Back From the Undead: The Bloodhound Files

by DD Barant

  * * *

  Ever seen an ancient vampire Yakuza lord flabbergasted?

  Me neither. I cross my arms and do my best to enjoy it.

  “Impossible,” Isamu whispers.

  “Not so much,” I say. “Want to know where you went wrong? ’Cause I’d love to tell you.”

  “There was no reason—no reason—”

  “Oh, there was a big reason. Me. I was always the front-runner in this race, Isamu, you just never knew it. Your big mistake was in thinking that Yog-Sothoth wanted more power. Not true—he has all the power he wants. You neglected to consider his basic nature: He’s a god of information. The only reason he was interested in your project in the first place was the chance—however small—that it might lead to new and interesting data.

  “But access to someone like me trumped all that. That’s always what it was about.”

  “But then why—”

  “Why negotiate at all? Because he wanted to have his cross-dimensional cake and eat it, too. When you brought up the possibility that you might outlive me, Yog-Sothoth saw an opportunity. He couldn’t just take me, not as long as I was under the protection of Inari Okami.” I nod in deference to the goddess, who looks almost as pleased as I feel. “But if there was a chance that once I died my soul might be directed to a specific afterlife—you know, like the one he was Grand Poobah of—then he could gobble up my essence at his leisure. But you put the kibosh on that, didn’t you?”

  His eyes harden as he sees the trap I led him into.

  “Kind of a variation on the old Please don’t throw me in that briar patch strategy. No Hereafter Two-Point-Oh for poor old Jace … and you were so gung-ho at demonstrating your willpower, your absolute unwillingness to compromise, that you convinced your former partner the situation would never, ever change. Congratulations.”

  “You will pay for this humiliation,” Isamu says quietly. “Both of you.”

  “Not right now we won’t,” I say. “Your project is being dismantled as we speak, and pretty soon you’re going to have a whole bunch of unhappy demons and spirits on your hands as opposed to potential soldiers. Good luck keeping that contained.”

  “You believe you have won the game,” Isamu says. “But there are still pieces in play. Do you think me so ill informed as to not know what Mr. Stoker was searching for?”

  The kids. “They’ll be released with all the other souls,” I say. “That was part of the deal—”

  “No. It was not. Tawil At-U’mr informed me as to the exact terms you were demanding, and you specified that the souls involved must be returned to where they belonged. But the souls of the pire children are not misplaced; they are still with their physical bodies, in a location within Yomi.”

  “You’re bluffing.”

  “He is not,” Inari says. “I am a goddess of fertility, among other things, and have an affinity for children. They reside where he has placed them.”

  “Can’t you do something?” I ask. “You’re a goddess, and they’re only kids—”

  Inari’s eyes are sad, but she shakes her head. “I have already done much. To interfere further would not be appropriate. I am a goddess of fecundity, that of fields and that of women, it is true—but I am also very much a goddess of warriors.”

  She meets my eyes as she says this. I get the message, loud and clear.

  “Stoker?” I say. “I think it’s your turn at the bargaining table. Got anything our friend here might find persuasive?”

  Isamu suddenly realizes that our neutral ground isn’t so neutral anymore—and his ride has ditched him. No bodyguards, no preplanned escape routes, facing down two of his bitterest enemies and a goddess.

  Isamu grins.

  “Am I to understand the business of the gods is concluded?” he asks Inari politely.

  “It is.”

  “And may I infer that any divine protection in place while that business was conducted is now withdrawn?”

  Inari glances at me. It’s probably the only time in my life that a goddess has asked me for approval. “I got this,” I say. “I thank you for your help, Most Revered.”

  “Farewell, Jace Valchek.” She pauses, and gives me a grin in return. “Kick his ass.”

  She vanishes, just like Tawil did. And Isamu leaps for Stoker’s throat.

  Two unarmed humans against a master vampire, one with centuries of murder under his belt. He thinks this’ll be an easy kill.

  He’s wrong.

  Isamu’s been around longer, but he’s spent most of his existence at the top of the food chain. Stoker started at the bottom and clawed his way up, link by link. Isamu’s used to ordering assassinations; Stoker’s used to carrying them out.

  Isamu has supernatural speed, strength, and invulnerability on his side. Stoker has size—three hundred pounds of muscle, easy. All the speed in the world doesn’t help you in midair … and when your opponent has already figured out what you’re going to do and is ready for it, suddenly all those years of experience vanish in one cocky mistake.

  Stoker doesn’t try to dodge or grapple. He throws his elbow forward instead, meeting Isamu’s considerable velocity with every ounce of that three-hundred-pound mass. He times it perfectly, catching Isamu in the middle of his windpipe.

  Funny thing about pires. You can bounce a bazooka shell off their chests or break a pickax against their skulls, but their neck is their weak point. It usually takes silver or wood to kill a hemovore, but it’s possible to decapitate one with nothing but steel if it’s sharp enough; more pires die every year in auto accidents than impaling.

  Stoker’s elbow is strictly a blunt instrument, but it’s one helluva shot all the same—it would have crushed the trachea of a human being like a cheap beer can. Isamu’s body flips around, swiveling at the point of impact, and he slams down on the table on his back.

  It’s not a crippling blow, but it must hurt like hell. Enough that the shock and surprise of it freeze Isamu for all of an instant. A pire’s inhuman reflexes make that instant a lot shorter than a human’s, though—call it half a second.

  All the time Stoker needs.

  Did I say two unarmed humans? My mistake—and Isamu’s. Having missed the conversation on etiquette, Stoker’s brought a little insurance with him—as I strongly suspected he would. Looks like my three of flubs might turn out to be a trump card after all. He’s got a short plastic tube jammed under Isamu’s chin before the pire can even twitch.

  “Don’t move,” Stoker growls. “You’re a flinch away from six inches of sharpened teak, sitting on top of a cocked steel spring with a hair trigger. It’ll ram that stake through your chin, your soft palate, and your cerebrum without even slowing down, and probably punch through the roof of your skull. You’ll be a drooling idiot for all of a second or so, and then you’ll be something the maid sweeps up.”

  Isamu’s fangs have gotten a lot longer, and his eyes are that vivid scarlet a pire’s eyes turn when they succumb to bloodlust. His hands seem to be trembling, but I think it’s more out of suppressed rage than fear. He knows Stoker isn’t bluffing.

  “Jace?” Stoker says. “Do me a favor and retrieve the gentleman’s cell phone, will you?”

  I go through Isamu’s pockets. Every nerve I have is on high alert, but Isamu doesn’t try anything. Maybe that trembling is fear, after all.

  “Got it,” I say. “Let’s see, who should we call … hey, I’ve got an idea. Let’s ring up our old friend Mizagi at Hemo, shall we? I’m guessing he’s on speed dial. Isamu?”

  “Why should I cooperate with you? You will kill me regardless.”

  “No, we won’t. I’m an agent of law enforcement, remember? Unlike you, I don’t condone outright assassination. You play nice, I guarantee you’ll survive this.”

  “Your associate is hardly on the side of the law.”

  “Maybe not,” says Stoker, “but, like you, I understand the value of alliances. I don’t care about your life at all, but I value Jace’s trust. If she gives you her wor
d, then I’ll give her mine: Do what she asks, and I won’t kill you.”

  “Awww,” I say. “I’m misting up. Group hug? No? Then how about that number?”

  “Two,” he hisses.

  “Thanks. Let’s hope he’s not out to lunch or something … hello, Mr. Miyagi? Jace Valchek. Yes, I imagine you are very busy at the moment, what with Hereafter Two-Point-Oh suddenly going offline. Do I have your attention? Listen very, very carefully, and don’t interrupt.

  “Here’s what you’re going to do. You’re going to send a team of technicians into Yomi, and you’re going to release the pire kids you’re holding. You’re going to take them out of Yomi and escort them to the front doors of your building. Then you’re going to let them go. I’ll have people watching, so they’d better all be present and healthy. Are we clear so far?

  “Why should you do this? You know, I think your boss can explain it better than me.” I hold the phone to Isamu’s ear.

  “Yes,” he snarls. “Yes! Just do it, and do it now! Or I’ll have your head atop a spike on my front gate!”

  I take the phone back. “Okay? Terrific. Pleasure doing business with you—I look forward to our future dealings. Buh-bye.” I snap the phone shut and meet Isamu’s eyes. “Good boy. Now, what should we do with you?”

  “Release me. I have kept my part of the bargain.”

  “Hold on there, speedy—I didn’t say anything about releasing you. I said we wouldn’t kill you, and we won’t. Your freedom, on the other hand, is not on the table.”

  His eyes flicker from me to Stoker. The red in his eyes is fading, and his hands aren’t shaking anymore. He’s calming down and thinking, which isn’t good.

  I’m starting to realize we’re in an untenable situation. At this precise moment Isamu’s a hostage, but I have nothing to charge him with and he’s got the local cops in his pocket, anyway. If Stoker’s focus wanders for even a millisecond, Isamu’s still capable of overpowering both of us. I need to get Charlie in here—

  “On your feet,” Stoker says. He grabs Isamu’s shirt with his free hand and yanks him off the table, keeping the switchstake at his throat. “Time for a change of scenery.”

  “Good idea,” I say. “Let’s get him out of here, anyway.”

  Stoker turns Isamu around, marching him backward toward the door. He’s keeping his hostage a little too close to his own jugular for my comfort, but if Stoker pushes him away he’ll have to extend his arms, which makes them more vulnerable to any kind of attack or escape attempt—

  And then Stoker does extend one of them. He lets go of Isamu’s shirtfront and shoves him, hard. Isamu stumbles backward.

  And right off the edge.

  “Oops,” Stoker says.

  There’s a high-pitched scream, fading as he falls. It changes to cursing in Japanese before it finally trails off.

  I stare at Stoker. “You—”

  “Didn’t kill him.”

  “Right, the sudden stop at the end will. Not funny.”

  “Who says there’s a stop?” Stoker takes two steps forward and peers down. “Looks more or less bottomless, to me. He might get kind of thirsty after a while, though. Or get a little too close to one of those stars.”

  “In a few million years or so.”

  He shrugs. “Hey, I don’t know what the rules are in this place. Maybe he’ll go into orbit around a nice little asteroid stocked with slow-moving, blood-filled wildlife.”

  “That he can see, but not feed on?”

  “You don’t make it easy to put a positive spin on things, do you?”

  I shake my head. “All right, I guess that—technically—you didn’t kill him. Now let’s get out of here before that door disappears and we’re stuck in the same boat.”

  “In a second.” He turns and take another step, and I realize he’s put himself between me and the door. And he’s still armed.

  I wonder if I can take him. I’ve got the training, but so does he. Plus size, weight, and a weapon. It doesn’t look promising.

  “There’s something else, Jace. See, there’s another deal I have to honor.”

  I nod. Shift into a comfortable stance. My best shot is to do the same thing he did to Isamu and throw him off the edge. It’ll work if I can use his weight against him, but he’ll be expecting that.

  “You wanted to know how I convinced Zevon to let us out of Yomi. It was simple. All he wanted was whatever I was least willing to give up … so I made him a promise.”

  He tosses the switchstake over the edge. I don’t take my eyes off him.

  “I told him that once the children were safe, I’d surrender. To you.”

  He turns back to the door, grabs the handle. Looks back at me. “I know you probably don’t believe me. But once you and Charlie have me in handcuffs, it’ll start to sink in. You coming?”

  EPILOGUE

  It doesn’t really hit me, not at first. Not when we cuff him, not during the ride back to the hotel with a stop at Hemo along the way, not when I get the phone call from Eisfanger telling me he can verify that seven pire kids just walked out of the Hemo building looking dazed but intact.

  It’s not until I call Gretch, with Charlie standing guard over Stoker in the next room, not until I officially report that Aristotle Stoker, aka the Impaler, is in my custody, that it starts to seem real.

  “Be careful,” Gretch says. “Just because he surrendered to you as part of a mystic contract doesn’t mean he’s willing to stay a prisoner.”

  “That’s just it, Gretch. Maybe I’m the one who’s crazy, but I believe him. He gave me this whole speech about changing what he’s trying to accomplish, and it’s beginning to sound like he means it.”

  “He’s extremely good at manipulation, Jace. He could simply have been laying the groundwork for a false sense of trust he could exploit later.”

  “That’s not going to happen. Charlie’s watching him like—well, Charlie. Stoker tries anything, he won’t get far.”

  “I’ll start the necessary paperwork to bring him across. Vancouver may be a criminal haven, but the Canadian authorities do tend to respond promptly to anything related to terrorism. We shouldn’t have any problems taking him across the border.”

  “Good to know,” I say. “While you’re at it, there’s a little favor I’d like to ask…”

  * * *

  But before I can leave, there are three things that need my attention. One I’m dreading and two I’m looking forward to, so I guess I’m ahead.

  Eisfanger helps me with the first. It’s a lot easier to trace someone’s psychic essence when they aren’t being masked by corporate shamans, and I find who I’m looking for beneath an underpass only a few blocks from Hemo’s offices.

  Street kids can smell a cop a mile away, but maybe his time as a captive has dulled his instincts. He’s crouched barefoot on the concrete, sucking on an oversize bottle of Beefy Fizz through a straw—I guess it has enough blood in it to give a hemovore some nutrition. He doesn’t look up until I’m a few feet away.

  I stop and study him. “Hello, Wendell,” I say.

  He studies me right back. The look on his face is wary but not afraid. He appears to be around ten years old, with a child’s slight body and shaggy blond hair. He’s wearing torn jeans and a black T-shirt that’s too big for him. The shirt has a beer logo on it. “Hey,” he says. “How do you know my name?”

  “I’m the one that got you released.”

  “Oh. Thanks, I guess. That was kind of messed up.”

  “I’ll bet.” I hesitate, but I have to know. “What was it like?”

  “Not so bad, at first. They fed me, got me new clothes. Let me play some video games. But I guess they gave me drugs or something, because everything got all blurry and there was chanting and stuff. And then…” His eyes go blank, and then he blinks a few times very quickly and gives his head a little shake. “I don’t know. I don’t remember.”

  I can tell he’s lying, but I don’t push. If he wants to forget, that’
s fine by me. “I’ve got something for you,” I say, and hand him the shopping bag I’m carrying.

  He takes it—cautiously, like a wild animal you’re trying to feed by hand—and then peers inside. He reaches in and pulls out his baseball glove.

  The smile on his face is all too brief, but it makes everything I’ve gone through worth it. This is why I do my job, why I take the chances I do. For that one moment, all is right in my world: The good guys won, the bad guys suffered, justice triumphed.

  “It missed you,” I say.

  “Thanks,” he says. He tries to sound casual, trying to downplay it, not letting on how much it means to him. You can’t appear to care too much about anything, when you live the way he does. If you do, someone will try to take it away.

  Still, he must feel he owes me something, because he frowns for a second and then says, “It was my own fault.”

  “What was?”

  “Getting snatched like that. I knew better. When something seems too good, too easy, it’s always a scam. But I thought—I guess I thought I could scam them. People with money show up down here sometimes, you know? They think they know how everything works, but they don’t. You can usually give them a sob story and get a few bucks, maybe more. I got greedy, that’s all.”

  The worst part is that he doesn’t sound bitter or sad, just thoughtful. He’s fitting his new experiences into his worldview. Learning.

  After all, that’s what children do.

  “It wasn’t your fault,” I say quietly. “None of it. I hope you believe that, someday. For now, though, can you do me a favor?”

  His eyes go flat. His survival instincts aren’t that dull, after all. “What?”

  “There’s some money tucked inside that glove. Share it with the other kids who got taken, okay?”

  He’s already fishing out the roll of bills I stuffed into the thumb. “Yeah, sure.”

  He’ll probably keep it all himself, but I don’t have the time or the energy to hunt down the whole group. I tell myself that I’m wrong, that he’ll diligently find all of them and give each one his or her share, and I’m going to keep telling myself that until I believe it.