . . . His lips curled up into a smile almost without him willing the motion; the flip side of that temper made all the effort of staying on the roller coaster worthwhile. The smile broadened. Coreen packed a lot of punch for a woman barely five foot two.     He glanced up at the clock again.     Where the hell was the train?     12:20.     Be there by 12:30 or forget it, she’d said, completely ignoring the fact that on Sunday the Toronto Transit Commission, the ubiquitous TTC, drastically cut back on the number of trains and at this hour he’d be lucky to get the last one they ran.     Looking at the bright side, when he finally got there, given the time of night and the fact that they both had an eight o’clock class, he’d have to stay over. He sighed. If she’ll even let me into her apartment.     He wandered down to the southernmost end of the platform and peered into the tunnel. No sign of lights, but he could feel wind against his face and that usually meant the train wasn’t far. He coughed as he turned away. It smelled like something had died down there; smelled like it did at the cottage when a mouse got between the walls and rotted.     “Big mother of a mouse,” he muttered, rubbing his fist against his nose. The stench caught in his lungs and he coughed again. It was funny the tricks the mind played; now that he was aware of it, the smell seemed to be getting stronger.     And then he heard what could only be footsteps coming up the tunnel, out of the darkness. Heavy footsteps, not at all like a worker hurrying to beat the train after a day’s overtime, nor like a bum staggering for the safety of the platform. Heavy footsteps, purposefully advancing toward his back.     Ian glo