Blood Song

by Cat Adams

  clean … or at least human.

  “We checked the perimeter. There was evidence it had been broken by a demonic presence. Ms.

  Graves put together a temporary patch, but we need to contact the authorities.”

  He said my name as if he’d never met me before tonight. I might have said something, but he gave

  me a quel ing look. He was probably right. The prince didn’t seem the type to appreciate socializing

  among the staff, and it wouldn’t do to have the other guards pissed at him, too.

  The prince’s eyes narrowed, and he gave me a long, assessing look. “My people contacted the

  authorities while you were on your way up.” He turned to one of the nearest retainers, a short, square

  man with blunt features and smal dark eyes. “Jean Paul, take Josef downstairs and deal with Ms.

  Graves’s ‘patch.’”

  The two men hustled off, not looking particularly happy. Then again, they didn’t seem the sort to be

  happy about much of anything. Maybe they were paid to be surly. In which case, Josef deserved a

  bonus.

  Prince Rezza stared at me, trying to judge my reaction. I tried to keep it neutral but failed. His

  expression darkened. “It’s being dealt with. Satisfied?” His tone was chal enging.

  Not real y. I’d be more satisfied when some of the militant religious were on scene. But saying that

  would just piss him off more. So would forcibly touching him. It might even create an international

  incident. We’d already started off on the wrong foot, so I kept my mouth shut and gave a curt nod.

  “Good.”

  2

  The prince hadn’t wanted to get entangled with the authorities. So we left before they arrived. I didn’t

  like it. Since I was the one who’d discovered the breach, I was pretty sure they’d want to talk to me, not

  Jean Paul. But it was made very clear that arguing would cost me the job. So I settled for leaving a

  business card with my cel number in case they wanted to cal , along with an offer to give a statement

  the next day.

  So, with minimal delay we had started the prince’s night on the town. Now, at 3:00 A.M., my shift was

  half-over. Thus far there had been no signs of assassins, demons, or real y much of anything. Good.

  Even better, I’d managed to stay professional. That had been harder than I’d thought. The prince was

  impeccably bred, ridiculously wealthy scum. I hadn’t quite been reduced to counting the minutes til I

  could be away from him, but I was coming close.

  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 smel in the air. Their bodies were scrawny, except for one or two who’d invested in the

  kind of plastic surgery that made Dol y Parton’s figure seem positively understated. None of them could

  afford even the cheapest beauty charms to enhance their looks magical y, so al 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. Il egal as hel , 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 actual y 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 practical y 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 actual y doing our job.

  At least as wel 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 control ed panic that made my neck hairs

  rise. The manager was a smal 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 h
ave 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. “Wel , I don’t, asshole. And I don’t need the kind of media attention

  that wil 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 yel ow light overhead revealed a narrow, filthy al ey. 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

  wel .” I saw him pul ing 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’l fol ow.”

  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 pul ed and worked the slide on his nine and

  was holding it with the kind of confidence that didn’t bode wel for anyone who posed a threat.

  I moved two steps behind Bob. I’d pul ed my gun as wel , 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 wel 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 bul ets.

  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

  al ey 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 al ey, 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 smel ed 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 smal , but blood, brain, and bone splattered against the wal behind him, sliding in

  runnels down the rough surface of the brick. The vampire dropped Bob, lunging for me with (literal y)

  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 fel , 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 cal ed 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 stil 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

  al ey, 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 stil pumping, leaving

  a wet trail in our wake that was dark and al 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 stil upright,

  despite the explosions of flesh and blood from his back.

  Time slowed to a crawl. I had al the time in the world to watch the huge black man fal backward in

  slow motion off the stairs to slam into the Dumpster. As his body bounced lifelessly to the floor of the

  al ey, the fire door swung solidly closed with an echoing clang.

  With the disappearance of the light and my escape route, the vamps grew bolder, two of them moving

  forward as a third dropped from the fire escape of a nearby building, landing soft and silent as a

  snowflake.

  Fuck a duck.

  There was no time for a stake, my remaining squirt gun was literally a one-shot, and my backup gun

  was a Derringer. Two shots. None of it was going to do me a damned bit of good against these

  numbers. Then Bob shifted, struggling against my attempt to keep him stil . He grunted in pain from the

  effort, and while he couldn’t talk, the movement showed me he had a backup gun he hadn’t shown me

  earlier.

  Bless you, Bob.

  I set him onto the ground and drew his weapon. Stepping back, I settled into a shooting stance, my

  back against the fire door.

  The vampires were moving in slowly. I didn’t think it was from caution, although they knew what silver

  bul ets can do. It was more to savor the moment, revel in the scent of my fear. Because in the end,

  even the toughest human is afraid of the monsters.

  I fired, and the loads in his gun were hot enough that the textured grip tore at the skin on my palm.

  Instead of a clean shot to the heart, the barrel pul ed up and right, so that the bul et sliced through the

  vampire’s neck. It took out his spine, and blood sprayed in a fountain from the severed arteries
.

  Too many deaths in too smal a space. The smel of blood and meat fil ed the al ey, overwhelming

  even the stench of rotting garbage.

  It hadn’t been intentional, but it was at least graphic enough to stop the other bats in their tracks for a

  second. I kept firing, adjusting for the pul from the loads, trying for heart shots in the hope of breaking

  the pack or at least slowing them down.

  It didn’t work. The tal est, a lanky male with red hair and freckles who looked like Opie, bared fangs.

  Apparently he was one of the leaders. One look from him and they moved, circling like a pack of

  animals on the hunt. He hissed, baring fangs at me a second time. It was an inhuman sound. Every

  hair on my body stood at attention. My pulse thundered in my ears. But I held my ground and fired

  again.

  The first shot missed. He’d moved fast: too damned fast, launching himself at me with everything he

  had. I kept firing, even as his body slammed into mine, driving me into the door behind me with a force

  that drove the air from my lungs and fractured ribs. My head slammed into the heavy steel hard enough

  that for just a second I saw stars. The gun fel from my hand, but at least he was done. I’d taken his

  heart. Hel , I’d taken most of his damned chest. I was soaked with blood. I struggled to move, but I was

  pinned by the mass of his lifeless body. The others used that to their advantage. The ones who hadn’t

  stopped to feast on Bob and the other guard closed in on me. There was no more time. I twisted and

  ducked, managing to break loose long enough to pul one of my knives from its wrist sheath. I slashed

  at random, cutting at anything and everything that came into range—praying al the while that the magic

  in the razor-sharp blades would work as advertised but knowing that the first time I used them would

  probably be the last.

  As the vampires closed in and I went down in a flash of intense pain, I heard a scream and realized it

  was my own voice.

  Dying was going to suck.

  3

  Voices floated over me from a distance. I could hear them, knew I should recognize them, but I

  couldn’t make my eyes open, let alone focus my mind.

  Too much pain, from too many sources. I couldn’t feel parts of my body that I knew I should be able