Blood Song

by Cat Adams

  phone is at the occasional convenience store, and even then it’s just as likely to be out of order.

  Fortunately, I was on campus. I knew of at least three convenience stores that catered to students.

  Surely one of them would have a phone I could use. I left the parking lot with a particular 7-Eleven in

  mind.

  The first store had a phone, but the cord had been severed. I struck pay dirt at the second shop. The

  phone was even in the shade. Yeah, there was graffiti on it, but the cords were al attached, it wasn’t

  covered with anything sticky or awful, and when I picked it up I got a dial tone. I dropped a pair of the

  coins I’d rummaged from the ashtray of my car into the slot and dialed Gran’s number from memory. I

  let it ring eight times. No answer. Since she didn’t have voice mail or an answering machine, I hung up.

  But I have voice mail. Maybe she left a message. I dropped the coins back in the slot and dialed the

  number of my mailbox. Unfortunately, the recording told me the service was presently unavailable and

  suggested I cal back later.

  Wel , that was a waste of money, but I’d definitely be checking back frequently. It might be the key to

  my own past.

  After scrounging around between the seats, I found more change. I dropped another pair of coins in

  the slot, dialing a different number.

  The phone rang exactly once before a businesslike female voice answered. “Police, Detective

  Alexander speaking.”

  “Hey, Alex.” I greeted the woman on the other line with breezy familiarity that was only a little bit

  forced. I like Vicki’s lover. The three of us have had dinner a few times since they met, including,

  apparently, the birthday party. But I have to admit it’s been a little bit awkward. Maybe Alex and I are just

  too much alike—both hard cases with a sarcastic bent. Whatever the problem, things between us have

  always been just a little strained. Stil , we both love Vicki to pieces. She’s my best friend and Alex’s

  lover, so we al pretend everything’s peachy.

  “Graves. I just got the weirdest cal about you.” Alex’s voice was gruff but not unfriendly. “A friend of

  mine from downstairs cal ed, said there was a report of you getting bit by bats and being taken for

  medical treatment, but nobody could find you at any of the hospitals. Then, when they checked out the

  site of the supposed attack, there was no evidence of anything. The al ey was clean. Which is just

  fucking weird.”

  “Wel , I was attacked. I was damned near kil ed—apparently some time after Vicki’s birthday. So there

  should be evidence if they look hard enough.”

  “Are you al right?”

  I thought about how to answer that for a few seconds. The cops didn’t like monsters. Would she

  consider me one? I hoped not. But what was the point in lying? First time she set eyes on me she’d

  know the truth. “Yes, and no. Ever heard of an abomination?”

  “No. What’s that?” Her voice was tired, resigned, like she didn’t real y want to know but knew she

  needed to.

  I explained what had happened and as much of what it meant to me as Jones had had time to impart

  —not much, real y.

  “If that’s true, then the master that bit you is going to be after you—and you’re liable to wind up with

  bloodlust.”

  “I’m not a monster, Alex. I’m not going to be a monster. I’m just a human in need of a good dentist.”

  My voice was cold, hard, and uncompromising.

  “I hope you’re right.” Alex’s voice was as hard as mine had been, maybe more so. Then again, she’s

  a cop. “But let’s get this real clear right up front. If you ever show signs of slipping over that edge I’l

  take you out. No hesitation. Vicki or no.”

  She would. I knew it. In fact, I was counting on it. “If I slip over that edge, I want you to.”

  There was a long moment of silence between us, each of us lost in thoughts that were best unshared.

  I didn’t want to think about bloodlust, the urge to look at my fel ow humans as snack food, but I needed

  to. I needed to think about that and so many other things. But if I did, I was liable to lose it, and that

  could get me kil ed. So, I forced the fear and worry down hard, knowing even as I did that I’d pay for it.

  Denial is a great short-term coping mechanism. Long-term it’s pretty destructive, but hey, I just wanted

  to get to the long term.

  I broke the silence before it got too uncomfortable. “Can you get me the address of the al ey? I’m

  going to have to see if I can get a hunt sanctioned, then see if I can get any evidence and track the

  bastard down while it’s stil daylight.”

  “No, Celia. You don’t understand. And I’m not al owed to explain some of it to you. Suffice it to say that

  the al ey your friend sent us to is clean. Someone even hauled away al the trash. The rest of the

  neighborhood’s a dive, but my friend swears you could eat off the pavement in that al ey.”

  “What the—” I blinked a few times with shock. “That’s just … bizarre.”

  Her tone said she agreed. “Like I said, weird. Somebody went to a lot of trouble to get rid of the

  evidence of something—presumably your vampire attack. My friend would like to know why.”

  “So would I.”

  “They’re going to see if any of the shops in the area have video surveil ance, but he’s not particularly

  hopeful, considering the neighborhood. Obviously, he’l want to take your statement.”

  “How soon do I need to be there?”

  “Sooner is better than later. Go to the front desk and ask for Gibson. I’l tel him to expect you.”

  I sighed. I didn’t want to do this. But if I played nice with the cops, they were more likely to issue the

  warrant sanctioning my hunt and I might be able to keep my concealed-carry permit. If I didn’t agree to

  the questioning … wel , paperwork can be lost, delayed, misfiled, al kinds of things. They wouldn’t do it

  to get me kil ed. In fact, they’d probably be hunting for the bastard who did this to me just as hard as I

  was. But they’d keep me out of it. I didn’t want out of it.

  She laughed, but not like it was funny. “You sound so martyred. It won’t take that long. Besides, if you

  cooperate he may be wil ing to pass along what little information they’ve been able to gather. The

  master vampire that tried to turn you is going to try to either kil you or finish bringing you over. And

  someone went to a lot of trouble and expense covering this up. You’re going to need al the help you

  can get.”

  “Yeah. Wish I knew what I needed help with.” I said it for Alex’s benefit, but it was the truth. Vamps

  frequently run in packs, but they’re not organized. They don’t general y clean up their messes, either.

  Something big was going down and, lucky me, I’d stepped right in the middle of it.

  “Look, you’re only about ten minutes away. Come straight over. I’l meet you in the lobby and bring you

  up. Otherwise people are liable to freak when they see you.”

  She wasn’t wrong. Just on the short trip to the car from the lab I’d noticed a couple of people doing a

  double take and hurrying away from me. Daylight or no, something about me scared them, even with

  me carrying Emma’s pretty floral umbrel a.

  Alex seemed to sense something in my silence. “Just get here. One step at a time.”

  “Right. See you in a few.”

  She hung up without saying g
ood-bye, but then, she usual y did. I set the handset back in its cradle

  and steeled myself to go inside. I wanted a replacement cel phone sooner than later. You can get a

  basic phone cheap and easy at pretty much any convenience store—such as the one I was standing in

  front of—and it only takes a couple of minutes to activate it and load up some minutes. Maybe I’d find

  my regular phone. If not, I could get it replaced for a smal fee by the company that held my plan. But in

  the meantime, I needed something.

  I took a deep breath, told myself that it was broad daylight. Everybody knew that bats were nocturnal.

  I’d be fine. I was stil repeating it like a mantra when the clerk behind the counter let out an earsplitting

  shriek of abject terror, grabbed one of those huge multitank squirt guns, and began hosing me down

  with holy water.

  It wasn’t how I would’ve wanted to test whether or not I could handle holy water, but hey, I got lucky. It

  didn’t burn. Nor did the cross she held up glow, burn, or react to me in any way. I was grateful for that.

  But it embarrassed the hel out of me, and made me just a little bit pissed. Because everybody in the

  store was staring and muttering to each other under their breath, even as the clerk apologized and

  handed me paper towels to dry my face and hair.

  I practical y threw the money onto the counter for the phone, the minutes, and a large blessed cross

  set with enough rhinestones to blind the unwary, and ran from the store.

  Sitting in my car, I fought not to cry. Stupid, real y. I was alive. The water hadn’t burned me, hadn’t hurt

  me at al . For a brief moment, I was relieved beyond measure.

  But I could stil see the expression on that woman’s face, the naked fear in her eyes, could see and

  hear the pulse pounding at her throat.

  It made my mouth water.

  I hate feeling helpless. Yeah, I know, pretty much everybody does. But I hate it. I’ve spent years in

  therapy, and more years doing just plain hard work, to gain as much control as I can over my life. I train

  my body, my mind. I run my own business so that no one can order me around. I make sure that each

  job is planned to the last detail, and that I have the absolute best equipment so that I can control

  everything as much as I can.

  Her fear had made me hungry.

  How the hell was I supposed to cope with that?

  I thought about cal ing in to my office, but I had to charge the phone first and then load the minutes. A

  black and white police cruiser pul ed into the lot and I decided against using the pay phone again.

  Apparently the clerk didn’t like that I was stil “lurking” outside. I said a couple of uncomplimentary things

  under my breath and started the engine. I even gave the cops a cheery little wave as I drove past.

  Bitchy? Possibly. But it made me feel just a teeny bit better. Today, I’d take every little bit that helped.

  I’d stop by the office and check my messages after I finished talking to the police. I wouldn’t stay long.

  I was already tired, and I had lots of things to do if I was going to get ready to hunt my sire.

  I was distracted enough that I almost missed my turn. I managed to get onto the Loop, but I had to cut

  across two lanes of traffic to do it. Traffic was lighter than usual, so I made good time. Normal y I’d

  have slipped in a CD, but I turned on the radio instead. I was listening for the news. If I’d made it to the

  job and the prince had gone down, it’d be a headline story at the top of the hour. If he hadn’t, the

  politicos would probably sweep the whole thing under the carpet. Because while the press may love a

  scandal, royalty general y doesn’t, particularly when the folks back home are fundamentalists.

  The news came on just as I was pul ing into the multilevel parking garage that serviced the Santa

  Maria de Luna PD. Nothing about the prince. In fact, other than the unrest in Pakistan and the peace

  talks going on in the former Soviet satel ite nations, there didn’t appear to be much going on at al .

  I knew from past experience that if I parked in the garage attached to the police department I could

  take an elevator directly into the second-floor lobby of the building. No sunlight. Which, al things

  considered, was probably a good idea. Yes, if I had to, I could use the umbrel a again, but I didn’t want

  to. Maybe it was denial, or just plain stubbornness, but hiding from the sun just felt … wrong.

  The parking garage was dim and cool enough to be almost welcoming after the car’s heat. The soft

  sound of my sneakers was lost in the wail of a car alarm echoing off of the concrete.

  Pressing the button for the elevator, I tried to shake off a growing sense of unease. This entire

  situation was just too strange. Nothing made sense. Emma would never believe it, but I’m actual y a

  creature of order. I plan things practical y to death, and then I double-and triple-check ’em. Because I

  want to control what I can. Invariably there are lots of things you can’t control—completely

  unpredictable things that force you to improvise and think on your feet. But if you’ve got a handle on the

  other stuff, you have a better chance of success in dealing with the random crap. At least that’s what I

  tel myself.

  But in the words of my gran, this whole situation was “hinky” and “stank like week-old fish.”

  The bel rang, and the elevator doors slid open with a gentle whoosh. I stepped over the metal

  threshold onto white speckled linoleum waxed to a high gloss. Air-conditioning hit my wet clothes,

  making me shudder. In the distance I could hear the soft rush of water over stone. I froze. Running

  water—a big vampire no-no. Was it going to be a problem? The holy water hadn’t been. I tried to think

  of a way of finding out without making a spectacle of myself and came up blank.

  Screw it. Just suck it up, Graves. Squaring my shoulders, I marched toward the lobby. The piped-in

  stream that fed the moat of magical water surrounding the holding cel s was surprisingly pretty. Not only

  was the waterfal supposed to inspire peaceful feelings in the prisoners, but it also nul ified any spel s

  that might try to break people out.

  I passed it without so much as a flinch, which made me seriously happy. Thus far I was proving more

  human than bat, which was just fine by me. I just hoped the trend continued.

  I stepped into the automated scanners set to detect weapons and offensive magic. Warmth swept

  over me, from head to toe and back up. When the light flashed green I walked over to admire the

  fountain that was part of a memorial to the department’s injured and fal en officers. It’s in plain view of

  the main building entrance, just past the main bank of scanners and about five yards to the right of the

  reception desk.

  The fountain is a set of five long, narrow steps of polished black marble rising from a shal ow pool

  fil ed with river rock to an eight-foot bronze statue of Blind Justice. Behind her, on a wal of black

  marble, are rows of gold and silver plates about an inch by two inches. Engraved on each are the

  name, rank, and dates of service of the honored officer: silver for those injured and disabled, gold for

  those who died in the line of duty. They didn’t quite fil the entire section, but it was getting close. I

  recognized more than a few names, most of them on the shiniest plaques.

  I’m not particularly religious, but I said a quiet prayer for the souls of the fal en to whoever might be
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  listening. It’s been a rough couple of years. The experts have been debating why. Maybe it’s just a

  natural cycle. Maybe not. Nobody seems to have an answer, not even El Jefe and the rest of the

  experts. So the religious orders and the cops do the best they can fighting an increasingly losing battle

  against evil and destruction.

  I heard the buzz of the security door opening and turned to see Alex standing in a discreetly recessed

  doorway, beckoning to me. Standing next to her was a middle-aged man with close-cropped graying

  blond hair. Everything about him was square and boxy. He wasn’t tal , probably five eight or so, but he

  was built broad. Not fat, but broad and strong, like a former linebacker who, while he didn’t precisely

  work out, hadn’t let himself go to seed, either. He had a square jaw and big, blunt-fingered hands. His

  only jewelry was a plain gold watch. His suit was a medium gray that was almost the exact shade of the

  eyes staring out at me from behind a pair of rimless glasses. His fair skin had an almost greenish

  undertone and a flaccid quality that spoke of il health. He was dying. I don’t know how I knew this, but I

  did, just as I knew his blood would taste bitter from the toxins his failing kidneys were no longer

  processing. He won’t taste good.

  I shuddered a little in fear and revulsion. He was a man. He was not food. But as much as it terrified

  me, I couldn’t take back that errant thought, the thought of a vampire. God help me.

  6

  You can smel it on me, can’t you?” Gibson spoke softly, each word measured.

  I sat across the table in an interrogation room that looked pretty much exactly like the ones they show

  on the television cop shows. This one was clean, with a coat of paint fresh enough to stil smel of

  chemicals. I sat across a scarred table from Gibson, facing a big bank of mirrored glass that probably

  gave another officer or two an unobstructed view of the proceedings. In the corner, near the ceiling,

  was a recorder—audio and video from the look of it. The lights weren’t lit, but that was because Gibson

  hadn’t hit the button on the remote.

  We’d stopped by the commissary for a cup of coffee before coming up. It sat on the table in front of