Blood Song

Shit. How I answered would be incredibly important, not only to Emma but also to the authorities. If I was tied down, it was because someone was on the way—someone with an extermination kit. The sooner I proved to Emma I was still me, the sooner I could get the damned restraints released. So, calmly as I could manage, I stated the basics.



“I’m the only surviving daughter of Lana and Charles Graves. My sister Ivy died when she was just a kid. My mother …” I paused, not sure what to say about my mother that didn’t sound seriously awful. She’s a drunk with the moral sensibilities of a cat in heat? She’ll do anything for a buck? I settled for, “My mother and I don’t get along, and my father left us. We don’t talk about him.” There, that was diplomatic enough that even my gran couldn’t object. “My grandmother is still alive. I love her, but she enables my mom and keeps trying to turn me into a true believer.”



“Let her loose.” The male voice came from inside the room but out of my line of vision. I didn’t know who it was, but it wasn’t “El Jefe”—Warren Landingham, Emma’s father—or Kevin, Emma’s brother. Come to think on it, nobody I knew had a voice like that. If Warren isn’t giving the orders, who is? And why? Warren wouldn’t defer to anybody willingly. Certainly not in his own territory, and not about me.



“My father—,” Emma began to protest.



“Your father is still at his conference in Chicago. Your brother brought me into this as the best hope Ms. Graves has to survive with her sanity intact. If you don’t care to follow my directions, however, I’ll be glad to leave you on your own.”



I could actually hear her teeth grinding. Emma doesn’t take orders any better than Warren does, and she has considerably less of a sense of humor.



“It’s daylight. It could hurt her,” she argued.



The man’s voice was smug. “Her waking early could mean that she is more human than vampire. Or it could mean that there will still be a stronger connection to her attempted sire. They will both have a compulsion to find each other. If so, it will give us a better chance of hunting him down before he finds Ms. Graves and either kills her or finishes bringing her over.”



I didn’t like either of those options, but the man was right.



I twisted to the right and strained my neck to get a look at the owner of the voice, but he’d moved away again. Frustrating.



“You’d best hurry, Ms. Landingham.” The bastard’s voice had a hint of amusement. “You’ll want to be finished before your brother gets back.”



“My brother would never hurt me.” Emma spoke with cold certainty. And well she should. Kevin adored his baby sister. There was no way in hell he’d ever do anything to put her at risk.



“Are you sure? Werewolves can be so … unpredictable. Especially at the full moon.” He sounded so sure, so reasonable. Probably exactly the same tone the snake had used with Eve when talking about that pesky apple.



“What an assssss.” I muttered the words under my breath, but Emma heard. She glanced at me, and a flicker of something close to understanding cut through her rage. The main reason we’ve never been close is the fact that I am so very irreverent and rebellious: “stuck at thirteen developmentally.” She hates that Warren and Kevin care so much about me. Now, probably for the first time, the poster child for repression was taking a hike in my shoes. Flying by the seat of her pants in a dangerous situation wasn’t making her any cheerier than I usually am.



She hit the button to release the restraints. They made a screeching sound that made my ears hurt and halted about halfway down, apparently disliking the shape I’d bent them into. Normally they slid smoothly into the surface of the lab table. Dammit. El Jefe was probably going to make me pay for the repairs.



I sat up and tried to figure out how to remove all of the various electrodes and tubes. It takes a certain finesse to remove medical equipment without damaging either your body or the equipment. I’d heal, but if I ruined any more of Warren’s stuff he’d be seriously pissed.



I turned and looked at the stranger. He met my gaze without flinching. Nor did his eyes wander, not even to the tattoo. I have a vine of ivy tattooed onto my left leg, winding around my calf and up my thigh. It’s beautifully done and very eye-catching. People always comment on it when I wear shorts or a skirt. But he didn’t say a word. My body was just that … a body.



He looked at me with cool appraisal, watching in amusement as I took his measure in return. He wasn’t handsome, or ugly, or truly much of anything. You could look at him closely and five minutes later you’d have forgotten him. Pleasant features, hazel eyes, hair that color that hovers between blond and brown—cut so that it was neither short nor long. His charcoal-colored suit was the kind of mid-price off-the-rack but not cheap suit that your average businessman would wear. My guess was that he either was currently with or had once worked for a three-letter agency of one sort or another and would be introducing himself as “Mr. Smith.”



The only thing that wasn’t studiously ordinary about him was the scars that peeked out from beneath his starched white collar. You had to look very closely to see them, but they were there.



“Hello, Ms. Graves. I’m John Jones.”



Not “Smith,” but close enough.



He extended his hand to shake. When I took it I got a jolt of psychic power that brought an involuntary gasp from my lips and a faint smile to his.



I could see in his eyes. He’d done it deliberately. He was testing me. I didn’t like it, didn’t like him. But I’d be careful. Because Mr. Jones wasn’t just dangerous, he was deadly. I wasn’t sure I wanted him on my side—but I sure as hell didn’t want him working against me.



And Kevin knows him well enough to call in a favor. I’d always wondered about Kevin’s past. Werewolves live several decades longer than humans. I didn’t know exactly how old he was, just that he was the product of Warren’s misspent youth and had decided to go to college later than most, so that he and Emma were just a grade apart. But he’d been around a while, because Warren is well past tenure. But Kevin doesn’t talk about the past. Ever. I made the mistake of asking … once. I’m not stupid enough to repeat that error. Of course that didn’t keep me from being curious as hell. But Kevin’s my friend and Warren’s son. I won’t snoop. Still, based on Jones it appeared that Kevin might have lived an even more colorful life than I’d given him credit for in my wilder imaginings.



I glanced around the room, feeling suddenly very awkward. Clothes may not make the woman, but running around naked generally puts you at a disadvantage. You have to be very secure in your body to be nude in a group of fully dressed people and carry it off. I’m no prude, but I’m not that secure. So I was very glad when Emma pulled one of my duffel bags out of the lab’s storage closet. Everything I needed was in there, neatly packed. And lying on top was something I didn’t need but absolutely wanted—the holsters with my guns and the polished wooden case that held my knives when they weren’t in use. A holsterless but cleaned and polished 9mm sat on top of my wallet and a stack of neatly folded clothes. It wasn’t my gun, so why was it with my stuff? I felt a stab of something that wasn’t quite a memory as I ran a finger over the grip. I tried to force it, but the more I tried to remember specifics, the further it slipped away from me.



Frustrating.



Growling under my breath, I shoved the gun aside and turned my attention to the knife case. I flipped open the lid and there they were, all cleaned, shiny, and oiled. The thorough care smacked of Kevin’s work, but he couldn’t have touched the blades. They’re magical, and they were created specifically to kill monsters. Still, whoever had cleaned them had done a fine job.



“You sssstill haven’t told me what’s wrong with me.” I kept my voice neutral as I asked Emma the question. But it was Jones who answered.



“You are an abomination.”



“Excusssse me?” I raised my brows, my voice bordering on insulted. He laughed. From the expression on his face, it took him by surprise.



“I take it you don’t laugh much.”



“Not really, no,” he admitted. The humor was gone as though wiped from a slate. He was talking directly to me, as if Emma weren’t even there, but that didn’t seem to bother her. I would’ve been pissed. “‘Abomination’ is the term used by the vampires for that small group of persons who should have died, or been turned, but instead survived with only partial physiological changes. They live, they have a soul and possess their own memories, but have been altered significantly. Each person’s physiology changes differently. We’re still determining that with you.”



“I ssssee.” I did. I didn’t like it, but I definitely saw where he was going. I was now in possession of more strength than the average bear, a lisp, and a pair of really impressive fangs. What else had changed? Would I be able to go out in daylight? Could I eat real food, or had I developed a taste for blood? God, I hoped not. Even thinking about it was just so gross. “So you’re going to follow me around and watch me? See what I do and what makes me tick? Is that a good idea?” I’d imagine that was a pretty dangerous way to operate.



He shrugged. “When we’ve worked with abominations in the past, we normally kept them under for a full month to weaken the tie to their sire.”



I didn’t ask who “we” were. I had a strong suspicion but didn’t really want to know. Nor did I think he’d tell me. Or maybe he would. Which might be worse.



“Did it work, and if so, why am I awake?” Or had it been a month? I probably should ask what month and year it was. “How long have I been here, anyway?” I pulled on a pair of elegant powder blue lace panties and matching bra, then promptly covered them up with a serviceable navy sweat suit. I used a covered rubber band to pull my hair into a ponytail at the back of my head. It felt about the same length as it had this morning. Or whenever. I reminded myself, yet again, to find time for a haircut. Of course, it occurred to me that my hair might not grow back … ever. Man, I’d better find a really good stylist if it was going to wind up my last haircut.