Blood Call

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Anna turned onto her side, her long hair spread out on the pillows. She belonged in her own messy, unmade maple four-poster with its mound of pillows and brightly colored sheets. Josiah was suddenly shaken with the urge to close the door, brace a chair against it, and get in next to her. Take her in his arms and pretend that she was sleeping because she trusted him, because she wanted to.

  His hands itched to touch her. In the end, Josiah backed away from the bed, one slow step at a time, and closed the door once he was in the hall. He spread the fingers of his hand against cool wood for a moment, imagining he could still hear her breathing.

  Josiah was very fond of things that made some sort of sense. Either he didn’t know enough, or someone had gone after Anna to draw him out…or something else was happening here, something that probably had a rational explanation but for right now was looking irrational as hell.

  It was anyone’s guess.

  He peeled his fingers away from the door, one by one. Don’t worry, Anna. Sleep tight. I’m on the job.

  Disgust rose acid in his throat again. As many times as I want, and you’ll act like you like it.

  It didn’t matter so much that he said it. What did matter was that it was at least partially true. He was going to take whatever he could get from her, as often as he could, and he was going to make it good for her. As good as he could.

  On the job and already neck-deep. He turned sharply away. He couldn’t wait to hear what Hassan thought of the interviews.

  * * *

  “What the hell is this shite?” It was the first time Hassan had ever sounded baffled and angry at once. “Some kind of practical joke?”

  Josiah folded his arms. “Someone killed Eric for this. I doubt it’s a joke.”

  “Oh, come on. This is pure top-grade shite. A collection of fucking fairy tales. They never say exactly what the treatment is, and everything in the interviews is just scared bibble-babble.” Hassan’s accent had turned crisp. He picked up the beer bottle, tossed the last swallow back.

  Willie leaned on the other side of the breakfast bar. “The charts don’t make any sense.” Her dark eyes were troubled. “Blood transfusions? Morphine in massive doses? The notations, they look like amputations. Cutting off fingers and toes.”

  “You haven’t read the Grimm’s edition yet.” Hassan tapped his bottle on the counter, a short sharp noise. “One of the interviewees swears he’s seen someone levitate. I hate to ask you, Wolfe, but are you sure she’s not snowing you? Or a few cuckoos short of a Black Forest cake?”

  If I didn’t know you had a legitimate reason to ask, I’d hit you, whether I owe you or not. “Anna isn’t in any condition to lie. And her brother’s indisputably dead.”

  “Yes, but this…” Hassan shook his head. Willie silently crossed the kitchen, opened the fridge, and brought him another beer. She glanced at Josiah, who shook his head slightly.

  No, thank you, Willie. “It doesn’t make sense right now. Maybe it will once we’ve done some other quiet digging. I’ll take first watch tonight. Cancel the housekeepers, too.”

  Willie moved her teacup. It made a precise little click, and he looked up to find both her and Hassan watching him.

  I hope I don’t look as worried as they do. “I’m thinking this could get messy. So if you want to excuse yourselves…”

  “You’re determined to take this seriously. Levitation, morphine, and all.” Hassan lifted his fresh bottle in the usual salute to Willie, then brought it to his mouth and took a long draft. His throat worked, tanned skin and muscle moving.

  Let’s count this up, shall we? Josiah held up one finger. “A dead reporter and stacks of confusing documents. Interviewees shutting up, or disappearing—we’ll find out which tomorrow.” Another. “Pictures of the chief of police, the mayor, other city officials.” Another. “A dead editor.” The last one. “And a woman so terrified she starts to stutter when she talks about finding her dead brother. You may not know her, but I do.” Whatever’s going on, she’s innocent. And going to stay that way. He looked down at the untidy stack of paper. “My instinct tells me this is going to get messy. I am determined to take this seriously, and I am further determined to finish this matter to my satisfaction.” He took in a deep, soft breath, the last before the plunge. “I’m on the job.”

  Hassan let out a short sigh. “For Christ’s sake. You retired.”

  “Consider this a last hurrah.”

  Willie shook her head. “I don’t like it.”

  “Are you out?” He didn’t relish the thought of losing her as backup.

  She thought about it for a long moment. Then she nodded once, very softly but decisively. “God knows you have no sensitivity in your entire goddamn body, Josiah Wolfe.” The tall, spare woman tilted her dark head. “I don’t like anything to do with morphine and amputations and dead reporters. But I’m in.” A trace of native German worked its way out through her words, precise and throat-deep.

  Well. That’s a relief.

  Hassan drew his finger through a ring of condensation left by the cold beer bottle. “If you’re on the job, this is a bloody sloppy way to begin.” His tone was excessively mild.

  “You’re right. Tomorrow morning we’re going to rectify that.” A cold, calm clarity slid through Josiah’s head. It was the only feeling that didn’t seem to lead directly to the woman sleeping upstairs. “Starting with finding out what exactly the story is about Eric’s death and the editor’s, then tracking down some of those interviewees. We’re going to poke the anthill, see what comes up.”

  Chapter Ten

  Anna turned, sheets sliding, and felt a jag of pain from her ankle, a deeper bar of pain in her lower back. The bandage on her heel rasped against the material. More darkness wrapped around her, submerged her in deep, heavy water.

  Running. Her breath came in short, hard gasps, she couldn’t get enough air in, and the little pockpock sounds of bullets burying themselves in wet turf were a demonic sewing machine as she struggled not to freeze; if she stopped running she would die, they would shoot her and—

  Then, in vivid screaming color—Eric’s distorted face, painted with puffy bruises and blood. A horrible wide grin yawned under his chin, and his shirt was clotted with crimson stickiness.

  “Anna.” Hands on her shoulders, fingers digging in, and she was pulled forward. A familiar smell enveloped her, and for a moment she was confused, her heart pounding and slick dampness on her palms. A horrible nightmare. I dreamed you were gone and Eric was dead and I was sleeping in an alley. God.

  Disorientation swamped her. He held her shoulders; she thrashed fruitlessly. “Just a dream, Anna. It’s all right. I’m here.”

  Josiah? The room was dark, a faint cold spill of moonlight outlining a rectangle on the floor. “God.” The word cracked in the middle¸ fell useless to the floor. Her face burned, her bruised cheek sounding a deep bass beat of hot pain.

  “It’s normal to have bad dreams.” He waited until she was steady, let go of her shoulders. “It’s okay. Just relax.”

  How would you know? Do you ever have them? The silk pajamas were soft, and she was finally warm again, but her back ached as she tried to sit upright. She felt funny, her head full of soft, blue cotton instead of the gray of shock. Even the hot pain of her cheek and her lower back was muted. “I feel funny.”

  “It’s normal.” He sounded so calm; he was a familiar shadow against this unfamiliar room with its bare walls and the leather couch, the pristine bathroom seen through a half-open door. So stripped-down, minimalist.

  She’d never liked that movement. It was baroque for her, curlicues and velvet and softness. If this was who Josiah really was—this bareness—what had he thought of her messy, plush, comfortable apartment? He’d barely ever taken her to his home; the one time she’d spent the night at his apartment she’d wondered at how nakedly white the walls were.

  “Normal?” She had to try twice to get the word out.

  “When you see someone you love de
ad, and when you’ve been thrown into a high-pressure situation…yeah, it’s normal.” He sat on the edge of the bed, his hands dropped loosely into his lap and his head half-turned so he could watch her. “You’re a civilian, Anna.”

  Civilian. High-pressure situation. “Did you…do you have bad dreams?”

  He shrugged, an easy, familiar motion. “Not when I was with you.”

  A traitorous spike of warmth went through her chest. She pulled her knees up, slowly, her joints creaking like an old woman’s. Added to that was the fuzzy realization that she was in his bed, and the spike became a spreading heat. “Was that why you…”

  “It wasn’t why I got involved with you, and it’s not why I’m helping you now. You should lie down. Or do you need something for pain?” He shifted his weight slightly, as if he was going to stand up, but then settled back down.

  “Were you watching me sleep again?” Why did you always do that?

  He didn’t respond. Her throat was dry, and her mouth tasted a little funny. Metallic.

  She reached out. Her fingers touched his shoulder, the slightly rough texture of his sweater and the hardness of muscle underneath. It was an instinctive movement, and as soon as she did it her heart began to pound again. He was probably still angry, but it was still so familiar. Even the sound of his breathing was the same.

  Three goddamn years, and he still felt just as comforting as an old pair of slippers. She’d forgotten how he could make her relax, his almost infectious calm. Like there was nothing he couldn’t handle.

  At least, she really hoped there was nothing he couldn’t handle.

  Even his profile was watchful, thoughtful, silent. She had sketched his face so many times, and now, looking at the set of his shoulders, she realized he was edgy.

  He used to get like this. Not very often, just once every couple of months. Tense, and startlingly affectionate at the same time; he would come up behind her and hug her, follow her into the kitchen, be waiting for her when she left work. She’d thought it was love, before.

  Now she wondered. Her hand moved almost of its own volition, her palm polishing his shoulder under the sweater, and he sighed.

  “Josiah?” I sound like I’m fourteen years old again. Hell of a time for a blast from the past.

  “You should rest.” He finally moved, just a little, leaning into her hand.

  “What about you?” How often do you sleep here? Are you visiting some other girl’s apartment nowadays? Watching another woman sleep?

  She wondered why the thought made a fresh sharpness jab through her chest.

  He didn’t move. “I’m on watch. No sleeping allowed. Do you want something for the pain?”

  Why do you keep asking me? “No.” Her hand dropped away; she pulled her knees up slowly. Hugged them, ignoring the ache in her lower back. “What’s going to happen?”

  “We’re going to do a little digging, find out exactly what we’re dealing with. Might leave you in a safe place while we work.” He dropped his gaze a little. Her gaze picked out the line of his jaw, the curve of his cheek. The shell of his ear. He was so handsome, in his own quiet, unassuming way. “For right now, you’re supposed to rest.”

  I was out like a light. I barely even remember brushing my teeth. “I’ve got money,” she heard herself say. “And…the other. I’ll pay”

  “Don’t, Anna.” Calm, quiet, and inflexible. “I shouldn’t have said that to you. Just go back to sleep.”

  How can I? “I don’t think I can.”

  “You’ve already done a hell of a lot you didn’t think you could. This isn’t any different.”

  “Was it any different for you?”

  “I’m not normal.” His jaw set, and for the first time his tone was shaded with something other than quiet evenness. “I’m going to go check the house. Stay up here and try to sleep, then.”

  Don’t go. The words stuck in her throat. Talk to me, like you used to. Tell me something, anything. “I’m sorry I called you.”

  “I’m not. Looks like your brother was on to something.” He made a swift movement and was on his feet, his eyes glittering in the dimness. “I’m going through the files. There’s odd stuff in there. I want you to take a look at it.…”

  The silence was immediate, and Anna looked up at him. Her dark-adapted eyes caught a swift movement and the gleam of metal, and he ghosted across the room to the door.

  “Josiah?” The whisper curdled in her throat.

  “Be quiet,” he whispered back. “Stay there.”

  Then he was gone, out through the door.

  Anna shivered. She knew what that gleaming was, the knowledge springing into full terrible life inside her head.

  A gun. Josiah was carrying a gun.

  Her heart pounded so hard it filled her head with blackness, and her palms were wet again. She pulled the blankets up, suddenly cold, staring at the window.

  Moonlight bloomed thin and hurtful against the cold glass panes. She stared at the square of pale whiteness against the hardwood floor. The deep, warm, soft bed seemed to get a little colder.

  The nightmare wasn’t going to end.

  A faint scratching, like fingernails on smooth, slick glass, startled her. Her head jerked up, her pulse pounding in her ears. What was that? They’ve found me? I don’t even know who “they” are.

  How was that for crazy? She didn’t even know who wanted her dead so badly.

  Moonlight, pale and innocent, lying on the floor. Only now, there was a block of shadow in the sterile white light. A strangely rounded shape, and the scratching noise intensified.

  The window rattled.

  Jesus Christ, someone’s out there. Her throat was desert-dry, her heart thundering in her temples and ears, shivers sliding down her spine in waves. Someone’s trying to get in.

  She remembered stairs coming up to this room. Lots of them, too.

  Get out of the bed. Get away. Frozen, she stared at the bobbing shadow in the moonlight. It did look like a head, and shoulders, floating up and down like a balloon.

  Anna scrambled for the other side of the bed, forgetting her injured ankle and aching back. Her face throbbed with pain. Get into the bathroom and bar the door with something. No, that’s a dead end, God help me.

  Still, she skidded across the floor and onto chill, slick tiles as glass shivered, breaking. Heavy feet smashed onto the floor near the window. She heard popping sounds and slammed the bathroom door, looking wildly for something to brace it with. Nothing showed up, and she fumbled for the lock on the knob with more hope than actual trust in its ability to stop anything coming through.

  Darkness smothered her, broken only by the night-light’s faint gleam and its reflection in the mirror. Her breath was very loud in her ears, just like the gasping in a horror film.

  So that’s why. It’s what terror sounds like.

  There was a massive crunching, and she didn’t stop to think, just tumbled into the claw-foot bathtub, smacking her head against the tiled wall and smashing her knee against the lip, too. A hot flare of pain slammed up from her ankle, the shower curtain tangling in plastic ripples. It was an old-fashioned curtain, on a ring bolted to the wall; she screamed and thrashed, thinking for an instant that someone had grabbed her.

  More crashing jolts. Anna swallowed the remainder of the scream. I’m an idiot. I’ve been attacked by a shower curtain.

  Something smashed against the bathroom door again, and she choked back another cry, casting around for a weapon and closing her fingers around the shampoo. Great. I’m going to hold them off with a bottle of Prell.

  Another impact against the splintering door. Anna struggled up to her sore knees, searching for another weapon. You’d think a contract killer would have a gun in his bathtub. I don’t even know how to shoot one. A fine time to wish I’d learned.

  More crashing sounds, thankfully receding. Anna clutched the shampoo bottle and looked around wildly for something else to use as a weapon. I don’t want to die in a bathroom, I d
on’t want to die in a goddamn bathtub, dear God….

  “Anna!” Josiah, frantic, somewhere else in the house. “ANNA!”

  I’m okay, I’m just crouching in here like an idiot. “Jo?” Her throat was two sizes too small.

  The bathroom door rattled. She gulped back a gasp, eased herself back up onto her knees, the shower curtain rings clattering. Dammit. Be quiet. Hide.

  And brain them with a shampoo bottle when they come in. Wonderful. As a plan, that really sucks.

  “Anna!” The bathroom door flew open, banging against the linen closet. Anna flung the shampoo bottle, he ducked, and the next thing she knew, Josiah was hauling her out of the bathtub, the curtain hoops rattling like a snake’s tail. “Jesus Christ. What was that?”

  How the hell should I know? You’re the professional. “Someone was at the window.” I’m not stuttering. Hallelujah.

  “What did she say?” This was the slim dark familiar man with the faintly British accent. He held a gun with both hands, pointing it down at the floor. “Christ, look at this. Be careful, Willie, there’s glass on the floor.”

  Tiles were still slick and chill against Anna’s bare feet. Josiah hugged her so tightly she couldn’t breathe, her heart pounded, and she suddenly had to use the toilet very badly.

  “Jesus.” His breath was warm; he buried his face in her hair. “Are you all right? Tell me you’re all right.”

  I wish I could, I really can’t tell. “I’m all right.” Her bladder felt about three sizes too small, too. Everything on her was shrinking. “I’m okay. There was someone in the window.”

  “What does she say?” The woman’s voice. Willie. What a name for a woman. “Mein Gott. How the hell did they get out through there?”

  “They didn’t; it’s broken in. Look.” Hassan’s voice. There were soft footfalls, metallic clicks. “Watch out for the glass, Willie.”

  “I know, silly man.” Willie didn’t sound impressed.

  “Tell me you’re all right.” Josiah’s hands closed over her shoulders; he held her at arm’s length in the bathroom’s dimness, lit only by the single night-light. He shook her a little, and Anna had the sudden overwhelming urge to laugh and scream at the same time. “Are you all right? Anna!”