Blood Song

by Cat Adams

  Dottie’s sunny living room. My throat ached from screaming and the carpet was wet from where the

  crystal bowl had been knocked off the table.

  I shivered, my teeth chattering, cold from physical and psychic shock.

  I remembered.

  Furious pounding at the front door made Dottie jump to her feet abruptly enough to stumble. Gibson

  managed to grab her before she could fal , then hurried over to deal with whoever. An alarmed neighbor

  probably. Not that I cared. I didn’t. I couldn’t even think past the roar of my own pulse, pumping

  adrenaline-laced blood through my body.

  As if from a great distance I heard a worried male voice cal ing out, “Dottie, are you al right?”

  “I’m fine, Robert.” The old woman’s voice was surprisingly unperturbed. She gave me a meaningful

  look before continuing. “Celia here just saw a mouse. It startled her.”

  I wasn’t going to argue. I was too busy hyperventilating. Memory suppression is a psychological

  defense mechanism. The subconscious mind tries its damnedest to protect us from the things we’re

  not equipped to deal with, and the vampire’s spel had helped. It had been too soon to tear the lid off of

  these particular memories. Any time in the next mil ennium would have been too soon. “Trauma” is

  such a nice, sterile word for what was ripping through my brain and chest.

  An elderly man shoved roughly past Gibson to stand in front of Dot, his eyes narrowing with

  suspicion. He turned to me, his mouth dropping open.

  “I’m phobic.” I managed to gasp out the lie, and saw real relief chase across my hostess’s features.

  “Real y, Robert, we need to get an exterminator in here! What I wouldn’t give for my dear Minnie. She

  was quite the mouser.” Minnie the Mouser. That was just sick. But I liked it. I found myself choking on a

  hysterical laugh.

  “Are you al right?” Gibson’s eyes were on mine and were dark with concern.

  “I’l be fine.” It was a lie. Fine had gone for a long vacation somewhere along with my sanity. But I was

  alive, and here, and I damned wel needed to get my shit together if I was going to survive this. And I

  intended to.

  Dottie stepped over my foot, splayed across her nice carpet. “Be a dear, Robert, there’s a pitcher of

  lemonade in the refrigerator—”

  “No.” I shook my head and tried to col ect myself. “Thank you, but no. I’m fine now, and we need to get

  going.”

  “Are you sure, dear?” Dottie might not want Robert to know what had happened, but she was

  obviously concerned about me.

  I shook my head again. My brain was gathering the fabric of reality around itself again and I was

  happy to report the truth. “I’m okay. Just let me clean up the mess and we’l be out of your hair.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that.” But she wasn’t hurrying to do it herself, either.

  “Real y. I insist. Are there paper towels in the kitchen?”

  “Yes, dear. On a holder attached to the wal by the refrigerator. You can’t miss them.”

  I got my feet under me and hurried out of the room. Yes, I’d clean up the mess. But more than that, I

  wanted a couple of minutes alone.

  The prince was a fake. There hadn’t been a raid. There had been no cops at either end of that al ey.

  The entire job, from start to finish, had been a setup. I’d been supposed to die and have the whole thing

  be blamed on the vampire named Edgar. Why? Damn it … why? And who was behind it? I mean, the

  whole thing was being set up by someone with enough resources and money to make it al happen and

  have access to demons or half demons capable and wil ing to work spel s that were anathema.

  I’d come here for answers, and wound up with more, and scarier, questions.

  8

  Gibson slid his cel phone back into the pocket of his jacket. He’d cal ed in and left a voice mail for his

  superiors as soon as we’d gotten into the privacy of his car. Now that the cal was over, he glanced at

  me from the driver’s seat. “You look like shit.”

  I didn’t doubt him, but that didn’t mean I liked hearing it said out loud. “Gee, thanks.” I made the words

  as dry and sarcastic as I could, and it brought a tight smile to his face. “You try remembering your own

  murder sometime, see how you like it.”

  “Nah, I think I’l pass.” He turned his ful attention back to the road.

  “Quick thinking, by the way—tel ing the neighbor I’d seen a mouse.”

  “Wel , she had to say something. You were screaming bloody murder. And Dottie doesn’t want

  anyone to know about her talent. The last time people found out, they hounded her constantly, wanting

  her to ‘find out things.’ She didn’t get a minute’s peace.”

  I shook my head. The lie had made me look like an idiot, but I’d played along. “Did she real y have a

  cat named Minnie the Mouser?”

  “Right up until the landlord made her get rid of Minnie.”

  “Bastard.”

  He chuckled. “I take it you like animals?”

  “Love ’em. But my schedule’s weird.”

  He let out a heaving sigh as he took a left turn. “Too bad. I was hoping you might want a cat. She

  real y is one hel of a mouser.”

  I started to laugh. It was a little bit hysterical, but I couldn’t help myself. Sometimes either you laugh or

  you cry, and crying wouldn’t do any good.

  Unfortunately, I laughed hard enough that tears started. Then I cried. Gibson didn’t say a word, just

  reached over when we hit a red light and popped open the glove box. Inside was a box of tissues.

  I used a few to wipe my eyes and blow my nose. He pretended not to notice. It was a relief, real y. I

  don’t like crying. It makes me feel weak and out of control. I’m not weak, but out of control … today that

  was something of an understatement. Besides, Bob Johnson was a friend, and judging from what I’d

  seen in that vision, he was dead and gone. How the hel was I going to break the news to Vanessa?

  I cried hard, but not for long. Stil , even that smal release was good for me. I was feeling a little bit

  better by the time Gibson pul ed into the parking lot of my office building. My office isn’t quite in central

  downtown. Even with office sharing I couldn’t afford that. Instead, we’re about four blocks off. It puts us

  closer to the county jail, which works wel for the bail bondsmen. Being in the same building with the bail

  bondsmen (who do not and ethical y cannot actual y refer clients to a specific attorney) is good for the

  attorney. Because let’s face it. Even without a referral, sheer placement means they’re going to get

  noticed.

  Left over from a bygone era and surrounded by squat office buildings, our three-story Victorian, once

  a mansion, has more charm and style than anyplace else within miles. The bulk of it is painted slate

  gray, but there’s lots of gingerbread trim that is done up in white, burgundy, and black. A portion of the

  rents is pooled into a fund that pays for building maintenance, including lawn care, so David’s son

  comes by once a week to keep the grounds picture perfect, including the huge trees that shade the

  front and back porches.

  The place has its drawbacks. The parking lot is smal , only holding six cars. And the high ceilings and

  choppy floor plan make it hard to keep it a reasonable temperature. In summer, the upper floors can be

  wretchedly hot. In winter … wel , let’s just say I’m glad
it’s California and it doesn’t get too cold. Stil , it’s

  a gem of a building, with the original dark wood stain on trim and doors, a huge stained-glass window

  on the second-floor landing, and a turret where I can sit and eat my morning bagel and watch the world

  go by. I rent about half of the third floor, including said turret.

  Gibson pul ed his sedan into the spot marked with my name. It was one of only two in the shade. I

  watched him take a seemingly casual look around while taking in every detail. I didn’t mind. The place

  looks good. Even the windows get washed on a regular basis.

  He looked around and grinned. “Nice. You want to clean up before you go inside?” He unfastened his

  seat belt and got out of the car. He was moving slowly, with an unnatural stiffness that spoke of the pain

  he was trying to hide.

  That made me frown. “No. Why?” I climbed out as wel . As I shoved the door closed I caught a

  glimpse of my reflection in the car window. Gibson was right. I looked awful. Somewhere during the

  course of the morning I’d lost the ponytail holder, and my hair was hanging loose. Raking my hands

  through the tangled mass didn’t help much, and nothing was going to make the dark circles under my

  reddened eyes any less obvious.

  Ah wel . There was nothing I could do to change things right now, so there was no point in dwel ing on

  it.

  Gibson waited patiently for me to join him on the steps onto the wide front porch. I touched my finger

  to the porch swing to set it moving. I do it every time I walk by, and have no idea why. Maybe just as a

  counterpoint to the other furniture. It wouldn’t do any good to push the wicker chairs. They were

  permanently affixed to the floor.

  He graciously held open the door for me, so I stepped into the muted shadows of the lobby. It took a

  minute for my eyes to adjust to the relative darkness, so I heard Dawna’s gasp before I saw her.

  “Celia … Oh my God. ” Dawna’s eyes are large and doelike under normal circumstances. Now they

  were the size of plates. Her jaw dropped open. “What’s happened to you? I mean, Kevin said you’d

  been attacked last night, but ohmigod you have fangs and your skin … ” The words tumbled out in a

  breathless rush. She was swaying on her feet enough that Gibson rushed forward to help her into the

  nearest chair—the little rol ing number behind the reception counter.

  “I got attacked by bats. One of them was a master, and he started to turn me, but the cavalry arrived

  before he could finish the job. I’m not a bat. I’m not going to be a bat.”

  “But you look—, ” she was whispering.

  “Like something that should be staked and beheaded.” It came out more bitter than I had intended it

  to, and she flinched, tears fil ing her eyes. Crap. “I’m sorry, Dawna. I didn’t mean—”

  She shook her head. “It’s al right. Real y. I mean, I can’t even imagine—” She stopped, evidently at a

  loss for words, which was so not Dawna. I love her like a sister, but she can and wil talk your ear off

  given half a chance. Which we didn’t have time for right now.

  “This is Detective Gibson.” Gibson turned from where he was examining the elegant impressionist

  print hanging above a fireplace framed by built-in bookcases on the far side of the room. I continued,

  “He’s investigating an incident from last night. He’s going to need copies of some of the phone

  records… .” The sentence trickled to a halt as she shook her head.

  “Hel o, Detective.” She rose, extending her hand as he approached, and I got a better look at her.

  She was wearing a classic silk suit in navy with a crimson blouse. The skirt was short enough to show

  an excel ent pair of legs, made to look longer by a set of heels I wouldn’t have attempted. Stil , she

  looked good. Then again, she always does, and without resorting to any magic. Just good genetics and

  an eye for how to make the most of her assets.

  She ral ied enough to put on her best professional demeanor, but I could tel she’d had quite a shock. I

  was sorry about that, and wished to hel I’d taken the time to cal ahead. Then again, Kevin had warned

  her and that hadn’t done any good.

  “I’m sorry Celia, I’d normal y be happy to help the detective. But my computer crashed this morning.

  Al the computer files; al the bil ing; everything … just gone. ”

  Oh, crap. Wel , that sucked. Big-time. But while she obviously wasn’t happy, she wasn’t throwing a fit.

  Maybe seeing me put it into perspective.

  “Oh, Lord. I hope you’ve backed up.”

  She sighed. “The backups are wiped, too. Must have been some sort of freak electric surge.”

  I cringed in sympathy. I keep hard copies of everything, in addition to my flash drive, but some of the

  others don’t. It was going to be a monumental task to re-create al of the records from scratch. At least

  I could give her one bit of good news. “Wel , if it makes you feel any better, I’ve got al my stuff backed

  up onto a memory stick and my laptop is in my safe. It’l save you having to re-create my stuff at least.”

  “That’s something, I suppose.” She sighed and turned to face me, her expression worried. “Are you

  sure you’re okay? A pair of federal agents were in here earlier looking for you. They said you’d been

  hurt last night, made me check to make sure you weren’t unconscious in your office. That’s why I cal ed

  Kevin. He usual y knows where you are.”

  Federal agents? I glanced at Gibson, but if he was surprised, he didn’t show it. He just continued to

  take in the decor with a seemingly innocent face. But what happened? I knew now, but I didn’t want to

  talk about it. The memories were stil too raw. So I brushed it off by turning to Gibson. “That was awful y

  quick. Think your people cal ed them?”

  “Possible.” His voice held a trace of doubt, which I shared. The wheels of federal justice seldom rol

  that quickly. Thorough, yes. God, yes. But quick? Not so much. Then again, we were dealing with

  foreign royalty—the threat of a major diplomatic incident might have been just enough to light a fire

  under them. But who, before me, might have told them about the prince? That’s the only reason I could

  think the Feds would be involved, and if they’d heard about it from Alex, they would have known I was at

  the station. I turned back to Dawna. “Are they stil here?”

  “No, but you only missed them by a couple of minutes. They left a card. You’re supposed to cal .” She

  arched an elegant eyebrow. “And Birchwoods left an urgent message. But if I were you I’d cal Kevin

  first. He’s about to blow a gasket. Swear to God he’s cal ed at least ten times.”

  I sighed. He’d said to cal and I’d flat forgotten. He was probably pissed beyond measure. I was sort

  of surprised he wasn’t waiting in the next room. “Cal him back. Tel him I’m helping the cops with their

  investigation and I’l get back with him as soon as I break free.”

  “He’s not going to like that.”

  Of course he wasn’t. But he’d have to live with it, because I needed to cooperate with the police to get

  the police to cooperate with me.

  “Do you want me to cal the agents, tel them you’re here?”

  I glanced over at Gibson, who was shaking his head no. I didn’t blame him. A jurisdictional pissing

  contest would do nothing but slow him down. I’d give them whatever information they wanted. But I liked

>   Gibson, so he’d get first dibs.

  “Not yet. Let me finish with the detective first.”

  “Al right. Is there anything I can get the two of you? I can start a fresh pot of coffee if you like.”

  “No need to go to any trouble.” Gibson gave her a charming smile. “I don’t intend to stay that long.”

  “Oh, it’s no bother.” She blushed. It looked good on her. Until that instant it hadn’t occurred to me that

  she and Gibson had been eyeing each other. Leave it to Dawna. My world was going to hel , the office

  was in shambles, and yet somehow she’d managed to find an eligible man. I swear she’s got radar. Or

  maybe her grandmother did some ancient Vietnamese magic on her that drew them like flies to honey.

  Whatever. As soon as Gibson was out of earshot I’d warn her off. He was dying. Getting involved with

  him would be an invitation to heartbreak.

  I started up the stairs. Gibson fol owed. The staircase isn’t wide and it’s steep, with narrow treads.

  Most folks get breathless by the first-floor landing. By the time they reach my digs on the third floor,

  they’re usual y gasping and irritable. If the building hadn’t been designated a historic landmark, we’d

  probably have been forced to instal an elevator and make the whole thing handicapped accessible.

  Instead, we have a ramp leading up to the back porch and a shared, accessible conference room on

  the first floor.

  The staircase ended in an open area on the third floor. It’s a sunny space, lit by large east-facing

  windows. I usual y like it, but today I hurried down the hal , past the door to Freedom Bail Bonds, to

  unlock the door to my office.

  In some ways my office is very feminine. The wal s are painted a deep, warm peach. The trim is

  painted off-white, as is the elegantly patterned tin ceiling. Heavy drapes printed with cabbage roses in

  white, peach, and russet cover the various windows. Al of that femininity is nicely contrasted by the

  dark wood office furniture, black metal filing cabinets, and big, glossy black gun safe bolted to the floor.

  It’s large enough to hold an arsenal. We had to reinforce the floor so it didn’t crash down into the

  second-floor bathroom, which didn’t make the landmark people very happy. I scrounged around old

  houses for nearly a month to find enough hardwood rafters from the right time period so we’d qualify