Better Off Undead: The Bloodhound Files

by DD Barant

  It sends him flying across the room. He smacks into a bookcase spine-first, about three feet off the floor, and tumbles to the ground with a hail of literature bouncing off his head and shoulders.

  Last time, I took off my jacket before we started. This time, I didn’t.

  I don’t go for the gun. I draw my scythes instead. I’m not aware of it, though, just like I’m not aware of how I got from one side of the room to the other, snapping the blades open along the way. But I must have been moving awfully fast, because I have the edge of a silvered blade at Cassius’s throat before the last book hits the floor.

  The scythes were a gift from a thrope admirer when I first got to this world. They’re made of ironwood, each of them about two feet long, with a silver spike on top and a recessed, spring-loaded blade that locks open at a forty-five-degree angle. Eighteen inches of razor-sharp, steel-cored silver, able to decapitate any thrope or pire with a single swipe. I’m trained in the Filipino fighting art of kali, which uses twin batons without the blades, and I’m very, very good at it. With the blades thrown in, I’m death in high heels.

  And right now, I’m about a heartbeat away from killing my boss.

  He doesn’t try to defend himself, which is good. Fast as Cassius is, I’ve got the drop on him; I could take his head off before he could so much as twitch.

  So he doesn’t. Instead his fangs recede and his eyes shift from red to their usual deep blue. It’s enough to make me hesitate, but the storm that’s raging in my brain is far from over. Killhimkillhimkillhimkillhim is pounding in my ears, drowning out every conscious thought.

  “Jace,” Cassius says. “Jace, there’s no need. I submit. You’ve won. It’s over.” His voice is gentle, humble. I’ve never heard him sound like this before, never, and it’s enough to confuse the animal that seems to be in control of my body at the moment.

  But the blade stays where it is. The point of the second stick is jammed into his chest, right above his heart. One hard shove and he’s dust.

  “Listen to me. Listen. I’m not your enemy. Try to remember, Jace. Remember who you are, who I am.”

  “Other,” I snarl. I don’t recognize my own voice.

  “No. That’s the virus talking. You’re human, Jace. Human.”

  “You’re not,” I growl. My muscles tense. He’s an abomination, an unnatural thing, and I’m going to end him—

  “Kill me and humans suffer,” he says. His voice is soft but urgent. “I’m on their side, Jace. I’m on your side. Please.”

  “Sure you are. You’re on the side of all humans. They’re just too valuable to waste.” I press the scythe harder against his throat. It cuts into his undead skin, ever so slightly, and a thin line of crimson appears along the edge of the blade. My eyes widen at the sight of it, and a crazy kind of thrill pulses through the pit of my stomach.

  “I did what I could to help them, Jace,” he whispers. “But I couldn’t save them all.”

  And that damps down the bloodlust, just a little. Just enough to make me pause.

  “I used my influence as head of the NSA. Assigned ‘protected asset’ status to as many as I could. Gave them charms that made them immune to the plague.”

  My breathing is slowing. The red haze over everything is fading to pink. “What?”

  “It’s—no one knows, Jace. I’d be charged with treason if anyone ever found out.”

  And now the rage is definitely subsiding. It’s not because of some sudden rush of affection, or even the shock of new information; it’s because he’s done the metaphysical equivalent of rolling over and baring his throat by sharing his secret. It’s exactly the right thing to do, because it speaks to the thrope microorganisms in my bloodstream on a level they understand: A member of my pack has chosen to forgo execution by exposing himself to my fangs. In this moment, I’m the alpha; the implicit agreement he’s offering states that in return for his life he’s now subordinate to me, and with the knowledge I now possess that’s not just a metaphor.

  I pull back the blade and the other stick with hands that are suddenly shaky with the aftereffects of adrenaline, and step back. I sit on the floor like a small child, thumping straight down on my butt.

  “I—I believe you,” I say.

  He gets to his feet, slowly but gracefully. A single drop of blood is tracing its way down the side of his Adam’s apple. When he speaks, his voice is back to its usual self-assuredness. “Don’t. I lied in order to break the blood-frenzy. But considering that you were about to end me, I think I deserve a little leeway—”

  “No. You’re lying now. Teresa refused to blame you for your role in the 1945 massacre, and now I know why.”

  He straightens his tie and glances away. “Teresa is simply grateful for the assistance I’ve provided over the years.”

  I’ve got my breathing under control now, and in a minute or so I might actually be able to stand up. “You told her, didn’t you? Even though it was the worst possible thing to do. Whatever cover story you sold the humans you were saving, you told her the real reason behind those ‘anti-plague’ charms you were distributing. How old was she?”

  Cassius looks at me for a long moment before answering. “Eighteen.”

  “You wanted her to betray your confidence. You wanted her to tell the whole human community that the human race was being slaughtered not just by Nazi thropes, but by the Allies. You wanted to be hated, to be punished. It’s what you thought you deserved.”

  “That’s … that’s absurd.”

  “No, it’s human nature. Which, despite the fact that you drink AB-negative milk shakes and go into anaphylactic shock at the sight of a garlic lover’s pizza, you still have. Teresa doesn’t blame you, but you sure blame yourself—and even at eighteen, she was wise enough to recognize that. She’s never told anyone, has she? She’s kept your secret all these years.”

  All this time I thought Cassius was one of the people in charge—maybe even a ringleader. But he wasn’t. He was doing the exact opposite, using his position to save as many people as he could while hating himself for not doing better.

  “I keep forgetting,” Cassius says quietly, “that you’ve been trained to analyze how people think. Every now and then, you remind me. And astound me.”

  “Just … doing my job, Caligula. I’ve still got one, right? Even after the whole attempted-assassination bit?”

  He steps over, extends his hand, helps me to my feet. “I don’t hold your actions against you, no. Your contact with Tair strengthened the virus, and it was a lot more aggressive in defending its gains. I’m not sure how much good I did.”

  I look him right in the eye. “I am. And I guess it’ll just have to do, won’t it?”

  He doesn’t answer.

  There’s a knock at the door. Charlie’s voice says, “Hey. If you two are done wrestling, we’ve got another crime scene. Looks like Tair and the Don again.”

  I’m already headed for the door, but Cassius grabs my arm and stops me. “Your clothes?” he says. “And you might want to reholster your weapons, too.”

  “Oh, right.”

  This time when I come out of the office everybody is studiously not looking at me, especially Charlie’s lem buddy, Seymour. I pretend to not notice everyone not noticing me, and stride toward the elevator. Charlie’s right behind me. “Another murder. Construction site.”

  I hit the DOWN button. “Victim?”

  “Francis Aggamonte, also known as Frankie Eggs. Another one of the Don’s guys.”

  “Yeah? We better find Arturo before his own crew does—at this rate, they’ll kill him out of sheer self-defense.”

  I get the rundown from my laptop as Charlie drives. Frankie Eggs isn’t a capo, but he is highly placed—his file says he launders a lot of Mob money through a number of companies, including a construction firm and a trucking outfit. People who disagree with his business practices have a habit of disappearing.

  I squint at the screen and rub my temples. I haven’t recovered from the
“inoculation”; my head throbs, I’m parched, and I’d gladly lick the sweat off a fat man at the gym for the salt. I feel like the PMS Fairy just hollowed out my skull and used it for a toilet bowl. “Okay. Phil Ulzano was a loan shark. Frankie Eggs laundered money. Both were people Don Falzo trusted at one time, and now both are dead.”

  “Yeah. Revenge?”

  “For what? These are his own guys, not rivals. Besides, if he wanted any one of them killed, all he’d have to do is order it.” I shake my head and immediately wish I hadn’t. “Maybe the crime scene will tell us something.”

  The crime scene doesn’t tell us much.

  Not at first. Frankie Eggs met his demise on one of his own construction sites, which at the moment is just a big pit in the ground with a scoop shovel and two dump trucks in it. The body is in a trailer a little way away, sprawled on the floor. There are multiple thrope tracks in the mud around the trailer, and muddy paw prints inside. Lots of spatter, too.

  “Well, the Don doesn’t mind getting his hands dirty,” I say. We’re standing just outside the open door, looking at the body. We’ve haven’t touched anything yet.

  “If it was him and not Tair,” Charlie says.

  “I don’t think Tair was here,” I say. “I’m not sure why—it just doesn’t feel like it.”

  Damon Eisfagner pulls up in one of the NSA’s white vans. He gets out with his kit in one hand, already wearing gloves. “Hey,” he says. “Another wise guy?”

  “Yeah,” I say. “We haven’t gone in yet.”

  Eisfanger nods, hands us both pairs of little paper booties, and slips his own on. “Let’s take a look at what we’ve got.”

  The trailer is one of those little on-site offices construction sites have, with a coffeemaker, a couch, a desk, a few chairs, a small TV, and a DVD player. From the looks of the desk, Frankie was doing a little Bane while watching a movie.

  “Truest Grit: Down and Gritty,” I say, looking at the DVD case on the desk as I snap on my own pair of gloves. Charlie doesn’t bother—he doesn’t have any fingerprints to leave. “Huh. Xandra was talking about this just the other day.”

  “He died watching the Duke,” Eisfanger says. “Not such a bad way to go … Okay. Position of the body tells us he was facing the door when he was struck. First blow was probably the killing one—hit him right between the eyes. You can see the striation marks from the wire on the skin—I’m betting they match the marks on the previous vic.”

  I nod. “So he was hit from the front while standing in front of the door. Ambush attack—someone knocks, he answers, gets a bat to the skull for his trouble. But that’s not the only wound.”

  “No. He was struck multiple times, on the shoulders, rib cage, and arms. Looks like a frenzy.”

  “Yeah. Indicating rage and loss of control. There’s just one problem.”

  Eisfanger raises his snowy eyebrows in a question.

  “Frenzy attacks are personal. It’s an attempt either to inflict as much pain as possible—in which case he would have stuck to the body—or to completely obliterate the victim, in which case he wouldn’t have struck the head only once.”

  Eisfanger frowns. “You’re right. It doesn’t make sense.”

  “It does if you’re trying to send a message. He wanted the body quickly identified, which is why he left the face relatively untouched instead of turning it into paste. The savagery of the beating afterward is—” I shake my head, slowly. “I don’t know. It might be some kind of irrational behavior, it might be intended as the message itself: Stay away from me or suffer the consequences.”

  Eisfanger opens up his kit and starts doing forensic shaman things to the body. Charlie and I search the trailer.

  The desk drawers are locked, but the key is on a chain dangling from Frankie’s belt. I open them up and rummage around. Bills of lading, invoices, a copy of Hairy Rumps and Furry Bumps, a bottle of cheap whiskey. And a black leather zippered case, which is disappointingly empty. It has staggered pockets lining either side, obviously intended to hold credit cards or ID.

  “Take a look at this,” I say. “Wish I knew what used to be in it.”

  “I might be able to grant that wish,” Eisfanger says. He takes the case from me, selects a vial and a small, feathered rod from his kit. He dusts the case lightly with powder from the vial while murmuring an incantation, and a row of ghostly white rectangles slowly coalesce into being about three inches above the case. Eisfanger grins.

  “Spiritual trace,” he says. “Recent, too. I’d say these were removed very close to the same time Frankie was killed.”

  I peer at the images hovering there, but they’re translucent and hard to focus on. “Some kind of picture ID, I think. Are those lems?”

  “Give me a minute,” Eisfanger says. He selects another instrument from his kit, a bird skull with a long, thin beak. He uses the beak like a pair of tweezers, reaching out and carefully closing it around one of the rectangles, then pulling it away from the others. The other cards immediately dim, but the one Eisfanger grabbed gets brighter, more solid. He brings it up to eye level and rotates it so it’s vertical.

  “That’s a union card,” I say. “Local One Twelve. What’s a construction site supervisor doing with a bunch of union cards for truckers?”

  “Something he’s not supposed to,” Charlie growls. “And whatever it is, the Don thinks he can do it, too.”

  “Except this time,” I say, “maybe we can get there before he does.”

  Eisfanger pulls all the data he can from the case, and sends it to Gretch. She calls me within minutes. “The cards are forgeries, but good ones. They correspond to lems who are on the union rolls, but are undocumented otherwise. Most likely illegal workers with no official right to exist.”

  “Lems who are in the Gray Wolves’ pocket, in other words. Any other correlations?”

  “Yes. Almost three-quarters of these lems were the subjects of truck hijackings in the past six months. Expensive electronics items, mostly.”

  “But nobody thought to check if the lems might be involved?”

  I can almost hear her shrug over the phone. “Every case was investigated by local law enforcement, but a lem with a union card is assumed to be legitimate. None of the robberies involved the same driver, so there was no suspicious pattern.”

  “They didn’t use just one inside man, they used a bunch of them. With a state-mandated death sentence hanging over the drivers’ heads to keep them in line.” I sigh. “Plus, they probably built the damn things in the first place. You’ve got to hand it to the Mob—they really put the organized in organized crime.”

  “And now Don Falzo has the same lems under his control. What do you think he’ll do with them?”

  “There’s no way to know.” I pause, thinking hard. “But we do know what the Wolves were using them for, and there’s no reason to think they’ll stop. It looks like Frankie gave out the cards as needed, probably only when a lem was actually making a run. They didn’t use any of the drivers more than once. So it’s possible that one of those unused cards is actually sitting in a lem’s wallet right now, and he’s getting ready to be robbed.”

  “Very good. I’ll cross-reference that with trucking schedules of high-end electronics and compare it against the previous robberies. We should have a good chance of predicting where they’ll strike next.” She pauses. “However, it’s unlikely this will get us any closer to Tair or the Don.”

  “Maybe not,” I admit. “But it should get us somebody in custody that we can lean on. Somebody that knows something. We just have to keep following the trail—sooner or later, it’ll lead us to who we’re hunting.”

  It turns out that figuring where the hijackers will strike next is even easier than that. Cops handling the case have labeled them “the Overpass Gang,” because that’s their MO. They rig a couple of ropes to the underside of a bridge and hang there until the truck drives underneath. Then they drop down, commandeer the cab, and get the driver to pull over so they ca
n take his load.

  On my world, that would be the kind of thing that would only happen in a movie. Risky, improbable, dangerous, requiring an insane amount of timing, guts, stamina, and acrobatic skill. Here, it’s the kind of thing a teenager might do for kicks.

  Plus, they have an inside man. The driver marks the top of the truck in some way to make it easy to spot, and tells the gang exactly what route he’s taking and when. I’m guessing he also slows down a fair bit when driving under the bridge, and there might even be a rope or something slung over the top of the truck that’s easy to grab—easy for a supernatural, anyway.

  One of the lems on the phony ID cards is driving a truck full of LCD TVs to Portland tonight. There are a number of overpasses between here and the Oregon border, but the gang tends to stay close to Seattle, which narrows it down. I’ve eyeballed all the possibilities, and we’ve got teams surveilling every one. Charlie and I are about a block away from the one I think is the most probable, parked where we can see the overpass but aren’t obvious.

  “The thing I don’t get,” Charlie says, “is why they’re going to this kind of trouble. Why not just have the guy pull over? He’s working for them, right?”

  I take a sip of my takeout coffee. “Plausible deniability. They have to make it look like a real robbery to keep any heat off the drivers. They probably don’t trust the lems to keep a lie straight, so they go through all the motions of the real thing. Plus, they have to leave enough evidence behind to convince a forensics tech like Damon—scratches in the metal, stuff like that. He could tell in a minute whether or not a thrope had actually jumped from an overpass onto a moving truck.”

  Charlie grunts. That’s partner-speak for, You’re right, which irritates me.

  “Hey,” I say. “I think we’re on.”

  Two thropes in half-were form emerge from the shadows beneath the overpass, each with a coil of rope over a hairy shoulder. They bound over the guardrail, lope up the incline to the top of the overpass, and within a minute have two ropes secured under the bridge, attached to the guardrail on either side. They climb down hand-over-hand and spend another minute rigging some kind of tarp between the ropes, giving them an improvised hammock to lie in while they wait for their target. Two big hairy spiders, ready to leap.