Blood Song

We were settled in at our fourth “strip club.” I’d thought we’d reached the bottom of the barrel hours ago. I’d been overly optimistic. Apparently things can always get worse. Even the dim lighting couldn’t disguise that the place was filthy. The “dancers” had a desperation about them, the kind of fear you could almost smell in the air. Their bodies were scrawny, except for one or two who’d invested in the kind of plastic surgery that made Dolly Parton’s figure seem positively understated. None of them could afford even the cheapest beauty charms to enhance their looks magically, so all they had to work with was their own assets, and most of them had been living hard for too long. They looked rough.



The theme of this place had something to do with “pussycats.” I was able to deduce this not only because of the sign out front but also because the dancers wore cat ear headbands. The headbands were nearly their entire costumes, along with G-strings and jewelry. The G-strings were a formality so that liquor could be served. Pay enough for one of the private rooms and they could disappear just like magic. Illegal as hell, of course, but I suppose that was the point. The prince was slumming, and he seemed to be working at finding the skankiest spots in the area. Doing a damned fine job of it, too.



Honestly, were I him, I’d be worried about catching something antibiotic-resistant. Of course he was too far gone to think of that sort of thing. He’d been imbibing various substances to excess since before I came on shift and was blasted out of his frigging mind. Woe to his people if he wound up their king.



I’d thought hiring me had been for publicity. But we hadn’t gone anywhere he was likely to meet paparazzi. So maybe I actually had been hired on the strength of my reputation. Whatever. If the opportunity came up to work for him again, I’d be saying no.



Bob was the only other guard who showed me any kind of respect. The other two just ignored me. I could live with that, so long as they did their jobs. Unfortunately, only one was. So, three of us stood alert for danger, ignoring what was going on behind us. Bob was to my right. Beyond him was the biggest, blackest man I’d ever seen, with skin like polished ebony. He was built like a refrigerator—an oversized, industrial-style refrigerator. Huge and square as he was, you would’ve expected him to be slow. Instead, he could move with the sudden grace of a hunting cat. I’d seen it when one of the bouncers made a wrong move. Blinding speed and utter ruthlessness.



I didn’t know his name. We’d finish tonight’s job and I’d never see him again. Wouldn’t break my heart, either.



The fourth “guard” was practically useless. At the prince’s demand he was taking pictures with an expensive digital camera. He was young, and green enough that he’d acceded to the prince’s wishes. Stupid. If anything went wrong, he’d be shit out of luck. The rest of us insisted on actually doing our job. At least as well as we could under the circumstances.



An attorney once told me that my business contract had more restrictive clauses than some major motion picture deals. I told him I’d learned from past experience.



If His Royal Highness died of a self-induced overdose, I wasn’t liable. If he caught AIDS, herpes, or anything else, I wasn’t liable. I protected him from violence. Period. End of story. My own morals would probably require me to haul his ass to the hospital if his stupidity made it necessary, but I didn’t expect it to happen. He could function even after some pretty unique drug cocktails, so he must have years of self-abuse under his belt.



I heard something behind the door to the main room. Almost in a single movement the three of us turned to face the possible threat. Bob shifted his weight, his hand hovering near the butt of his weapon.



The manager of the club stepped through the door with a bouncer at his heels. They came through at warp speed, slamming the door behind them with a level of controlled panic that made my neck hairs rise. The manager was a small man but tough looking. He had tiny, shrewd eyes and a sharp nose. But by far the most notable thing about him was his scars. A group of them ran from a mangled left ear down to and across his neck. It looked as if someone had tried to slit his throat with a beer bottle or claws.



He slid home the bolts and turned to face us. He didn’t look alarmed or afraid, more pissed. At his nod the bouncer crossed the room to a second door and started to use keys on a number of locks. I assumed the door led outside.



“The cops are out front.” The manager sounded disgusted. “It’s a raid. You’ve got to get out of here.”



A couple of the girls shrieked and I saw the flash of naked flesh in my peripheral vision as they scurried out from the pile of bodies to start dragging on the nearest discarded undies.



“I have diplomatic immunity.” The prince’s words were slurred, but there was no mistaking his condescending tone.



It occurred to me that the purpose of having a double had been to give the prince discretion—discretion that would be ruined if he got caught, immunity or no, but maybe he was just too stoned/drunk to care.



The manager was unimpressed. “Well, I don’t, asshole. And I don’t need the kind of media attention that will come with you being caught here,” he snarled, “so get the fuck out.” He pointed at the door. The bouncer opened it on cue. A dim beam of yellow light overhead revealed a narrow, filthy alley. A strong wind blew through the door, hard and cold. The stench it brought with it was horrific, even at this distance.



His Highness shrugged and seemed bored, as though this was a frequent occurrence. “Oh, very well.” I saw him pulling together his clothing with uncoordinated movements. His eyes were unfocused, but his speech wasn’t too bad. “You, and you—” He waved in the general direction of Bob and me. “Take the lead. We’ll follow.”



Someone had to take point. I would’ve done it, but Bob moved into place ahead of me. He brushed past the bouncer, deliberately giving the larger man a little shove on the way. The bouncer growled but didn’t start anything. Probably a smart move, as Bob had pulled and worked the slide on his nine and was holding it with the kind of confidence that didn’t bode well for anyone who posed a threat.



I moved two steps behind Bob. I’d pulled my gun as well, a 1911 Colt. There are other 1911s, but they’re clones. The Colt is the classic design that was military issue in WW I and is hard to improve on. Other people have argued with me about modifying the barrel, but I like it just the way it is. It’s my favorite gun, and completely reliable. It fits my hand well and has plenty of stopping power. If I shoot something, I want it to stay down long enough for me to stake or behead it. With that in mind, I keep my gun loaded with silver-plated bullets.



There were three steps leading down from the back door. To the immediate left was a Dumpster. Up close, it stank badly enough to make me want to vomit. In the background I could hear the manager’s swearing and the prince’s laconic response.



The only light was from the doorway behind us and the distant glow of a halogen streetlight past the alley entrance some twenty yards away. The odd lighting made the shadows deeper, so that every recessed doorway seemed sinister, every Dumpster perfect cover. I kept my eyes moving, scanning not only ground level but also the metal fire escape ladders and the tops of the flat-roofed buildings. The door we’d come out of was the fourth down in the row of buildings, giving us about twenty yards to traverse to the main street if we went right, almost a hundred yards if we turned left.



I stared down the alley, catching a glimpse of the front of the building reflected in the porn shop window display across the street. I didn’t see flashing lights reflected in the glass or any sign of a police cruiser. Before I could piece together what that might mean, a sound made me turn.



A rat skittered. It was bigger than some of the more fashionable dogs, and had been startled by something. I didn’t fire, but it distracted me, costing me a valuable second of concentration.



As I turned back there was a wet, tearing sound … then a grunt of pain. A shot rang out as a warm rain splattered my face and I smelled raw meat and fresh blood. Just that fast, Bob was down. I fired into the eye of his attacker that was visible above the throat where he was feeding. The entry wound was deceptively small, but blood, brain, and bone splattered against the wall behind him, sliding in runnels down the rough surface of the brick. The vampire dropped Bob, lunging for me with (literally) mindless rage. I fired two more shots directly into his chest until he went down for good and I was sure there wouldn’t be enough heart left to stake.



“We’ve got bats!” I could barely hear my own voice shout the warning to the other guards as I turned on instinct to fire at a shape moving at me with blurring speed from beside a Dumpster. The vampire shrieked but kept coming, swinging a clawed hand at my head. I ducked the blow and waited for that split second when the momentum would swing his body around, then fired a pair of shots through the back at an angle intended to take out the heart.



He fell, like a puppet whose strings had been cut. I fired into his head. My last shot in the Colt.



My hearing was almost completely gone now, too much gunfire echoing off the metal of the Dumpsters and fire doors, but if there were more vamps, they were holding off. I called for the others to cover me, holstered the Colt, and grabbed Bob’s body under the armpits. I started dragging him backward toward the light still coming from the door to the strip club. He was hurt badly enough that he was going to die in minutes without help. A pair of dark shapes were closing in from either end of the alley, moving with that eerie grace some of the older vampires have.



I was almost to the base of the stairs. Bob’s body wasn’t moving, but blood was still pumping, leaving a wet trail in our wake that was dark and all too visible as I backed into the light.



I risked a glance backward. There was a scuffle going on inside the door. I couldn’t see the young bodyguard, but I caught a glimpse of the prince. As I watched, the royal body began to shimmer, features moving as if made of badly molded clay until another man stood where the prince had been. He and the manager were firing steadily into the doorway where the refrigerator was still upright, despite the explosions of flesh and blood from his back.