Blood Call

by Lilith Saintcrow

  Gone. Vanished into thin air.

  “We have laptops?” He thought he’d done a pretty good job of keeping his voice steady and level. But Willie glanced at him, and he saw a flash of fear in her dark eyes. The rain had dotted her makeup, and normally she’d have fixed it in the car while waiting for him and Hassan.

  Little things like that were the first to fray during a mission.

  Willie nodded, carefully. “We have a full kit. I went shopping yesterday. Hassan didn’t think I should, but I had one of those feelings. Besides, I didn’t know if you were going to have to ditch your car after meeting Chilwell.” Her thin mouth pulled down at the corners. She rose, and her large, gentle hands moved efficiently, sweeping the gauze package and the cotton together into a small wad that went into a plastic bag, and inside another one as well. The antiseptic wipes and the leftover suture material vanished as well. She would get rid of it quietly in a dumpster as soon as possible.

  “Good. Are you able to work for a few hours?” He tested the arm. Range of motion was impeded, but it was his left. He could still use a gun, and probably a knife if he had to; if he wasn’t worried about tearing sutures he could do more.

  The bite on his throat was less swollen now. God knew what that thing—Kit—had in his saliva. A reflexive shudder worked its way down through Josiah’s spine.

  Anna.

  He closed the thought away, shutting the doors on it with a mental click.

  “I can work.” Willie finished clearing the mess on the table. “You should rest.”

  Not yet, my dear. Not even close. “Was there any chatter on the bands about Anna? Anything about a female apprehended or shot?”

  “Nothing. Plenty about you, but nothing about her. I don’t think they have her, Josiah.”

  “If they do, they’ll offer a trade. It’s the logical thing to do.” They wanted to kill her before. If they have her she’s dead; I’m deluding myself. But my God, the car…“The car?”

  “Locked and empty. There was nobody there.” Her long, capable hands loosened; she leaned back, pressing her fists into her lower back as if it hurt. “You should rest.”

  “Not going to. Get me everything you can on the mayor. And Denton, and whoever else was in the files. I want a full workup on their homes. Understood? A full workup. Get me everything you can and don’t leave any traces.”

  Hassan came around the corner. “Food. And just be glad I didn’t spit in it. What are we into now?”

  “Josiah wants target files.” Willie scooped the plastic bag up, stalking to the bathroom. “Talk to him.”

  The slim dark man set a platter of sandwiches down on the table, bumping aside the medical kit. “What now?”

  “Denton. The mayor. Everyone who paid to have this treatment.” Josiah tested the arm again. She did good work. Wish I’d had her in Veracruz that one time. “Kit said their cellular structure was becoming unstable. Shouldn’t take much to—”

  “Hang on. Who?” He dropped down in the other chair. “Cellular structure?”

  “Eric’s contact. There’s some kind of…Jesus.” The unreality of it hit him between the eyes again. His head was getting funny, between the shock and recent events. “You’re not going to believe me. I don’t even know if I’d believe me.”

  Hassan lifted an eyebrow. “Does it have something to do with that thing on your neck? You’re bleeding there, by the way.”

  Josiah reached up. His fingertips came away wet and red. No wonder his throat felt hot. “Fuck.” He pulled the first-aid kit across the table, digging in it for another sani-wipe. “Listen, Eric’s contact is…weird. He said they were bleeding him and injecting his blood to make themselves younger. But it stressed their cellular structure—”

  “Younger?” But Hassan didn’t sound disbelieving. He dug in the bag in the chair next to him, coming up with a fistful of the original file. “I took a closer look at the digital files on here; some stuff was scanned in that isn’t on the hard copies. If there is some sort of medical breakthrough, some kind of therapy, it’s worth millions. Can you fucking imagine what people would pay for it?”

  “I dunno.” Josiah eyed the sandwiches. He had to eat, to fuel his body through the rest of the night. There were things to be done, serious work. “If it makes you fall apart in dust like those assholes the other night, it might not be worth it.”

  “There is that. Goddamn you, Wolfe, you’d better eat. You left a few pints back there.” Hassan scooped up half a ham sandwich on wheat, held it out. Maybe a peace offering. “Come on.”

  Josiah’s chest hurt. It wasn’t a physical pain, God knew there was enough of that. It was just…Anna, maybe in a cell somewhere, suffering God knew what. If the hostiles had her and wanted information, she wouldn’t have any to give beyond his name, and that phone number. Torture would be useless; she didn’t have it in her to resist.

  Anna wasn’t outright weak, but she hadn’t been trained. There were also…things that could be done to a female subject. Distasteful methods a liquidation agent didn’t use, but still, part of the kit bag. Part of the work.

  She would be broken, and it would be his fault for not anticipating his enemies correctly.

  Maybe they lured her out? How? His mind wouldn’t stop pawing at the problem, turning it over inside his head, probing at it. How, for God’s sake? She had been safe enough, as safe as he could make her.

  It just hadn’t been enough.

  “Josiah.” Hassan’s tone was kind but firm. “You have to eat. Take it, goddammit. Willie’s going to get the laptops and start working, and I’m going to go through and get all our gear inventoried. You need to rest that brain of yours and come up with approaches if you’re really looking at doing multiple liquidations in a city crawling with cops who know what you look like now. They’re probably bringing in mercenaries, too. You’ve all but declared war on the Torrafaziones, too, because you never do anything halfway, right? The entire city wants your head, Wolfe. You should get the hell out of here.”

  “Not without making them pay.” It came out flat and hard. He took the proffered sandwich, bit into it with little relish.

  “Are you even hearing yourself? This is not a good situation to be in. We don’t even have agency backup.”

  Hassan was right. The agency wanted whatever information it could gain, but they would cut Josiah loose and disavow if anything truly tangled went down. Losing four agents inside a domestic hole would make the big brains nervous. They might decide to torch and send in the hot squad, and if Anna was taken…

  He had to swallow before he could speak. His throat burned. “How do you know?”

  “Don’t insult my intelligence. You’re getting punchy. Eat, and then you’d better lie down. Don’t worry about that girl of yours; she’s a little brainier than she lets on. She recognized me, after all.”

  His skin felt too loose, a by-product of escaping death and adrenaline overload. He was just beginning to suspect he’d actually survived. “Where from?” Hassan, you sneaky bastard.

  “Was just curious. Two years ago, talked to her during a gallery showing. Didn’t think she’d marked me.”

  Curious? Anna never forgets a face; she’s as good as an agent that way. “How’d you find her?”

  “It was in your bloody file, Josiah. Eat.”

  His heart turned into a stone fist. The personnel file he’d acquired with so much trouble had been edited for his benefit. They had known about her. It brought up the starkly terrifying idea that perhaps the agency had taken her for leverage.

  Which meant she was better off tortured and dead.

  He ate. Hope was like revenge; there was no profit in it.

  Still, if I have to, I’ll take revenge.

  Eating came first. Then resting his tired body, so he could be clear and calm and ruthless when the time came.

  I’m going to need guns. The right guns. And I suppose it won’t hurt to get a few grenades.

  “Wait a second.” Willie stood in the
bathroom doorway, a faint blush beginning on her high cheekbones. “You’re not going to encourage him, are you?”

  “Encourage him? Have you ever tried to get between Wolfe and an objective? Not the best place to be, ducky.” Hassan shrugged and took a huge bite of a chicken salad sandwich. He’d probably added sweet pickles to it, the philistine.

  She looked about to protest, but three soft knocks sounded at the door.

  Hassan was out of his chair, in cover position as Josiah scooped up a 9mm on his way to his feet. Willie half-turned, pulled up the rifle leaning against the wall, and settled it against her shoulder.

  The knocks came again. “Housekeeping,” Hassan whispered. “In the middle of the night. What fun.”

  Josiah motioned for him to be quiet. He settled himself between the two beds, covering the door. Then his heart leapt into his throat and settled there, because the deadbolt on the door was moving.

  Silently, smoothly, the deadbolt jittered open, moving in increments. Hassan sank down, ready to push the table over and provide the first wave of firepower. A little red dot showed on the door—Willie’s laser sight; she must have some pressure on the trigger.

  The deadbolt eased fully open.

  Next, the door handle—a spring-loaded lock, and supposed to remain shut unless the person outside had a key—began to turn down. Smoothly, very smoothly. And so very silently.

  His heart thudded dimly, thickly in his ears.

  The door eased open, drifting and letting in a flood of rain-washed night air. “Put your weapons away,” a familiar voice said, calmly enough. “You cannot harm me, but she is fragile.”

  The bite on Josiah’s throat crunched with wet, hot pain.

  Yellow light from the hallway lay on the short carpet, and a scarecrow shadow lay inside it. Kit’s pallid face and hands floated, his fish-belly feet dragging as he ghosted forward. The red dot of laser sighting from Willie’s rifle settled on his thin chest, still clad in a ragged black T-shirt.

  “Holy fuck,” Hassan whispered.

  At the edge of the door, a pair of familiar green eyes appeared. Anna peered around the corner, her tangled hair falling down as her fingers curled over the jamb. “It’s okay.” She sounded hysterically calm. “He’s a friend.”

  “I would not go so far, fair Anne.” The creature paused, his terrible black gaze coming to rest on Josiah. “Put your weapons away, children. We have much to speak of.”

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  The entire room held its breath, Anna did too. The air turned uneasy, staticky, before Josiah laid his gun down.

  Josiah crouched between two beds, his shoulders slumped wearily but his face set. He looked like hell—bare-chested, his shoulder had a glaring-white bandage, and his hazel eyes had gone bleaker and colder than ever. “Stand down.”

  Willie lowered her rifle, but Hassan stared wide-eyed at Kit. She didn’t blame him. Her own heart beat thin and fast in her wrists and temples; she was sweating. Josiah’s eyes were locked to her face. The bruise on her cheek hurt, but less than it had, and she moved gingerly into the room behind Kit.

  “Hassan.” Josiah’s tone brooked no disobedience. “Put your fucking gun down, soldier. You two, get the hell in here and close the fucking door.”

  Kit took another step forward. His gaze flowed over to Hassan, who turned pale under his copper coloring. His pupils dilated, then shrank as the gun dropped to his side, held loosely with fingers locked outside the trigger guard. “Holy fuck,” Hassan repeated.

  That’s what I thought, too. Anna swung the door shut, flipping the deadbolt. Her hair was still damp, and she suspected her socks would never dry out. She leaned against the door, all the strength leaving her arms and legs in a trembling rush.

  Safe. Or as safe as I’m likely to be, around him. It was odd to think of Kit as “him.” As human.

  Especially after what she’d seen him do.

  Josiah rose, fluidly. He strode across the room, brushed past Kit, grabbed her shoulders, and proceeded to shake her so hard her head bobbled. Once. Twice. Three times. “Where. The. Hell. Were. You?”

  It was the most emotion she’d ever seen from him. His eyes had turned dark, almost black, and his mouth drew against itself in a grimace of pain or rage. He had trouble getting the words out, his teeth were locked together so hard.

  “She was safe enough.” Kit sounded dismissive. He moved forward, touching the mirror hanging over a low bench meant for shoes or luggage; the two fingers remaining on his left hand left no streak on the glassy surface.

  It was a relief to see he had a reflection, at least.

  Anna shuddered, hearing the wet crunching sounds and the screams again. “There were cops in the church,” she whispered as Josiah pulled her forward, hugging her so tightly her ribs creaked. The smell of safety closed around her again. “Regular ones, and ones that turned to dust. If I’d gone all the way in they would have seen me, but they were waiting for him.”

  “Jesus.” He breathed into her hair, his arms tightening even further. She couldn’t breathe, but she didn’t care. He was solid and warm and real, not cold or horribly fever-damp like Kit, who had clapped his hand over her mouth and hissed for her to be quiet while he “cleaned” the rest of the church. Not to mention the moldering smell of his small room, a cellar or closet with rotting books and clothes piled on shelves and racks, a narrow pallet of a bed, the entire small space full of a cloying iron-hard scent she now knew was blood.

  Spending the hours until dusk in that little room, trying to be interested in the bare, weeping walls while the pale, mangled creature stared at her, was one of the worst things she had ever experienced.

  Almost worse, even, than finding Eric dead.

  Afterward, the fight in the darkened church, seeing how silently and ruthlessly Kit had killed first the men who exploded into dust and then the regular ones…but before he killed all the normal ones, he drank.

  Josiah’s grasp loosened, only so he could grab her shoulders and shake her again. “I told you to stay in the car. Do you have any idea what it’s like, thinking someone’s taken you? Jesus fucking Christ, you goddamn idiot, you could have gotten killed!”

  Kit piped up again. His voice, soft and wrong, cut like a cold knife through hot butter. “Save your sweet murmurings for later. Where is my ring?”

  Josiah appeared not to hear him. “Killed, Anna! Do you understand me? Or what they’d do to you would make you wish you were dead. I told you to stay in the car. What happened?”

  Anna tried to find the words. None came.

  Kit made a small hissing sound. “I weary of this. Where is my ring?”

  Josiah spared him a single glance. “Shut the fuck up, freak. I’ll get to you in a goddamn minute.” His hands were shaking, and that was vaguely frightening. She’d never seen him like this, not even during the last big fight. “What happened, Anna? You tell me what happened.”

  She found her voice, surprisingly steady. “Calm down.”

  “Calm…” Words seemed to fail him. He tipped his head back, his jaw working, and the shaking in his hands invaded her body. Shaking like an earthquake, like everything coming apart.

  Oh, God, Josiah, you have no idea what I saw. “You have got to calm down. You’re scaring me.” Her hands crept up, grabbed at his wrists. His skin was warm, human. Not waxy and resilient. “Please, Josiah. Please.”

  A galvanic shudder ratcheted through him. He let out a long sigh. “Josiah,” she persisted. “Jo. Look at me.”

  Another sigh, or a breath so deep there was no difference. He finally tilted his head back down, slowly, his throat working as he swallowed. The thin trickle of blood oozing from beneath the plasters on his throat was black in the dim light.

  His hands left her shoulders. He cupped her face, leaning forward so his forehead touched hers, and closed his eyes. “You’re all right?” As if he wasn’t sure. “You’re okay? Hurt anywhere?”

  It felt like a bar of hot lead was buried in her lumbar reg
ion, her shoulders ached, and her face throbbed. Not to mention her ankle, freshly angered by trotting; if she took her boot off it would probably swell like a basketball. Her face hurt, too, a small pain in the middle of the orchestra of aches. “I’m fine,” she whispered back. “Just a little bruised, the usual. I need a vacation.”

  He made a sound that was probably intended to be a laugh. “Anywhere in the world you want, baby. You just say the word.”

  It was her turn to make a pale, forlorn attempt at laughter. “Even the North Pole sounds good right about now.”

  “Too cold.” Steady, now. Which meant he was marginally calmer, probably. “I swear, Anna, if you ever do that to me again…” His thumbs moved, brushing her cheeks, an exquisitely gentle caress. Then he kissed her forehead, pushing her gently away and examining her face. “If you ever do that again you won’t be able to sit down for a week when I finish with you. Understood?”

  So he remembered that particular joking exchange with Eric, and their lighthearted arguing. It was an unexpected balm, and tears pricked at her eyes before she blinked several times, denying them. Better. He’s calmer. So she gave the next line. “Chauvinist. You won’t hit me.”

  “Who said anything about hitting?” He sounded like himself again, and wrung a small surprised laugh out of her. His eyes were no longer so frightfully dark, and she was suddenly aware that he wasn’t wearing a shirt, his chest hair hadn’t changed one bit in the intervening three years, and that everyone else in the room, including Kit, was staring at them. “That’s my girl. Sit down, there’s food. We have pain meds for you, and Hassan can make some tea. He does good tea. Hassan?”

  Hassan’s jaw closed with a snap. “Tea? You want me to make bloody tea? What is…that?” He pointed at Kit, who wore a faint smile as he stared disconcertingly at a point too high to be Hassan’s chest and too low to be his chin. “What the fuck is going on here?”

  Josiah let go of her, suddenly calm and in control again. “Hassan, Willie. Meet Christopher, ‘Kit’ for short, freak by occupation, and the reason why this is all so fucking weird. I’d offer him something to drink but I don’t think we’d like it if he accepted. Sit down, Kit. Let’s get to business.” He pointed at the table, where a pile of sandwiches looked absurdly good.