Blood Song

by Cat Adams

  however, stil beat strongly in his neck. He’d be coming back around soon. By then I wanted to be far

  away from the cottage and my assailant safely tied up.

  David was coming toward us, holding a shotgun with the authority of a man who had hunted most of

  his life. He looked at me as though he’d never seen me before. And, in a way, he hadn’t. I didn’t doubt

  that Dawna had told David and Inez about my condition, but hearing about it and actual y seeing the

  reality are two completely different things.

  I spoke, and happily, it was my normal voice. “Don’t shoot. We’ve got a gas leak.”

  He started swearing but backed away. Not just from the guesthouse, but from me. “Are you al right,

  Celia? The cops are on the way.”

  It was a loaded question. I knew it. But he needed some comfort now, too. “I’m fine.” Actual y, I wasn’t.

  I hurt like hel where blows had landed. I’d lost Bob’s gun somewhere along the way. But more than that,

  I couldn’t tear my eyes off the pulse beating beneath a smal mole on the man’s throat, where the ski

  mask had pul ed away to expose bare skin.

  I could smel blood, fear, and sweat, and the glow around me grew brighter, casting harsh shadows.

  My stomach growled, and I felt actual pains from the hunger, as if a wild animal were trapped in my

  bel y, trying to claw its way out.

  I forced myself to my feet, stumbling a little.

  My attacker must have been playing possum, because he chose that instant to strike. The movement

  was almost too quick to see. His leg moved with a blur of speed, aimed directly at the knee that held

  most of my weight.

  I went down with a scream of pain, my head slamming against the concrete hard enough to make me

  see stars. He rol ed, then lurched to a standing position, grabbing for his pack.

  I made a clumsy lunge, unable to do much more with a dislocated knee that was in unrelieved agony.

  I couldn’t catch him. I did manage to grab the dangling padded strap of the canvas pack. He let it go,

  running ful out in the direction of the beach. David started to take a shot, then thought better of it.

  Thank God. The last thing we needed was a gas explosion.

  Sirens and lights were coming closer on both of the cross-streets. The cops would be here any

  second. I dropped the bag, then limped over to the gas hookup, thinking I could just tighten the valve

  again. Unfortunately, he’d done more than just loosen it. It was broken. We’d need to get the gas

  company out here.

  “You should probably get out of here, Celia. If the cops see you …”

  David was right. They’d see a monster and act accordingly. Later, they’d be very sorry about the

  mistake. But I’d stil be dead or incarcerated.

  “Right.”

  “I’l turn off the power until they get the gas fixed.” He moved with smooth assurance toward the

  breaker box, shotgun at his side.

  “Cal my office when we get the al clear,” I cal ed out as I limped through the French doors as quickly

  as I could. The smel of gas was intense. I didn’t dare stay more than a minute or two. Even so, I took a

  second to stash the Crock-Pot back in the fridge before grabbing my keys, phone, weapons, and wal et

  and rushing to the car.

  14

  I went to the office. It was the wee hours of the morning. Normal y one of the bail bondsmen would be

  in, but there were no cars in the lot. Stil , the place was wel lit, the careful y placed security lights

  ensuring that there were no deep shadows where monsters or bad guys could hide.

  I pul ed into my usual parking place and cut the engine. My leg hurt. It was healing. I could feel that.

  But it hurt, dammit, and using the manual transmission hadn’t helped.

  I didn’t like the fact that I’d had to avoid the police. It made sense. But I didn’t like it. Then again, there

  weren’t too many things about my current situation that I did like. Maybe the healing. If it weren’t for the

  vampire healing abilities I’d be looking at surgery on the knee. But even that was weird. Some things

  were healing practical y instantly. Other injuries, ones that real y didn’t seem any worse, were taking

  longer.

  I hobbled over to the front door, let myself in, and punched the buttons to reset the alarm while trying

  to remember whether I’d left the faxes and paperwork in the copy room or taken them up to my office.

  Upstairs.

  Oh, hell. That was going to hurt. A lot.

  It did. And it was slow going. I had to stop every third step or so to rest my knee. I was on the fifth

  stair when the grandfather clock struck four. I wasn’t even at the top when it hit four fifteen.

  I was swearing pretty steadily under my breath by the time I reached the third floor. I walked past the

  locked offices of Freedom Bail Bonds and the empty office that we al used to store spare junk and let

  myself into my space. Most of the places I needed to reach wouldn’t open until nine or ten. My gran

  gets up about seven, and I real y needed to talk to her, to reassure us both. That gave me a couple of

  hours to eat and go through the research.

  At which time I realized that al I had in my office micro-fridge was a soda. There would be food

  downstairs—if nothing else one of those wretched diet shakes Dawna favored. But they were

  downstairs. Just the thought of it was daunting. I was so freaking exhausted.

  I was having my own personal pity party when I heard someone opening the downstairs door.

  “Graves, it’s me,” Bubba’s voice cal ed out. “Don’t shoot.” There was a swift series of beeps as he

  keyed in the alarm code. Heavy footfal s started up the stairs.

  I yel ed out through the closed door, “Bubba, do me a favor?”

  “What?” He sounded grouchy. Not good. My bet was he’d had to hunt down a jumper. As a bail

  bondsman, Bubba worked very hard to make sure his clients showed up for their hearings. When they

  don’t, he hunted them down. He’s good at it. He might be a “good ole boy,” but he’s smart and tough.

  But tracking and hauling in a bail jumper is a lot of work, a lot of bother, and it always, always, makes

  him irritable.

  I raised my voice to just short of a shout. “Go into the kitchen and see if Dawna has any of those

  Ensure things or maybe a diet shake?”

  “Do it yourself,” he grumbled.

  “Can’t. I’ve screwed up my knee and I need to have something nutritious to drink.”

  “Wel , hel .” He gave a gusty sigh. “Give me a minute.”

  He stomped back downstairs and I heard him banging around in the kitchen, muttering under his

  breath the whole time.

  Eventual y he started climbing up again. He cal ed out, “Got it. Hope you like banana.”

  I loathe banana in al its many forms. But beggers/choosers and al that.

  “Thanks, Bubba. Leave it outside the door.”

  He snorted. “Whatever.”

  I waited until I heard his footsteps go down the hal to his own office before I levered myself out of the

  office chair and limped over to the door. My knee wasn’t happy about it. Healing abilities aside, three

  flights of stairs had been a mistake. Opening the door, I found a four-pack of twelve-ounce cans.

  Bending awkwardly from the waist, I picked it up, using the holes in the cardboard carrier.

  “Dawna told us what happened, but I didn’t real y believe it.”

  I looked up, meeting Bubba’s gaze. He was standing in the doorway of hi
s office, staring at me. His

  eyes were wider than they should’ve been, with whites showing al around the blue of his pupils. He

  didn’t look afraid, precisely, but more startled. “You look like …”

  “A bat. I look like a freakin’ vampire.”

  “Yeah. But you’re stil you?” He made it a question.

  “I’m stil me,” I answered him, “and I intend to stay that way.”

  “Attagirl! You decide you need help hunting, you let me know.”

  “Thanks, Bubba.”

  He nodded, then shut his office door as I opened the first shake and chugged it down fast enough

  that I managed not to gag on the taste. I heard the snick of the dead bolt sliding into place, smel ed gun

  oil. I could just imagine him pul ing the .38 from his drawer and setting it on the desktop in easy reach.

  Just in case. I couldn’t blame him. I’d have done the same thing.

  I fel asleep studying … again. I woke up to the sounds of phones ringing and the smel of brewing

  coffee. The swel ing in my knee had gone down some, but my neck and back were stiff from sleeping in

  an unnatural position and my mouth tasted like something had crawled in it and died.

  The grandfather clock struck eight. I sat up, blinked a couple of times, and tried to stretch out some of

  the kinks. As I ambled down the hal to use the facilities I noticed that Bubba was gone. Not only was

  his door closed and locked, but there was no smel of gun oil, and I couldn’t smel him or hear anyone

  moving around in his office.

  “Celia?” Dawna cal ed up the stairs. “You up? Want any coffee?”

  “Coffee would be wonderful!” I hol ered back. “Oh, and I drank a couple of your shakes.”

  “Yeah, Bubba told me. Hang on a minute, I’l be right up.”

  I washed my hands and went back to the office. It was time to try cal ing my gran again. If I didn’t

  reach her this time, I’d go by the house. I was starting to worry. I hear from her once or twice almost

  every day. Yesterday I hadn’t been able to reach her at al . It could be nothing, but she’s not a young

  woman… . I punched the buttons and waited.

  She answered on the first ring. “Celia! Where have you been? I’ve been cal ing and cal ing ever since

  the news about Vicki broke on the TV. Are you al right? I’m so sorry, punkin. I know how much you

  cared about her.” The words tumbled over each other in a rush.

  So. The press had got hold of the story. “I’m sorry, Gran. I tried to cal a couple times yesterday, but

  there was no answer at the house.”

  “Oh, you must have cal ed when I was out.”

  Her voice changed abruptly, taking on an evasive tone that I didn’t like, mainly because I knew it too

  wel . She only sounded like that when she’d done something she knew I’d be upset about, usual y

  something involving my mother.

  “Gran—”

  “Real y, Celia—” She got defensive, the second surefire sign. “You’re so suspicious! What I do with

  my time is none of your business.”

  Absolutely true. And normal y I didn’t pry. But the last time she sounded like this, Mom had just

  “borrowed” ten thousand dol ars, leaving Gran with no savings and not enough money to pay her

  property taxes for the year.

  I didn’t say a word. There was no point in starting another argument. Not now. She wasn’t going to

  change. Taking a deep breath, I changed the subject.

  “There’s something I need to tel you, Gran. The other night, when I was on a job, I got hurt.”

  “Oh, Celie!”

  I plowed on, ignoring the interruption. “A vampire bit me, tried to turn me. Kevin and Amy rescued me.

  I’m not a bat. But I’m not completely human anymore, either. I’m pale, and I have fangs… .” The words

  trailed off uncertainly.

  There was no hesitation in her voice, no fear, and a huge weight lifted from my chest. If my gran had

  thought of me as evil— “Oh, honey. I’m so sorry.”

  “I look like a bat, Gran. I do. It’s awful.” Tears fil ed my eyes, but I blinked them back. I would not cry,

  dammit. Not again.

  I think she was stunned. The silence on the other end of the phone was profound.

  “I wanted to let you know, to prepare you so you wouldn’t get scared when you see me.”

  “You could never scare me, punkin. Have you told your mother?”

  “No.” It came out cold and harsh.

  “Celia, she’s your mother. She loves you. She deserves to know.”

  I didn’t want to argue, so I didn’t. Besides, she had a point. Lana is my mother. “Fine. I’l cal her.”

  There was an awkward moment. “You’l need to wait until tomorrow. Sometime in the afternoon.”

  “Why?”

  The silence stretched between us. She didn’t want to answer, that was obvious. I waited. Eventual y

  she couldn’t stand it any longer. “Your mother got picked up again for driving without a license—”

  “What? Whose car was she driving?” My mother didn’t have a car. It had been impounded when she

  got picked up for her second DUI with no insurance. She hadn’t had the money to get it back and I

  wouldn’t lend it to her. After al , she didn’t have a license, so she didn’t real y need a car.

  “Now Celia, you know your mother has her doctor’s appointments—” My grandma started making

  excuses, but I cut her off.

  “She can take a cab. Or a busss. Or you could drive her.” My lisp grew as I spoke even though I

  knew what I was saying was useless. My gran has been enabling my mother since before I was born.

  It’s not like she was likely to stop anytime soon. But that didn’t keep it from driving me crazy. “And

  ssshe wasn’t picked up near the doctor’s office, was ssshe?” I fought to get my tongue under control.

  She didn’t say a word, which meant I’d hit a nerve. If we were running true to form, she’d get angry

  now, use my ful name, and refuse to talk about it.

  “Celia Kalino Graves, I’ve had just about enough of your lip. I know your mother isn’t perfect. But she

  does the best she can.”

  The sad part was, Gran was probably right. It’s just that my mother’s best was so damned pathetic.

  But there was no point in saying that. Instead, I said the only thing I could that would end the argument:

  “I love you, Gran. I real y do.”

  “I love you too, punkin. Don’t worry too much about the car. I don’t like to drive much anymore anyway.

  There’s too much traffic, and I don’t see as wel at night as I used to.”

  I let out a deep sigh. “We can talk about it at Sunday dinner.” I always had Sunday dinner with Gran.

  Although, come to think on it, dinner was liable to be problematic. Maybe I could have soup?

  “I was hoping maybe you could take me to church on Sunday morning?”

  Of course she was. Hope springs eternal, and Gran is an optimist. A cross hadn’t bothered me, but

  what about a ful -blown church? Would I burst into flames and force the priest into a change of

  sermon?

  “Someone just came into the office, Gran. I’ve got to go.”

  The first part was true and no doubt she’d heard the squeak of the door hinges. Dawna had come in,

  carrying two steaming mugs of fresh-brewed coffee that smel ed like heaven.

  “Celia—”

  “Bye, Gran. Love you.” I hung up before we got into another argument. Dawna was shaking her head

  and snickering under her breath.

  “Your grandmother never gives up, does she?” Dawna pass
ed me the mug. She looked tired, with

  dark circles under eyes puffy from crying. But her makeup was perfect and unsmeared, her dark hair

  styled, and she was wearing a tomato red suit and matching heels that looked absolutely stunning on

  her.

  She sank into one of the wing-backed chairs, crossing her legs with easy grace. I knew she didn’t

  make a lot of money as the receptionist here, but you’d never tel it by looking at her. She has a gift for

  making even inexpensive clothes look like designer originals.

  I inhaled deeply, savoring the aroma of fresh-brewed java before taking my first sip. “Nope.”

  Dawna gave me a very direct look over the rim of her coffee mug. I could actual y watch her go

  through the process of forming the questions she was about to ask me.

  “How are you holding up?”

  “About as wel as can be expected. You?”

  She sighed. “I can’t believe she’s dead. I mean, it’s just unreal. I just cal ed and talked to her on her

  birthday—she thanked me for the purse I got her and was going on and on about the mirror and her

  presents from Alex. It just doesn’t make sense. ”

  No. It didn’t. Then again, nothing else did, either. We sat in shared, miserable silence for a long

  moment, sipping our coffee.

  “Just how much trouble are you in?”

  It wasn’t a question I’d been expecting, and I raised an eyebrow.

  “Don’t give me that innocent look, Celia Graves. I’m not an idiot. You’re half vampire—you have

  fangs, you’re being hounded by cops and federal agents, and this morning you’re barefoot and in

  bloodstained pajamas. You’ve got a stack of messages an inch high from reporters and lawyers, and I

  don’t know if that’s because of Vicki or the fangs or something you haven’t told me yet! You’re my

  friend, and you know I’l stand by you. But you’re going to need my help, and if I’m going to be able to do

  anything useful I need to know just how bad it’s going to get.”

  I winced. Put that way, it sounded pretty awful. “It’s already bad. I’m honestly not sure how much

  worse it’s going to get.”

  Notice that I didn’t say it couldn’t get worse. It can always get worse. I know this. And thus I refuse to

  tempt fate. Superstitious—probably. But magic exists. So does karma, and karma can be a bitch.