Blood Song

I took a deep breath, told myself that it was broad daylight. Everybody knew that bats were nocturnal. I’d be fine. I was still 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 hell 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 practically 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, really. I was alive. The water hadn’t burned me, hadn’t hurt me at all. For a brief moment, I was relieved beyond measure.



But I could still 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 calling in to my office, but I had to charge the phone first and then load the minutes. A black and white police cruiser pulled into the lot and I decided against using the pay phone again. Apparently the clerk didn’t like that I was still “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. Normally 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 generally doesn’t, particularly when the folks back home are fundamentalists.



The news came on just as I was pulling 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 satellite nations, there didn’t appear to be much going on at all.



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, all things considered, was probably a good idea. Yes, if I had to, I could use the umbrella 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 actually a creature of order. I plan things practically 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 tell myself.



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



The bell 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 cells was surprisingly pretty. Not only was the waterfall supposed to inspire peaceful feelings in the prisoners, but it also nullified any spells 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 fallen 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 shallow pool filled with river rock to an eight-foot bronze statue of Blind Justice. Behind her, on a wall 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 fill 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 fallen to whoever might be 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 tall, 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 ill 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 smell 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 still smell 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 me. I couldn’t drink it. I was too nauseous. Up close the scent of his decaying body was making me gag. Only keeping the coffee directly under my nose made it bearable. I shifted uncomfortably on the hard plastic seat and wished I were anywhere but here. My nose hadn’t been this sensitive earlier. Would it get worse?



“I saw it in your eyes in the lobby.” His lips twisted in what was supposed to be a wry smile. “If Alexander hadn’t told me you’d been bitten by a vampire, I’d have assumed you were a werewolf. So far they’ve been the only ones who can tell.” His expression turned into a grimace. “They act like I’ve got a really bad case of BO. The reaction outted a few people I’d never even suspected.”



“Did you turn them in?”



His eyes met mine, his expression grave. “Technically, it’s not against the law to be a werewolf—so long as you don’t endanger the public.”



Technically, no. But that doesn’t stop the persecution. There are more than a few people who figure werewolves endanger the public just by breathing. The prevailing attitude is “cage ’em or kill ’em.” In fact, that exact motto had been used by one of the more popular politicians.



I’m perfectly capable of killing monsters if they endanger me or the people I’m protecting. But for all but three days out of each lunar cycle werewolves were absolutely ordinary folks, with families and jobs. If they took appropriate precautions, there was no need for them to be made prisoners.