Blood Song

by Cat Adams

  for the brass plaque.

  The safe is top-of-the-line, with not only heavy-duty locks but also level-eight magical wards

  protecting it. Anybody who tries to mess with it wil wind up on their ass at least, and probably in the

  hospital for an extended stay. I’d have made the protections lethal—but the police frown on that sort of

  thing.

  My mother whines to Gran about how I make so much money, where could I possibly spend it al ? I

  was looking at a chunk of it. A lot goes into savings and investments, of course. No matter how good

  you are, you’re going to get hurt in this job—if you don’t get kil ed. Insurance companies won’t give

  bodyguards a disability policy. So you have to prepare for the worst on your own. I have a tidy little nest

  egg, and anybody who signs my contract has to guarantee a lump sum payment of a quarter mil in

  case of death or permanent disability. I charge a rate that is significant enough to al ow me to live quite

  nicely. What’s left over gets either invested or spent on things like the safe and weapons.

  And art. A couple of smal high-quality framed prints are hung on the outer wal s. The cherry frames

  match the wood of the coffee table and the arms of the visitors’ chairs. The paintings were created by

  a magician several centuries before. I swear there’s more to them than pretty seascapes. I just haven’t

  figured out what yet.

  The inside wal is al business—a large-scale, detailed map of the city and surrounding areas. It’s

  been laminated and mounted on cork and takes up most of the wal . I use it to plan transport and

  emergency evacuation routes, among other things. I’ve marked ongoing construction projects and

  detours. Because if a map like that isn’t accurate it’s worthless.

  Gibson wandered around the room, taking it al in. I stepped behind the desk and over to the safe. I

  stated my name very clearly, and a panel slid out. I set my left hand on it, palm downward, holding stil

  as a soft blue light scanned from left to right, then top to bottom. Two of the lights on the display panel

  switched to green. The third, however, remained a sul en red.

  “What the hel ?” I glared at the machine. The technology part of the security was working just fine: My

  voice had passed, my palm and fingerprints accepted. But the magical wards, the ones keyed to my

  DNA, didn’t accept my identity. I couldn’t open the safe.

  “Is there a problem?”

  “The safe doesn’t recognize me.” I kept my voice pleasant, but I was swearing inwardly. This was

  bad. Real y bad.

  “How long before the wards wind down?” He said it as though he figured it would be a matter of

  hours. Little did he know.

  “Probably a decade or so.”

  He stared at me with wide eyes. It probably took a ful minute before he gathered his wits enough to

  say, “Isn’t that a bit excessive?”

  I turned, my eyes locking with his for a long moment. “There’s no point in having a safe if it doesn’t

  keep things safe. ”

  He shook his head, obviously both annoyed and amused.

  Glad he could find something funny about it. I didn’t. Most of my weapons, and al of my computer

  files, were locked behind those wards. It had never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to get to

  them. Crap.

  I turned back to the desk and picked up the phone with my right hand as I thumbed through my oldfashioned Rolodex with my left.

  I found the number quickly enough and was pleased when the tech support rep picked up on the third

  ring—without routing me through an annoying voice-mail system.

  “Moore Lock and Safe, Justin here.”

  I blinked a couple times in surprise. Justin is the owner, and the man who most often comes by to

  refresh the warding. I couldn’t imagine what was going on that he’d be stuck manning the phones.

  “Justin, it’s Celia. We have a problem.” I settled into my desk chair as I explained to him what the safe

  was … or, more accurately, wasn’t doing.

  “Any chance you’re preggers?” he asked. “That kind of a heavy-duty biological change can play

  havoc with the system.”

  I stared at the phone for a long moment in silence. I couldn’t be. No. Not possible. But the question

  itself was unexpected. It would never have occurred to me that sort of thing could be a problem. I

  mean, yeah, you’re carrying a baby, but you’re stil you.

  I’d been quiet too long. He let out a soft chuckle that managed to mix wry amusement with sympathy.

  “Sorry or congratulations, whichever applies.”

  “No, it’s not that.” I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see it. “I mean, I’m not. But I got attacked

  by a bat last night, and he tried to change me.”

  The humor evaporated immediately, replaced by a flattering level of concern. “Oh, crap. Are you al

  right?”

  “Apparently the safe doesn’t think so.” I tried to make it a joke, but I couldn’t quite pul it off. There was

  just the hint of a tremolo in my voice. I plowed on anyway, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Any ideas as to

  how we can fix this?” Gibson was probably listening, but he didn’t make a big deal out of it. He opened

  the door to the balcony and stepped out, then leaned against the railing and basked. Bright sunshine

  il uminated the harsh contours of his face.

  “Wel … um … wow,” he muttered under his breath while he thought and I drummed my fingers

  impatiently on the desktop. “Theoretical y the same procedure should work. I mean, I’ve never tried it,

  but the principle is sound.” He sighed. “And let’s hope it does, because if not you are so screwed.”

  “What do I do?”

  “We need samples with your DNA from before you changed. Hair, fingernail clippings, something like

  that.”

  “I can get some hair from my brush in the bathroom.”

  “Good. Once you’ve got it, hit the reset button, do the voice recognition and the palm print, then say,

  ‘Pregnancy override.’ Two smal drawers wil open up beneath the palm reader. Drop the hairs in the

  left one. The right one has a sharp point in it. Jab your finger on it until it draws blood.”

  Ow.

  “The drawers wil close, and the machine wil start cross-matching the DNA between the two samples.

  It’l take about twenty-four hours. When it finishes, if you’re cleared, you’l get the green light and it wil

  have reset to the ‘new you.’”

  “And if it doesn’t?”

  A long pause. “Cal me back.”

  “Right.”

  He hung up without saying good-bye—probably to go find and study the tech manuals. I went down

  the hal to the bathroom I share with the guys from the bail-bonding company and retrieved my

  hairbrush. I fol owed Justin’s directions careful y, with Gibson in fascinated attendance.

  “Think it’l work?” he asked.

  I sighed and steeled myself before stabbing myself on the finger prick. “Ow. It’s never a good thing

  when the tech guys start saying things like ‘theoretical y’ and ‘in principle.’”

  Gibson winced, but whether it was in sympathy or frustration at the fact that al my records were just

  out of reach I couldn’t be sure.

  “Even if it does, it’s going to be twenty-four hours before I can give you any more information.”

  He put both hands on the back of the guest chair, leaning his weight on them. “You don’t have

  anything that�
�s not in the safe? Written notes? Message slips?”

  I shook my head. “Not real y. Everything’s on the computer …” I wound up leaving the sentence

  dangling as my mind wandered. “Except … I remember the name and address of the place where I

  reported for duty. I can take you there.”

  He shook his head. “No way, Graves. This situation is a political nightmare, a freaking diplomatic

  ‘incident’ just waiting to happen. You’re going to give me the name and address of the building and

  anything else you can remember about how you were hired, and then you’re going to stay the hel away

  from that part of it. It’s going to be hard enough finding out whether the prince you were guarding was

  the real deal or a body double and what happened. The State Department is going to have a fit, and

  they’re going to want in. They’re also going to want you out of it except as a witness.”

  “But—,” I started to protest.

  “I’l keep you advised. But stay away from it. Trust me, you’l have enough on your plate, dealing with

  the vampire end of things.” He was probably right. That didn’t mean I had to like it. I scowled at him but

  gave him the information without further argument.

  Gibson reached into his pocket, withdrew a notebook and a silver Cross pen, and scribbled down the

  address of the hotel.

  “I’l head right over. In the meantime, thank you for your cooperation. If you think of anything else

  before I get back”—he reached into the breast pocket of his suit for a business card—“give me a cal .

  Otherwise, I’l meet you back here, this time tomorrow.”

  Crap. He was going to leave me stuck here without my car. I mean, yeah, he was in the middle of an

  important investigation and it was only a couple of blocks, but I had that whole sunlight al ergy thing to

  consider. “Right.”

  He stopped so abruptly I wondered if he’d heard my thought. “Do you need me to take you back to

  your car?”

  I could tel from the way he said it, he was hoping I’d say no. He was just that anxious to get on with

  the investigation.

  “I can give her a lift.” Dawna appeared in the hal , carrying a tray with coffee and creamers.

  “Thanks.” He took a Styrofoam cup from the tray and took a long pul . “I appreciate that.” He took one

  more drink, then set the cup on the tray and started down the stairs.

  “No problema.” She gave him a smile that could’ve lit the entire West Coast.

  She watched him for a ful minute, until he disappeared from sight. When the door slammed, her face

  took on a calculating look I knew from long experience. She’d set her sights on the detective.

  “Don’t.”

  “But—”

  “Seriously, Dawna. Bad idea.”

  She stuck her lip out in a pretty pout and huffed a bit, flinging her long black ponytail over her

  shoulder. “Damn. There you go, spoiling everything. Is he yours? Is that the problem?”

  “No.” I admitted. “He’s sick. There’s something wrong with him. I can smel it.”

  “You can smell it? Seriously?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Ewwww. That is just … gross.” She shook her head. “What do I smel like?”

  I didn’t even have to think about it. “Chanel Number Five, high-quality leather, and chicken salad on

  rye.”

  She blinked. “Wel , al right then.” Then, giving a gusty sigh, “Shame, though. He seemed nice. A little

  old. But nice.”

  I didn’t answer. I’d grabbed a cup of coffee from the tray and was taking a long pul of liquid nirvana.

  Caffeine, nectar of the gods. I didn’t gulp it down, it was too hot for that, but I savored each sip, letting

  the scent fil my nostrils and chase away the stench of il ness.

  “Thanks for that. Give me a few minutes more to myself, okay? I’ve got to make a couple cal s.” I’d

  start with my gran, which would be tough enough. But as soon as I’d finished with that I was going to

  have to cal Bob’s wife and break the news.

  Gran stil wasn’t answering the phone. That was ominous al on its own. She’s healthy as a horse, but

  she’s not young. Of course it was much more likely that she was avoiding my cal s. She does it every

  time my mother talks her into something they both know I’m not going to approve of—little things, like

  letting my mother, who has had her license revoked and is an uninsurable drunk, take the car.

  Don’t think about it. You don’t know that’s what’s happening. She could be busy at the church.

  I tried cal ing Kevin. I real y did. But he didn’t pick up. I left him a voice mail saying I was hanging in

  there and not to worry and thanking him, Emma, and Amy for saving my life.

  My own voice mail was stil presently unavailable, which was getting annoying. If I didn’t have access

  in the next hour or so, I was going to be cal ing the main line and complaining to my carrier.

  I hesitated before dialing the next number.

  Gwendolyn Talbert had been one of the best therapists in the business until she retired two years ago

  due to health problems. She had specialized in trauma victims—particularly children. She saved my

  sanity and probably my life after the events that led to my sister’s death and my own torture. It was

  Gwen’s delicate use of magic that had blunted the memories of the trauma, making them bearable,

  enabling me to eventual y have a normal, loving relationship with Bruno DeLuca. No, I hadn’t dated

  anyone since we broke up, but that was by choice, not because I wasn’t able to.

  Now I needed help. I was hanging on to my sanity with my teeth and toenails, mostly by very

  deliberately not thinking about things. But that wouldn’t last. The shock would wear off, and when it did I

  was going to need a damned good therapist. I wanted it to be Gwen.

  The phone rang three times before going to voice mail. Apparently this was not my day to reach

  anybody. I listened to the calm, feminine voice saying, “You have reached Gwendolyn Talbert. If you

  have cal ed on a professional matter, I regret that I am no longer seeing patients. If this is a personal

  cal , please leave your name and number after the tone.”

  I waited for the beep. Taking a deep breath, I spoke as clearly and calmly as I could manage. “Gwen,

  it’s me … um, Celia Graves. Um, something’s happened. I need to talk to someone. I know you’re

  retired, but I don’t trust anyone else. If you can’t see me, can you at least give me a name? Somebody

  you trust? Please?”

  God I sounded pathetic. Desperate. Then again, I was. I left the office number and hung up. I would

  have left the new cel number, if only I’d written it down somewhere to remember it.

  While I was making useless cal s, I left a message for El Jefe. I needed to find out everything I could

  about abominations and brush up on any successful techniques hunters had used to find the daytime

  lairs of master vampires. I wasn’t sure if he was back from Chicago, so I decided to start doing a little

  research on my own.

  But first, I had one more cal to make.

  I had Dawna get me the number from the Internet. I hadn’t been sure she’d be home. Stil , I

  recognized Vanessa’s voice when she picked up the phone on the third ring.

  I tried to break it to her gently. I was rewarded by a stream of expletives screamed at top volume

  —loud enough that I had to move the receiver away from my ear the length of my arm. She fol owed

  t
his by blaming me for his death, then weeping hysterical y and hanging up on me. Bob didn’t have any

  other living relatives, so I didn’t know who else to cal . But it seemed wrong. He’d been a good man.

  Not perfect, but who is? He deserved to have somebody more than just me to mourn him. Maybe there

  was someone. I hadn’t realized they’d gotten divorced until the screaming voice in my ear informed me

  of it in no uncertain terms. Did he have a new girlfriend? I had no way of knowing. I sure as hel wasn’t

  going to cal Vanessa again.

  Maybe in a day or two, when things settled down, I’d put some effort into looking into it. But first, I

  wanted to take care of the crisis du jour.

  I braced myself and sprinted from the curb to the front doors of the university library. Since most of the

  building’s front facade is glass, I wasn’t real y safe until I’d gotten halfway down the stairs down to the

  basement.

  I’d always considered it a nuisance that they’d put the paranormal section down there, al by itself,

  behind every known kind of protection. Now I wasn’t sorry. Being in the basement meant that I would be

  able to have a windowless study room to work in.

  Halfway down the stairs I hit a magical barrier I couldn’t see and nearly lost my footing. I had to grab

  onto the handrail and steady myself for a minute before I could move forward. When I did it felt … odd

  … like I was forcing my way through a wal of Jel -O. Tiny sparks exploded against my skin. None of

  them were strong, but there were a lot of them. The sensation was similar to that of being in a room

  with too much static electricity. I couldn’t move backward at al and moving forward was slow. It didn’t

  get better until I stepped off of the staircase. When I did, the change in pressure made my ears pop

  and my nostrils twitch.

  I recognized the staff member behind the reserved desk. Anna had been in charge of the Paranormal

  and Metaphysical Desk for over a decade. She’d helped me with research for many a project, and

  could recite where every book or artifact was from memory. A soft-spoken woman of “a certain age,”

  she had iron gray hair and warm brown eyes hidden behind thick-lensed glasses. I’d always admired

  her drol sense of humor, and knew she had enough mage talent to be able to handle any studentrelated accidents that might occur due to mishandling of the merchandise. I didn’t doubt that it was her