Blood Song

I reached inside my jacket again, fumbling the phone a little, but not so much that I couldn’t still give directions. My fingers grasped the hard plastic handle of the one-shot I’d packed earlier. I said a silent prayer upward, hoping that my grandmother was right, that there is a God up there who listens to those in need. I pulled the little squirt gun from its concealment and yanked out the tiny plug.



I leaned toward the two of them, but Bruno pulled his brother back, out of my reach.



“Let me see his neck, Bruno. I need to make sure she didn’t bite him while we were dealing with her partner.”



Bruno stared back at me, his eyes nearly as blank as Matteo’s had been earlier. Shock. He was in shock. Shit, shit, shit! “Bruno! I need you, buddy. Stay with me. We’ve got to check Matteo’s neck.”



Bruno nodded, but the motion was jerky, and the hands he used to pull off the clerical collar and unbutton his brother’s shirt were shaking so badly it took longer than it should. But he got it done, and with the shirt collar open we could see the delicate half-healed punctures.



“Oh fuck. Matty!” Bruno’s words weren’t quite a sob.



“Hold him still,” I ordered. “This is going to hurt and he’s liable to fight.”



Bruno shifted his weight, getting a better grip. When he was ready, I upended the little gun, pouring holy water over the tiny bite mark.



And Father Matteo began to scream.



19



The police were gone. The ambulance had taken Matty and Bruno to St. Joseph’s Hospital—holy ground. Matty was badly hurt, but we’d done the best we could for him. Tough as he was, he might make it. Maybe.



I was resting, sitting on the slight curb next to the newspaper dispenser in my blood-soaked clothing and gaudy holy items, sipping a strawberry diet shake and reading a magazine, when the traditional long black limo pulled into the parking lot, cruising smoothly to a stop a mere six feet from me.



A pair of large suited men who looked like older, larger versions of Dee and Dum climbed out, standing in perfect bodyguard formation on either side of the rear door of the vehicle. The one on my left bent and opened the door for the man inside.



I rose as King Dahlmar exited the vehicle.



I might not have recognized him if I hadn’t been reading about him just a few seconds before. He was average height and build. He was handsome, with sharp features, olive skin, and penetrating gray eyes. His silver hair and beard were perfectly trimmed, his dark gray suit impeccably tailored to fit a man who wasn’t carrying even one extra pound.



“Good morning, Ms. Graves.”



“Is it already?” I glanced at my watch. Yep, sure enough. Just after one. “Then good morning, Your Majesty.” I bent ever so slightly at the waist, using the opportunity to check his reflection in the tinted windows. It was him. Or maybe a spawn. But I was betting it was him. It was too weird for the ruler of a small nation to hunt me down in the predawn hours in the parking lot of a twenty-four-hour pharmacy. Nobody setting up a fake would do something that hokey. Too unbelievable.



“I would speak with you for a moment.”



“Of course you would. The question is whether I would speak with you.”



He gave me a long look, the corner of his mouth twitching slightly with amusement, before using his hand to brush off the curb next to where I’d been sitting and lowering himself comfortably onto the concrete. His retainers were too well trained to show their shock by more than a slight widening of the eyes.



“Have a seat.” He gestured to the spot I’d vacated on his arrival. “I’d offer to have you join me in the limo, but I doubt you’d be willing to.”



I sat. “You’d be right. I’d get blood all over the upholstery. You wouldn’t get back the deposit.”



“They don’t make royalty give deposits. But I’d hate to ruin the fabric.” This time the smile was broader and more genuine. He had a nice smile. It lit up his face, making his gray eyes sparkle. The change in expression changed his entire look, making him handsome. I was betting he’d been quite the heartbreaker in his youth. Maybe he still was.



The smile faded, like the sun disappearing behind clouds. He gestured to the magazine beside me, with his son’s picture on the cover. “You’ve read the article?”



I nodded.



“My elder son, Rezza, has quite recently rediscovered his religion. He has turned away from drinking, drugs, and womanizing. Whether it is sincere or a ploy to gain the support of the fundamentalists who have growing influence in my country remains to be seen.” He continued, “There are those who would see me dead, and Rezza on the throne, thinking they could control him.”



“One of the perils of being king.” I was surprised Dahlmar was being this open, but considering the circumstances, who else did he really have to talk to except a commoner from another country whom nobody would believe even if she told someone?



He smiled, but it was wry acknowledgment, not the happy expression I’d seen earlier. “It is. They’d be wrong about controlling him, though. He is his own man. Not the man I’d choose, but his own nonetheless.” He shifted his weight, trying to make himself more comfortable on the unforgiving concrete before he continued. “My younger son, Kristoff, is …” He paused, seeming to look for the right word. He finally settled on one I wouldn’t have expected. “Weak. He is weak. And there are those who would discredit my elder son so as to see him on my throne in my stead.”



That explained the pictures. “They think they could control him.”



“Oh, they could. Easily,” Dahlmar said drily.



I didn’t know what to say to that, so I kept my mouth shut. Eventually, he continued.



“It wasn’t such an issue before we found the natural gas deposits. Now, however, we have wealth and, with it, power. The European Union courts us, our enemies fear us. It’s a dangerous combination.”



And power draws plots like a corpse draws flies.



“Both groups want me dead.” His smile was a baring of teeth. “I’m not inclined to oblige them.”



“I can relate to that.”



He laughed. “I am sure you can. Your file is quite impressive.” He paused, then, “You are caught in the middle of our power struggle. One of these groups has already tried to use you. The questions I want answered are”—he ticked off items on his fingers—“Who in my retinue has betrayed me? And which, if either of my sons, is complicit?”



I nodded, not sure what that had to do with me.



“The situation is made more difficult by the fact that there are demons and spawn involved.”



I acknowledged that with a dip of my head. “Still, I’d think that the religious extremists wouldn’t want to be involved with the demonic. Pretty much every religion frowns on that sort of thing.”



His expression soured. “Yes, but sadly, there are always those who believe the end justifies the means; and the offer of enough money can frequently make a man forget his loyalties and his beliefs.” He reached into the inner pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a heavy white envelope. “My men have questioned the retainer who they saw in your memories.”



My memories? That comment made me frown, since we’d never actually made it to that stage in the office. Had someone been prying into my brain while we’d been negotiating terms? That would not make me happy.



He paused, his eyes darkening, his expression steely, but his voice was utterly emotionless. “They were quite … thorough.”



I couldn’t decide whether to shudder or growl. I hadn’t particularly liked the man who’d hired me, but I was starting to wonder about Dee and Dum’s ethics.



“He had become involved with an organization that hired professionals to execute a plot against me. We learned enough of the details to make reasonable preparations.”



“I’m glad.”



“But I am left with questions.” He sighed and shook his head. “As a king, that is neither uncommon nor unexpected.” At his gesture, the driver of the limo popped open the trunk and walked to the rear of the car, where he retrieved a black and white bag that might have passed for a bowling bag but wasn’t. Matty had carried a similar bag. It had two completely separate inner compartments, each of which was impervious to blood, and the whole thing had been blessed. The king continued, “We will, eventually, get to the bottom of this.”



He sounded absolutely certain. Then again, he might well be. With enough time, money, and effort, most conspiracies can be unraveled, particularly if you’re not too particular about whether or how much blood will be spilled in the process. “As a father, I find it unacceptable that I carry suspicions about my children for even one moment longer than is absolutely necessary.”



He extended the envelope to me. It was of heavy, high-quality paper in a rich cream color, without writing of any kind on it. I took it but didn’t open it. I was waiting for the other shoe to drop.



“Neither of my sons has ever been good at maintaining a deception when confronted by the truth. I am hoping that you will assist me in confronting them.”



“Assist you how?” I tried to keep my voice neutral but didn’t quite manage to keep a note of suspicion from creeping in.



“In that envelope are two tickets to the World Series game on Friday night. I have purchased a section of tickets and will be attending with my sons and our retinue.”



A section of tickets? For Game One of the World Series? I didn’t even want to think how much that had to have cost. And oh, wouldn’t his security people be having fits.



“Ivan”—he gestured to the driver—“will meet you next to the giant cap to the left of the main entrance. He will escort you and your guest to my section between the singing of your national anthem and the throwing of the first pitch. And I will see which of my sons or my retainers reacts to seeing you join me.”



It didn’t sound like much of a plan to me. But he was a king, and even I knew better than to point that out. So I held on to the envelope and kept my mouth shut.