Blood Song

I flipped open the laptop and was in the process of cabling it to the printer when the three of them walked in. Dawna and the deliveryman started bustling around in the corner, setting up the baked goods. Roberto moved one of the chairs over so that he was sitting next to the desk.



I shook Roberto’s hand before he sat down. He barely glanced at my fangs. Who knows? Maybe he’d seen worse. Dawna kept casting covert glances at the rubber tree, looking confused. But she didn’t say anything, just kept helping the deliveryman. When they’d finished with the food, she began rearranging the chairs, even bringing in the patio chairs from the balcony so there’d be enough seating for everybody. Only when she’d finished and left the room did Roberto speak.



“I told the people downstairs that I needed ten minutes alone with you before they came up. We’ve already lost nearly half of it. So we’d better hurry. Give me what you’ve got.”



I passed over the copies and plugged a jump drive into one of the computer ports to transfer files for him as he was scanning the printed pages. It didn’t take him long.



“Is there anything you haven’t told me? Anything else I need to know?” He sounded suspicious. I suppose it’s only natural. He’s a criminal defense attorney. People lie to their attorneys all the time.



So I told him the rest of the information. Sadly, there was no way for Bruno not to overhear.



16



I have a reasonably large office. But it was fairly crowded with everybody crammed in there. Gibson had taken a seat in the patio chair nearest the balcony doors. He was quiet, subdued, and acting very much as if we hadn’t spent a good chunk of yesterday together. So either he had told them already or he hadn’t and didn’t want to. Either way was fine with me.



The Feds were both alike and opposites. Their names were Erikson and Rizzoli. The former was very Nordic and handsome in the same way as the models in those Tommy Hilfiger ads. Rizzoli was about average height, built blocky, and as Italian as pasta, even more Italian looking than Bruno—something I wouldn’t have believed possible if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Both agents were dressed in identical conservative suits and carried themselves in a way that just screamed Fed. I don’t know what they do at the federal training center, but the men and women who make it through the program all wind up with a certain way of moving and dressing that is easy to spot once you’ve seen it.



The king’s retainers had long names that I couldn’t hope to pronounce. They were impeccably dressed, their suits hand tailored, top-of-the-line, and up-to-the-minute in European fashion. I could also feel a frisson of power that told me they’d been spelled, probably with the same concealing magics I’d had on my jacket. If I’d thought they’d answer I might even ask if theirs came with a garrote. But I decided against it. They didn’t look like they’d have a sense of humor about that sort of thing. In fact, despite the window dressing, they looked like they were just the sort of people to use that kind of weapon. They were big and intimidating looking, with heavily eastern European features. Maybe the plan had been to scare me into revealing all my secrets? Their English was almost perfect, except for a bit of stilted formality and the occasional odd turn of phrase. In my head I labeled them Tweedledee and Tweedledum. Dee was the senior; Dum, the more powerful.



They asked questions.



I answered.



The Feds asked questions.



I answered.



Then back to the retainers.



It grew tiresome. Then tedious. The time for breakfast passed. Then lunch. I knew I was supposed to drink something, but I didn’t think it wise to ask for a break. So I crossed my fingers and concentrated on answering the questions.



We’d all had coffee, but while the men apparently had cast-iron bladders, I didn’t. Maybe it was some sort of non-pissing pissing contest. Whatever. Eventually, I gave in and told everyone I needed a bathroom break. I’d planned to drink a shake when I got in there, but the box was missing. Were they in the refrigerator? It didn’t really matter, because I didn’t think my audience would appreciate me taking ten minutes to hobble downstairs to the kitchen to get one. When I came back, they were chatting amiably and munching down on the cinnamon rolls. The smell started to drive me crazy, so I decided to join them.



Bad mistake.



I took a bite. I chewed (which, by the way, is a seriously tricky proposition when you have fangs). And I choked. Badly.



I couldn’t swallow it.



I tried washing it down with coffee.



No luck.



A single small bite, well chewed, and it wouldn’t go down. It was stuck. Well and truly stuck, right in the middle of my neck. I coughed and hacked and even stuck a finger down my throat, hoping to push it down.



I sat at my desk, turning slightly blue, my guests looking more and more alarmed. Even the rubber tree was shaking.



Finally I just gave up and excused myself again, went into the bathroom, and stuck my finger fully down my throat until I threw up. Hauling out the toothbrush again, I brushed until my breath was minty fresh. I stared at my reflection in the mirror and cried. I had fangs. I couldn’t eat solid food. It was real. It was permanent. I wasn’t human anymore.



I didn’t cry long. Despite the past day or two, I’m not the weepy type. Besides, I had agents and an attorney waiting for me. So I grabbed a washcloth from the built-in linen cabinet and scrubbed down my face with cold water. Since I still looked a little blotchy, I reached for the small silk bag that held my makeup and started putting it on. A few drops of Visine helped with the eyes but not the face.



I looked like a clown.



I’d always been pale, but my skin was now pure white and colors that had been subtle before were just plain garish.



Swearing under my breath, I washed it all off. While I was at it I took down my hair and brushed it out. I stared at my reflection. Better. I looked better. Not good. There was still a hint of panic in my eyes. But there wasn’t much I could do about that. Life goes on, whether you’re ready for it or not. Since I was as ready as I was going to be, I stepped out into the hall. Taking a deep breath, I went back into the lion’s den.



They’d been arguing, loudly, while I was gone. But there was instant silence as I stepped back into the room.



“This is getting us nowhere. You are wasting our time.” The hint of an accent was slipping into Dee’s voice, probably because he was angry. “We would see for ourselves what has happened.” His face was still flushed from arguing. “I believe you have already submitted to magical memory enhancement and a visit to a psychic, have you not?” He glared at Gibson, who remained utterly impassive except for a muscle that was twitching in his jaw from where he was clenching his teeth.



I felt my eyebrows crawling up my forehead. How the hell had they learned about my visit to Dottie? I didn’t like that. And I really didn’t like the idea of these two terrorizing that nice little old lady. Judging from Gibson’s expression, he didn’t care for it much, either.



“You will do it again. For us. Now.” It wasn’t a request. All around the room people were bristling. My attorney started to argue, but the Ruslander continued, speaking over him. “We would prefer my companion assist you in this. But if not, perhaps your friend in the corner”—he waved in the direction of Bruno the rubber tree—“can do more than just hide himself. Hmn?”



Well, shit. Wasn’t this just awkward. Everyone in the room turned to stare at the corner until, with a sigh, Bruno gave it up and dropped the illusion.



“And just who the hell are you?” Erikson’s voice dripped icicles.



“His name is Bruno DeLuca,” Rizzoli answered. When his partner turned to give him a look he answered the unasked question with a curt, “We’ve met.” He turned to Bruno. “What are you doing here?”



Bruno opened his mouth to speak, but it was Dee who answered. “He has been involved with Ms. Graves for many years. They were once affianced. He is no doubt here to protect her from any …” He seemed to search for the right phrase. “Funny business?”



Bruno’s eyes narrowed as he nodded.



Roberto shot a chilly glance at me. Okay, so I hadn’t told him all my secrets. I hoped that wouldn’t lose me the services of the firm.



“Fine,” Dum said coldly. “We have no problem with Mr. DeLuca being present. We simply need to know exactly what has occurred. And time is fleeting. So, Ms. Graves, if you would be so kind?”



He phrased it as a request, but it wasn’t one. And while the Feds raised objections, it really didn’t matter to them, and we all knew it.



“What exactly do you plan to do?” The look Bruno gave the other mage made it clear that he was just as much of a tough guy, and magician, as anyone present.



Dee started to explain, but he only got a couple of sentences out before the arguments started. Bruno was starting to get pretty heated about concepts I wasn’t close to understanding. Apparently, it wasn’t the fact that there would be a bespelling but what it would entail. Then Erikson coughed softly, drawing everyone’s attention. “We all have enough information to start our various investigations. I suggest we let Ms. Graves get some rest. You can always resort to more drastic measures if the investigation dead-ends.”



“Assuming she lives that long.” Tweedledum’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Then again, neither did mine.



“I’ll do my best.” I was tired of the posturing, tired of them. So I gestured to the open door. It was a dismissal, and they didn’t like it one bit. Even so, everyone but Bruno took the hint. I waited by the door for a moment, listening. I could hear their footfalls and muted conversation even when they reached the ground floor.



Dawna’s voice came through the clearest. “Excuse me, Agent Erikson, don’t forget your pen. You left it on my desk this morning.”



Someone mumbled something that was probably thanks. I heard the front door squeak open, then the slam of the screen, and they were gone.



“Thank God that’s over.” I meant it as gratitude, not blasphemy. Although since my relationship with the almighty is a little sketchy, I suppose it could be taken either way. I went into my office. Pulling the door closed behind me, I sank gratefully into my chair. I was exhausted, but wired and twitchy rather than sleepy. The scent of the cinnamon rolls that had been so appetizing earlier now made me nauseous. I thought about taking them downstairs to the kitchen, but it just seemed like too much bother.