by Gwynn White
“Significantly better.”
Ann lifted a brow. “Seriously?”
“Oh, yeah.”
“Wow.” Two thoughts jockeyed for prominence as Ann considered the offer before her. For starters, she could hardly believe that Cato made significantly more than she, all for basically showing up and stealing her thunder. That thought infuriated her even more than she had been. On the other hand, the realization that she would not only be claiming that salary for herself but taking it from Cato as well pleased her immensely. The two thoughts balanced each other out, producing an agreeably neutral sensation. “And you’re not just offering me this because I walked in on your secretary giving you a hummer?”
“I’d like to think I’m not. Care to prove me right?”
“All right,” Ann said after one final moment of consideration. “Deal.”
They spit in their palms, shaking on it.
Their deal solidified, Ann was headed out of the office when the radio on her hip crackled. “This is the Chief of Ds,” she said into the mic. “Go ahead.”
The news that came back over the radio shook them both to the core, leaving no doubt that everything Meridia stood for was officially under siege.
“Go,” Zobbles said. “Go!”
“This one is mine, right?” Ann demanded even as she raced for the exit. “Don’t you dare screw me over again, Dolan!”
“Yes, of course! I mean, no—just go, damn it, go!”
She did, tearing through the halls even as the city reeled around them.
5
Candace Kappa was already late for work, but she couldn’t be blamed for that. The whole city was losing its tits over some kerfuffle downtown, and she’d only just made it to the blood bank, one of several on the outskirts of Tanglereave. She didn’t work there, but her wages were for shit, so sometimes she needed to sell a little blood to make ends meet. She had a kid to feed, after all, and the vamps were willing to pay her cold, hard cash for her warm, gushing blood. Seemed liked a win-win deal in her book. Her boss would probably bitch her out for being late, but she figured she could blame whatever craziness had snarled the trams. She figured it had to be something crazy, something everyone would have heard about and wouldn’t question, the way the city had all but shut down.
“Well, hello there, Candy,” the blood bank attendant greeted her. His name was Raphael, but they had interacted so many times that they had nicknames for each other.
“Hey, Raphy. Got a chair for me today? I can’t wait too long.”
Raphael was actually kind of cute, as the bloodsuckers went. Slick black hair, a well-defined widow’s peak, and such lovely, full lips, especially when he smiled at her, like he was now, his fangs peeking beneath his upper lip. A warning, and yet so damn tempting at the same time…
“For you, my dear, always. Your blood is a treasure, so pure and rich.”
Candace laughed and waved his statement aside for the flattery it obviously was. “That’s sweet of you to say, Raphy, but I’m sure it runs as red as any other.”
“Oh, hardly, my dear. Your blood is, as the French of old used to say, c’est magnifique.”
“Stop,” Candace said in a tone that suggested she meant anything but as he guided her into one of the private ‘drawing booths,’ where she would be made comfortable while preserving her privacy. “You don’t have to flirt so hard, you know. I’m not one of those wights-only girls.” Truth be told, a small, distantly deviant part of her had often wondered what it would be like to have him take her blood straight from the vein…
That last part brought Raphael up a bit short. As if reading her mind, he smiled down at her, enough to show her more of his fangs than usual. “Now, isn’t that an interesting bit of information? Because, as it happens, I’m not one of those strigs-only vamps.”
They were still flirting, Raphael—Raphy—insisting that her blood was actually quite the delicacy, when they both heard the commotion in the main area. It sounded like… screaming, but not? Like voices being raised only to be torn quickly from their source.
“Oh, dear,” Raphael said. “Stay here.”
He stepped out of the room. He spoke all of two words, then issued a guttural gurgle as a splash of blood stained the marbled glass door.
“Oh, crap…”
The last thought Candace Kappa ever had came as the winged creature entered the room.
That thought? That she’d picked the wrong damn day to sell her blood.
6
Cato was the first to arrive back at the office. One his of conditions when it came to working for Zobbles was that he would be allowed to operate out of his own space. No reporting to city hall or going through the layers of bureaucratic insulation that protected Zobbles from the real world, none of that nonsense, and he was never more pleased to own the space he stormed into. Cozy, private, all his. Well, almost.
“Jeanine! Coffee!”
“Already on and waiting for you,” came a much more musical, if no less combative, voice. She was busy working the grinder, although by the looks of it, the ancient machine was giving as good as it was getting. “But you’ll have to fetch it yourself. A little preoccupied at the moment.”
“Ah. Well, that explains everything except what I pay you for.”
To her credit, though, the coffee pot was indeed on and hot. He poured himself a cup as his niece came into the main office space, all sass and brass, as usual.
“I’m going to pretend you didn’t say that. You know damn well what you pay me for, and it’s not just for the coffee. You’re obviously upset over what happened to Hezekiel Stone, and that’s fine, but you shouldn’t take it out on me.”
She eyed him expectantly, obviously awaiting an apology. At least he had a hot cup of brew to chase his pride with. “You’re right,” he said, fixing her with as sincere a gaze as he could muster. “You do a great job around here, kiddo, and there’s no one else who could keep Hank and me from each other’s throats the way you do when we get going.”
At that, she smirked with unmistakable pride. “Well, when you put it like that, I almost feel like I deserve a raise.”
“Don’t push it.”
“Fair enough. So, what’s up? The city in shambles yet?”
“On a razor’s edge,” Cato said, leaning over his desk to check for any pertinent messages. Nothing. “Hopefully, Hank and I can get ahead of it before that comes to pass.”
“So, what are you doing here?”
“Recharging.” He lifted the cup for emphasis. “Great blend, by the way. Where’d you find it?”
“Thank you. It’s, ah, it’s my own, actually.”
That caught his attention, his eyes going first to her and then the cup again. “Seriously?”
“Is that so hard to believe? That’s what I was doing when you came in. Grinding more beans. I figured the way things are going, you’d need it sooner than later.”
Dropping his gaze into his mug, Cato realized he had drained it already. No dregs or anything. More importantly, he felt good. Exactly as he had described: recharged. “We might have to revisit that raise conversation sooner than I thought,” he said.
Rather than respond, she retrieved a stack of files standing nearly a foot tall from her desk. “Thought you might need these, too. Everything we’ve got on Hezekiel Stone, the Gargoyle Gjunta, associates and enemies. Catalogued with priority toward threats to Hezekiel and his entourage, organized from most to least recent. Probably only half of what was reported, though, if even that. Everything else is alphabetical.”
Cato could hardly believe his eyes. New words failing him, he amended his previous statement: “Much sooner than I thought.”
Jeanine grinned, obviously pleased with herself and the initiative that had earned her uncle’s praise. “Thank you. Do you want me to help you go through the—”
The radio across the office blasted to life, quickly putting an end to that line of questioning. By the time the call ended, Cato was trading the St
one files for his gear.
“I need you to stay here, Jeanine.” he said, strapping up as if he were preparing for a showdown. “And I really don’t have time to argue about it with you, so just hang tight and hold down the fort. All right?”
Cato didn’t wait for an answer before taking the steps two at a time and slamming the door behind him. Jeanine would be safe from the violence sweeping the city so long as she stayed in the office. As for him, the job allowed for no such luxury.
As Cato and Hank approached the blood bank, Ann Banner appeared abruptly from inside. Her face was drained of color as she stepped onto the street, making her hair seem even more boldly red than usual. She stepped one way, then doubled back another, her feet searching for direction, like her eyes. For a moment, Cato thought she was going to be sick, but no, she was too seasoned for that, too hardened. The same couldn’t be said for several of her PWD compatriots.
Finally, she laid eyes on his and Hank’s approach. All at once the color returned to her face, her eyes lighting with incandescent fury.
“No,” she declared emphatically. “Not this time! Not now, not this scene! I swear to god, I will fight you to the damn death if you put another one of those writs in my face, you extrajudicial sons of bitches!”
“Ann,” Hank said.
“No, this has to stop somewhere, and I’m drawing the line here! This is my scene, understand me? Mine.”
“Ann—”
“Hank,” she said, dropping her hand to her sidearm riding in its well-worn leather cradle. “You really don’t want to test me on this one.”
Hank and Cato raised their hands, about to cry foul, when Jeanine bounded onto the scene.
“Auntie Ann!”
Her sudden presence was as bewildering to Hank and Cato as it was to Ann, though they were clearly an afterthought for both women during the unexpected reunion.
“Jean-Bean?” Ann said. “Please tell me you’re not actually working for your uncle.”
Jeanine started to answer, then noticed Ann groping her service weapon, and her lips framed an openmouthed frown instead. “What’s going on here?” she managed after a moment. “Please tell me you’re not actually intending to use that thing.”
Ann chewed her bottom lip furiously. Cato knew well from experience that it was what she did when she was trying to keep herself from cursing a blue streak. It hadn’t always worked in his presence, but it did here. Instead, she said simply, tightly, “You should go, sweetheart. This isn’t a place for civilians, not now. We’ll talk soon, I promise.”
“Aunt Ann, please,” Jeanine said, regarding Ann pleadingly. “I don’t know what happened between you and Uncle Cato, but this isn’t—”
“You’re damn right you don’t know,” Cato interrupted, stepping between the two women. “Go back to the office, now. Not another word. I mean it.”
Jeanine obviously had many more words for him, but they’d have to wait for later. She knew better than to do this now, no matter how much she wanted to. No, their battle would be fought in private, just the two of them.
As for Ann, she seemed determined to have it out right there, high noon style.
“Nice parenting. Gonna send me to my room now, too?” Her fingers flexed over the sidearm on her hip.
The two of them stared each other down like wild dogs, waiting for the slightest show of weakness. For his part, Cato wanted nothing more than to rip away the scab covering their combative relationship and tear into the meaty scar tissue beneath, but neither of them so much as flinched. Even Hank knew better than to intervene, and that was basically half his job. Instead, he stood stock still on the sideline, observing and apparently hoping not to be drawn into the inevitable scrum. Which made it all the more surprising when Cato, of all people, took the high road.
“It doesn’t have to be like this,” Cato said. “I know things have been rocky between us in the past—and the very near present—but no one’s here to take your scene.”
“Why the hell should I believe you? Especially today, of all days?”
“You make a good point. Let’s just say on my honor, then, for whatever that’s worth.”
Ann hesitated.
“Hank and I just wanted to have a look, offer our support. We’re all on the same team here, Chief, even if it doesn’t always seem like it.”
“It hasn’t seemed like that to me for a hell of a long time.”
Still, his use of her rank seemed to have the desired effect. Funny how far a little show of deference could get a person, even one as unctuous as Cato. Slowly, Ann let her hand slide free of the pistol’s grip.
“Fine. See for yourselves if you want,” she said. “It’s a goddamn bloodbath.”
Never in his life would Cato have thought the term ‘bloodbath’ could be charitable, but there it was. Fifteen bleeders, the clinic’s entire clientele, all taken from their stalls before being strung up by the ankles and butchered like common farm animals. Their bodies had been gutted stem to stern, entrails and other assorted viscera left swaying listlessly in the oscillating currents of the lobby’s fans. And that was just the epicenter of the gruesome scene. The walls of the facility’s waiting area were dripping with the very substance it was designed to harvest; the floor was coated so evenly and uniformly, it looked as if it had been freshly lacquered. Bloodwood, they could have called it.
That was the insult, of course, that none of the bleeders’ precious fluid could be harvested into sustenance for the strigoi population so desperately in need of it. Hopefully, their leadership had a strategic reserve squirreled away somewhere in the event of a shortage, though Hank would likely know better than he when it came to such a subject.
Not every surface was coated with blood, however. Most, but not all. The lobby’s reception counter had been left bare, with the exception of three words burned into its top: BLOOD FOR STONE.
“Well, that’s a new look,” Hank said, eyeing the countertop and the message burnt into it.
Cato was more interested in the mark’s smell than its look. He leaned forward, nose wrinkling as he took a whiff of the scorched wood and lacquer. “Phosphorous. Still traces of it in the scorch.”
“That seems pretty explicit.”
“So it’s already begun,” Ann said. “The reprisals, I mean.”
Hank nodded, working his chin thoughtfully. “Looks that way. Probably the Wargoyles, by the looks of it.”
“Who, or what, are the Wargoyles?” Ann wondered.
“Legendary gargoyle death squad circa the Nothnocti Wars. Gargoyles claim they were a myth. Our side and the vamps disagreed. One of the few things we actually agreed over, funnily enough.”
Cato, for his part, was a man apart from the conversation. Staring off into the middle distance, trying to make sense of the pieces. Something didn’t fit. Something was amiss.
“Hey, partner? Care to weigh in on this?” Hank said.
“It doesn’t pass the sniff test.”
“What do you mean? You just said it was—”
“I don’t mean the phosphorous part. The whole thing feels tacked on. Like someone was trying to make sure we looked at the gargoyles, and only the gargoyles.”
Hank frowned, his brow furrowing. “So, what, then?”
“You’re thinking Odin Guard?”
“I think we need to stay open-minded,” Cato said. “Everyone else is going to jump to conclusions. Granted, the mark makes it look like Wargoyle reprisal. I just want to make sure we’re not being led around by our tails, so to speak.”
Ann frowned, playing devil’s advocate as she asked, “Yeah, but do you really think the Guard would kill over a dozen of their own?”
“If it meant getting the rest of the wight community on board with exterminating the vamps and goyles? Damn right, I do. Besides, they were selling their blood to the enemy. The Guard wouldn’t consider them ‘their own’ after that.”
“Fair point,” Ann conceded.
“Besides, it’s not like t
he OGs haven’t staged attacks in the past, tried to rile up hostilities between the otherworlders.”
“And what better time than now?” Hank added, then puffed his cheeks out and shook his head. “Just another option in the shit buffet before us.”
“Maybe.” Ann smiled, a tiny flicker at the corner of her lips. “At least we’re all sitting at the same table again, right?”
Cato smirked. “Something like that, yeah.”
“Hey, you want a better metaphor, ask your partner over there.”
Hank stepped forward at Ann’s mention of him, though not to supply a new metaphor. “We should probably head on out, partner. We’ve toured the scene; at this point, we’re just gumming up the works, hanging around like this.”
“All right.” To Ann, Cato offered a small nod. “Hank and I are headed back to work our own thing.”
“You mean the scene you stole from me?”
“The very same. I am sorry about that, you know. It was all Dolan. He signs ’em, we serve ’em.” He meant the writs of the mayor.
Ann eyed him hard, her lip curling up ever so slightly. Obviously, she didn’t buy that for a second.
“Anyway,” Cato said, “let us know if there’s anything we can help you with here. Just say the word, and we’ll do whatever we can.”
The moment stretched between them, Ann appraising it tentatively even as Cato turned and strode toward Hank and the roadster.
“You actually mean that, don’t you?” Ann finally called into his wake.
With a look back as he climbed into the roadster, he offered Ann a meaningful if somewhat casual salute. “Just say the word.”
7
The gathering was in full swing by the time Sinnestra made her appearance, fashionably late as always. There were some among her kind who suggested the mating ritual was in poor taste, citing Hezekiel’s assassination. Not only did Sinnestra dispute that notion, she knew for a fact that Hezekiel would have desired the ritual to go on unabated. The mood would be different, undoubtedly, but she believed it was paramount for their community to remain unified and committed to its traditions. The seeding season was upon them, and with it, nature’s undeniable urges.
