Bloodshot

by Cherie Priest

  Sometimes we don’t know our own strength.

  I let myself inside, nudging my way past a hostess and giving her a nod that told her I’d found my party. Or maybe it just told her I was a pushy, impatient cunt. Regardless, I didn’t need her help to find my table.

  My business date was wearing glasses. They weren’t sunglasses, exactly, but they were tinted blue. The lenses didn’t hide his eyes or mask them, so I wondered why he bothered.

  “Ms. Pendle?” He added an unnecessary question mark to the end of my name as he rose from his chair to greet me. He extended his hand, and I took it to shake it.

  “Mr. Stott. Or Ian, as you prefer.”

  He gestured at the seat opposite his. While I made myself comfortable, he said, “You’re right on time. It’s good of you to meet me so soon.”

  “I’m always on time,” I understated. I’m usually early. “And it was good of you to stay out of my apartment.”

  His eyebrows knitted softly behind the wire frames. “I beg your pardon?”

  “You obviously know where I live, but you went to the trouble of being polite about it. To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure how I feel about that. People usually contact me through a third party.” I let my jacket dangle from the edge of my chair’s back, and set my bag down on the floor next to my feet.

  “Ah.” He took a sip of wine, and a waitress noticed that I was drinkless.

  I put in an order for something white and devoid of sparkles, and when our server had toddled off, I said, “Ah? Is that all you’ve got to say about it? If I were a different kind of woman, I might have perceived your invitation as a threat.”

  “I can assure you, I meant no such thing. I only wished to snare your attention in a way you would not ignore. I understand you make a habit of avoiding …” He didn’t lower his voice, which was good. Other people’s conversations are never so interesting as when they’re whispered. “People like us.”

  “That’s true,” I confirmed. “You’re my first potential client of this sort since … in a long time. But I’m not working for you yet, so I can’t really accuse you of breaking my streak.”

  “I can hardly blame you for your caution. I understand that you have few family affiliations, so staying away from us is probably your wisest course. This is one reason I’ve gone to such lengths to seek you out.”

  “Is it?” I asked.

  “Oh yes.”

  The server returned with a lovely crystal glass filled with shimmering liquid the color of quartz. We paused in our repartee while she set it down and asked if we needed further attentions. We told her no and sent her away.

  I picked up the thread. “You’re not trying to recruit me, are you? Because I know all about Japalito’s drive to flesh out his organization, and I’ve already told him where he can stick it. Likewise, Marianne knows that she can go jump in a lake. If I wanted to be part of a House, I’d have joined up a long time ago. So if that’s what you’re here for, you’re out of luck.”

  “Then let me set your mind at ease: I, too, lack any House affiliations. Anymore,” he added after a pause.

  I almost scooted my chair back on the spot. Instead I held my wineglass and took a hard sip. “You’re an outcast?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  He matched my sips, but he had a head start and his glass was already half empty. “Precisely what it sounds like. I’m not an outcast. There is no bounty on my head, and no allegiance you might offend if you opt to assist me. But there’s a chance you might draw fire from … another quarter.”

  “Hard to believe,” I grumbled.

  Ian Stott pressed his lips together and squeezed out a thin smile. “I trust you’re comfortable with dangerous cases. I can’t imagine you charge exorbitant rates for mere cakewalks.”

  “I’m not afraid of a little dirty work and, generally speaking, I’m not afraid of pissing people off. But there are circles whose notice I’d prefer to escape. If there’s no House hunting for you, then why set yourself apart? Who are you afraid of?”

  “In my state? Almost everyone. Even you. Especially you.”

  I didn’t get it, and I told him so. “Your state? What’s wrong with your state?”

  “You can’t tell?” He seemed a bit surprised, and cautiously happy about it. “My … state.” He set his wine aside and removed his wire-frame glasses, giving me a good look at his eyes.

  They were as light as his hair, a silver-gray color that was part David Bowie and, I realized as they failed to focus, part Ray Charles.

  He was undead. His pupils should’ve been like mine, big as nickels. He should’ve been the most striking fellow I’d ever seen, with that shocking light hair and the youthful face. All it would take to round out the package would be a set of ink-black eyes.

  “You’re blind? But you can’t be! I’ve never heard of a blind … one of us.” I was stunned, and I’ve got to tell you, that doesn’t happen very often. All the vampires I’ve ever known—myself included—heal up fast and thoroughly. We’re tough to knock down, and even harder to keep down because we recover so well from injury. I’ve always liked to consider it a trade-off for our inability to tan.

  I flipped through my mental Rolodex of kindred. I could recall a guy who was missing some fingers, and I knew of one old ruffian who had lost an ear. We’re not starfish; we can’t regenerate lost parts. But except for the occasional old-timer with a peg leg or one-armed goon, I’d never heard of a vampire with a permanent disability. Unless …

  “Wait. Were you blind already when you were turned?” I asked. But even as I said it, I knew it was a bad guess. It happens, sure. Mostly permanent disabilities are served up as a punishment for bad behavior. Probably not this guy, though. When folks get worked over and “turned,” vampires don’t just take their eyes. And they certainly aren’t allowed to remain beautiful.

  He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”

  “And it hasn’t repaired itself? How long have you been like this?” It was hard to keep the creeping horror out of my voice. I did my best to sound like I didn’t want to run screaming away from him, but I did. It scared me in a primal way, in a way that made me sick to my stomach.

  “No,” he said. “It’s repaired itself to the fullest extent that I can reasonably expect. And it might surprise you to know that it’s much, much better now than it was ten years ago.”

  “Really?”

  “Yes.” He reapplied his glasses and took another drink. “At first there was nothing. It was as if I were wearing a blindfold. Over the years I’ve regained some of my vision—just bits and pieces, but it’s better than before. I can track light and motion, and I can see colors if they’re large and bright enough.”

  Something dawned on me about his initial summons. “The handwriting,” I said out loud.

  “Excuse me?”

  “The handwriting, on the envelope. It didn’t match your signature. You had someone else address it for you.”

  He nodded. “I have an assistant.” The emphasis he placed on the word told me I wasn’t supposed to worry, but it only made me worry more. His assistant was a ghoul, and bound by blood-sharing or kinship to serve him faithfully. It’s rather like having a pet person. I’ve never gotten into that kind of thing, myself. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And anyway, it’s dangerous.

  I scanned the room and picked his “assistant” out of the crowd with ease. I’d have noticed him sooner if I’d thought to be on the lookout. He was a blond man, perhaps thirty-five years old. An aging hipster, all decked out in artfully slouched clothes that were so expensive they should’ve fit him better. I got the feeling he’d only recently put away his faux-hawk in favor of something looser and chunky.

  I knew his type. He was maybe an asshole, and maybe just a guy who never had any direction. Well. Apprenticing yourself to a vampire—that’ll give you direction.

  “What’s his name, this assistant of yours?” I asked
.

  “Cal. You see him over there, I assume?”

  “Like for Calvin?” I still hadn’t taken my eyes off him. “Yes, I see him. He’s watching your back, like a good boy.”

  I’ve never trusted ghouls. There’s supposedly a soul-bond that occurs when you give an ordinary mortal just enough of your blood to leave them wanting more, but not enough to change them. And it’s bullshit. Everyone knows it. All you’re doing is creating someone who’s addicted to your bodily fluids—somebody who assumes that one of these days, you’re going to go whole-hog and turn him (or her) into a vampire. A few decades of service (or however long) in exchange for a steady supply of your favorite drug and eventually … eternal life. Yeah. I can see what’s in it for the ghouls.

  But like any addict of any stripe, sometimes they get greedy. Or they get angry, or they fall in unrequited love with their boss, or any number of other monkey wrenches that can trash your arrangement. It doesn’t happen often, but every now and again a ghoul will snap and rebel.

  Those folks I mentioned before that vampires worked over? Mostly unruly ghouls. Besides, when you let somebody get that close to your affairs, he or she can do real damage when going rogue.

  No thanks.

  In Ian’s case, though, it was different. I could see how a reliable assistant could mean the difference between independence and living isolated and in fear.

  “He’s more than a good boy,” he admonished me. “He’s been my lifeline for the last six years. Please don’t assume the worst. Without him, I would lead a much more limited existence.”

  “So he’s a Seeing Eye ghoul,” I said before I could stop myself. I felt stupid for having aired the observation and I cringed. I do that a lot. My mouth operates in a higher gear than my brain.

  Ian didn’t take it too badly. He said, “Something like that, only much more useful. And he’s genuinely good company, I might add. Don’t judge him by the hair gel, and try not to worry.”

  “Try not to worry? Your buddy over there knows where I live, and he knows a whole lot about me. I don’t like any of that.”

  “Don’t let it alarm you. You have other ‘homes,’ do you not? You keep a condo in Atlanta, and a house in Tampa. You have a loft in Louisville, and—”

  “Knock it off,” I said sharply. He was dancing on my tenderest sore spot, and it was almost enough to make me walk out. “I get it. You and your ghoul can find me. Bravo. But if you think you can blackmail me into taking the case by threatening my safe houses, you’ve got another think coming,” I lied. I was keeping my voice steady, but I feared for my body chemistry. The anxiousness was rising up and it’d be welling out of my pores before long, and that wasn’t good. He’d smell it and know he had the advantage.

  I used to think that not much scared me. But the older I get, the longer the list of exceptions grows—and that list definitely includes Other People’s Ghouls being all up in my business.

  “I’m not trying to blackmail you,” he insisted. “I’m trying to impress upon you how very hard I’ve worked to find you, and how serious I am about the importance of my case—and the discretion with which it must be handled. I told you I wasn’t an outcast, but I’ve confessed that I’ve lost my sight. Can’t you gather the rest?”

  I said, “Don’t make me.”

  With a sigh he said, “There is a large House in Southern California, and I was once a powerful member of it.”

  Ah, I got it. So I interjected, in time to look like I was paying attention, “Powerful enough that you had challengers?”

  He nodded. “After this happened, I stayed away as a matter of necessity. I wouldn’t survive until midnight if word got out that I was vulnerable … not even that long, if the reason for my infirmity were known.”

  “All right, but blind or no, you tracked me down—and that’s something several international agencies have been working on for years, so don’t expect me to believe you’re harmless.”

  “I never said I was.”

  “Then are you going to beat around the bush all night, or are you going to explain the purpose of your business call?”

  “I’m going to explain it to you,” he said grouchily. “I have to. I know what happened to my eyes, but I need to know how it happened. I need to get my hands on the paperwork that documented the destruction. There’s a doctor in Canada named David Keene who’s trying to help me. He’s sensitive to the particulars of my needs, and he’s performing some research that might give me much better vision. But he’s made it very clear that my chances of success depend on getting that paperwork.”

  “And if you give it to him, he can fix your eyes?”

  He polished off the last of his wine with one more sip and waved the server away when she noticed the empty glass. “Probably not, though he thinks the improvement could be significant. It would be wonderful to read again,” he said, and it was wistful and sorry. It made me feel like a heel for being hard on him.

  But only for a minute.

  I said, “Look, it sounds like you don’t need me. You need a good PI, somebody who specializes in problems that afflict people like us. Not to put too fine a point on it, but tracking down paperwork isn’t my specialty.”

  “You don’t need to track it down. You only have to go and get it from a storage facility, where it’s been sitting for years.”

  I shook my head and copied him by downing the last of my wine. “I’m missing something here. How about you start at the top and work your way down? Stop talking your way past the problem.”

  I smelled fear, and I was a little shocked to realize it wasn’t my own. He lifted his empty glass as if to take another swig, then put it down again with a sigh. “I don’t mean to beat around the bush. It’s only … if you knew what a chance I was taking, telling you the tale—”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re going out on a limb here.” And all of a sudden, I understood—he’d learned so much about me in advance just in case he needed it later. If he was really this nervous about opening up, his request must be a real corker. “Keep talking, I’m listening. But find your way around to the point while the moon’s still up, if you please.”

  He was impatient with my impatience. “Very well, the point is this: Ten years ago I was captured by the government. I was held for approximately six months in a maximum-security base that is so virtually unknown, I doubt even the president is aware of it. They performed experiments on me, focusing on my eyes. I escaped. And now I’m blind. I need to know what they did. And I want to know why.”

  Twice in one night, he’d shocked the hell out of me. I hardly knew what to say, but that didn’t keep my jaws from flapping. “Wow,” I said. “I did not see that coming. I thought maybe you’d been in some kind of duel, or you’d lost a bargain with a demon from the wrong side of the tracks. But that? The government? Wait—this government, Uncle Sam?”

  If I hadn’t annoyed him enough already, I was hopping up and down on his last nerve by now. “I hate to destroy any illusions you may have about the forthrightness and fairness of this nation’s governing elements, but yes. It was the government, and it was this government, and I still don’t know what they wanted from me.”

  “Who on earth—or who in the military hierarchy, as the case may be—even believes in vam—” I almost said it, but caught myself because my voice was getting too loud. “In this day and age, I mean. I didn’t know anyone believed in us anymore, not really. Especially not anyone in the military. They seem like such a …” I started to say rational bunch, then became spontaneously aware of how idiotic it sounded.

  “I didn’t know either,” he said, and the words were miserable.

  I said, “Christ, man. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to yank your chain, but that’s the craziest thing I’ve heard all week. Well, I don’t mean you’re crazy, obviously—I mean the situation is crazy—”

  “I know what you mean, and I appreciate the sentiment. The situation is crazy, yes, and bizarre, and difficult to understand. God knows, I’ve s
pent years trying. I’ve played the game of Why Me? until I could hardly live with myself anymore, and I’ve gone digging around in every way I possibly can, trying to figure out why it happened.” This time, when the server came by with a helpful look on her face, he agreed to another glass.

  I did not.

  “So you want me to get my hands on these records—your medical records,” I amended. It sounded so strange, a vampire’s medical records. There couldn’t be many of those lying around.

  “Yes. If Dr. Keene can see what procedures precisely were conducted, he might be able to reverse-engineer the process and restore some of my vision.” He added, “He’s been very kind and fair, and he urges me to keep my expectations reasonable.”

  “Reasonable. That must be tough.”

  “I’ll take what I can get.”

  I heard a small sizzle in the air. Or I didn’t hear it exactly, but that’s the closest word I can grab for the experience. I caught a humming sound that wasn’t quite a sound—it was the buzz of Ian Stott communicating with the Seeing Eye ghoul. There was nothing urgent or rushed about it. I have to assume he was telling him everything was fine, and that I wasn’t going to whip out a sword and slice anyone in two right on the spot.

  Cal gave a little nod and gathered his things. He paid his bill and left without so much as a wink or a smile in our direction.

  “He’s very discreet,” Ian told me. “I found him as a graduate student out at the university, and I rather like him. He knows how to keep his head down and his mouth shut. He’s told me before that it’s his secret power, the ability to go unnoticed.”

  I shrugged and said, “He’s pretty nondescript, and he certainly dresses to fit with the locals. All he needs is a band T-shirt and more facial hair, and I couldn’t pick him out of a crowd.”

  “Like I said, he’s very discreet.” Ian was warming up as he was drinking down. It happens to the best of us, but I didn’t want it to happen to me, so I sent the somewhat pushy, somewhat hovering server away again when she tried to foist another glass onto our tab.