Blood Song

by Cat Adams

  flowing like molten chocolate down the line. Impressive as it was over the telephone, I could only

  imagine the reaction of a jury in person.

  It took me a second to gather my wits, but I managed. As succinctly as I could, I caught him up to

  speed.

  He let me talk. I could hear a pen scratching across paper as he took notes, but he didn’t interrupt

  once as I ran through the facts. Once I finished, however, he had questions. Probing, intel igent

  questions. He voiced them with brisk efficiency—and actual y listened to the answers. The whole

  conversation took maybe twenty minutes.

  “I can be at your office in a half hour. In the meantime, I want you to print hard copies and make a CD

  for me of everything you’ve got. We’l probably not want to share it al , but it’l save us al time and effort

  if you have it al ready when I get there.”

  “Right. How much am I going to owe you for this?” I didn’t real y want to know, but I needed to. I just

  hoped it wouldn’t bankrupt me.

  I managed not to gasp at the amount he quoted. I kept the firm on retainer, but the hourly fees for

  actual work—wel , I could afford it … barely. Provided, of course, that things didn’t drag on. “I’l have a

  check ready for you when you arrive.”

  “Thank you. I’l see you soon.”

  I hung up the phone and started getting everything ready for him. There wasn’t much. Telephone

  messages, some hand-written notes. I scanned those into the computer, which thankful y Dawna had

  gotten working. The signed contract was already on file.

  Not too many minutes later I heard footfal s on the stairs and smel ed fresh coffee mingled with the

  sweet cinnamon aroma of baked goods. Thank the good lord for Cinnabon. My stomach rumbled

  audibly in response.

  Dawna was chatting amiably with the deliveryman from the bakery and I could hear Roberto grumbling

  that with this kind of workout he wouldn’t need the StairMaster. Good. I’d rather we didn’t have to wait

  much longer. In fact, I wanted to get this over with as quickly and painlessly as possible.

  I flipped open the laptop and was in the process of cabling it to the printer when the three of them

  walked in. Dawna and the deliveryman started bustling around in the corner, setting up the baked

  goods. Roberto moved one of the chairs over so that he was sitting next to the desk.

  I shook Roberto’s hand before he sat down. He barely glanced at my fangs. Who knows? Maybe

  he’d seen worse. Dawna kept casting covert glances at the rubber tree, looking confused. But she

  didn’t say anything, just kept helping the deliveryman. When they’d finished with the food, she began

  rearranging the chairs, even bringing in the patio chairs from the balcony so there’d be enough seating

  for everybody. Only when she’d finished and left the room did Roberto speak.

  “I told the people downstairs that I needed ten minutes alone with you before they came up. We’ve

  already lost nearly half of it. So we’d better hurry. Give me what you’ve got.”

  I passed over the copies and plugged a jump drive into one of the computer ports to transfer files for

  him as he was scanning the printed pages. It didn’t take him long.

  “Is there anything you haven’t told me? Anything else I need to know?” He sounded suspicious. I

  suppose it’s only natural. He’s a criminal defense attorney. People lie to their attorneys al the time.

  So I told him the rest of the information. Sadly, there was no way for Bruno not to overhear.

  16

  I have a reasonably large office. But it was fairly crowded with everybody crammed in there. Gibson

  had taken a seat in the patio chair nearest the balcony doors. He was quiet, subdued, and acting very

  much as if we hadn’t spent a good chunk of yesterday together. So either he had told them already or

  he hadn’t and didn’t want to. Either way was fine with me.

  The Feds were both alike and opposites. Their names were Erikson and Rizzoli. The former was very

  Nordic and handsome in the same way as the models in those Tommy Hilfiger ads. Rizzoli was about

  average height, built blocky, and as Italian as pasta, even more Italian looking than Bruno—something I

  wouldn’t have believed possible if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Both agents were dressed in identical

  conservative suits and carried themselves in a way that just screamed Fed. I don’t know what they do

  at the federal training center, but the men and women who make it through the program al wind up with

  a certain way of moving and dressing that is easy to spot once you’ve seen it.

  The king’s retainers had long names that I couldn’t hope to pronounce. They were impeccably

  dressed, their suits hand tailored, top-of-the-line, and up-to-the-minute in European fashion. I could

  also feel a frisson of power that told me they’d been spel ed, probably with the same concealing magics

  I’d had on my jacket. If I’d thought they’d answer I might even ask if theirs came with a garrote. But I

  decided against it. They didn’t look like they’d have a sense of humor about that sort of thing. In fact,

  despite the window dressing, they looked like they were just the sort of people to use that kind of

  weapon. They were big and intimidating looking, with heavily eastern European features. Maybe the

  plan had been to scare me into revealing al my secrets? Their English was almost perfect, except for

  a bit of stilted formality and the occasional odd turn of phrase. In my head I labeled them Tweedledee

  and Tweedledum. Dee was the senior; Dum, the more powerful.

  They asked questions.

  I answered.

  The Feds asked questions.

  I answered.

  Then back to the retainers.

  It grew tiresome. Then tedious. The time for breakfast passed. Then lunch. I knew I was supposed to

  drink something, but I didn’t think it wise to ask for a break. So I crossed my fingers and concentrated

  on answering the questions.

  We’d al had coffee, but while the men apparently had cast-iron bladders, I didn’t. Maybe it was some

  sort of non-pissing pissing contest. Whatever. Eventual y, I gave in and told everyone I needed a

  bathroom break. I’d planned to drink a shake when I got in there, but the box was missing. Were they in

  the refrigerator? It didn’t real y matter, because I didn’t think my audience would appreciate me taking

  ten minutes to hobble downstairs to the kitchen to get one. When I came back, they were chatting

  amiably and munching down on the cinnamon rol s. The smel started to drive me crazy, so I decided to

  join them.

  Bad mistake.

  I took a bite. I chewed (which, by the way, is a seriously tricky proposition when you have fangs). And

  I choked. Badly.

  I couldn’t swal ow it.

  I tried washing it down with coffee.

  No luck.

  A single smal bite, wel chewed, and it wouldn’t go down. It was stuck. Wel and truly stuck, right in the

  middle of my neck. I coughed and hacked and even stuck a finger down my throat, hoping to push it

  down.

  I sat at my desk, turning slightly blue, my guests looking more and more alarmed. Even the rubber tree

  was shaking.

  Final y I just gave up and excused myself again, went into the bathroom, and stuck my finger ful y

  down my throat until I threw up. Hauling out the toothbrush again, I brushed until my breath was minty

  fresh. I stared at
my reflection in the mirror and cried. I had fangs. I couldn’t eat solid food. It was real.

  It was permanent. I wasn’t human anymore.

  I didn’t cry long. Despite the past day or two, I’m not the weepy type. Besides, I had agents and an

  attorney waiting for me. So I grabbed a washcloth from the built-in linen cabinet and scrubbed down my

  face with cold water. Since I stil looked a little blotchy, I reached for the smal silk bag that held my

  makeup and started putting it on. A few drops of Visine helped with the eyes but not the face.

  I looked like a clown.

  I’d always been pale, but my skin was now pure white and colors that had been subtle before were

  just plain garish.

  Swearing under my breath, I washed it al off. While I was at it I took down my hair and brushed it out. I

  stared at my reflection. Better. I looked better. Not good. There was stil a hint of panic in my eyes. But

  there wasn’t much I could do about that. Life goes on, whether you’re ready for it or not. Since I was as

  ready as I was going to be, I stepped out into the hal . Taking a deep breath, I went back into the lion’s

  den.

  They’d been arguing, loudly, while I was gone. But there was instant silence as I stepped back into the

  room.

  “This is getting us nowhere. You are wasting our time.” The hint of an accent was slipping into Dee’s

  voice, probably because he was angry. “We would see for ourselves what has happened.” His face

  was stil flushed from arguing. “I believe you have already submitted to magical memory enhancement

  and a visit to a psychic, have you not?” He glared at Gibson, who remained utterly impassive except

  for a muscle that was twitching in his jaw from where he was clenching his teeth.

  I felt my eyebrows crawling up my forehead. How the hel had they learned about my visit to Dottie? I

  didn’t like that. And I really didn’t like the idea of these two terrorizing that nice little old lady. Judging

  from Gibson’s expression, he didn’t care for it much, either.

  “You will do it again. For us. Now.” It wasn’t a request. Al around the room people were bristling. My

  attorney started to argue, but the Ruslander continued, speaking over him. “We would prefer my

  companion assist you in this. But if not, perhaps your friend in the corner”—he waved in the direction

  of Bruno the rubber tree—“can do more than just hide himself. Hmn?”

  Well, shit. Wasn’t this just awkward. Everyone in the room turned to stare at the corner until, with a

  sigh, Bruno gave it up and dropped the il usion.

  “And just who the hel are you?” Erikson’s voice dripped icicles.

  “His name is Bruno DeLuca,” Rizzoli answered. When his partner turned to give him a look he

  answered the unasked question with a curt, “We’ve met.” He turned to Bruno. “What are you doing

  here?”

  Bruno opened his mouth to speak, but it was Dee who answered. “He has been involved with Ms.

  Graves for many years. They were once affianced. He is no doubt here to protect her from any …” He

  seemed to search for the right phrase. “Funny business?”

  Bruno’s eyes narrowed as he nodded.

  Roberto shot a chil y glance at me. Okay, so I hadn’t told him all my secrets. I hoped that wouldn’t lose

  me the services of the firm.

  “Fine,” Dum said coldly. “We have no problem with Mr. DeLuca being present. We simply need to

  know exactly what has occurred. And time is fleeting. So, Ms. Graves, if you would be so kind?”

  He phrased it as a request, but it wasn’t one. And while the Feds raised objections, it real y didn’t

  matter to them, and we al knew it.

  “What exactly do you plan to do?” The look Bruno gave the other mage made it clear that he was just

  as much of a tough guy, and magician, as anyone present.

  Dee started to explain, but he only got a couple of sentences out before the arguments started.

  Bruno was starting to get pretty heated about concepts I wasn’t close to understanding. Apparently, it

  wasn’t the fact that there would be a bespel ing but what it would entail. Then Erikson coughed softly,

  drawing everyone’s attention. “We al have enough information to start our various investigations. I

  suggest we let Ms. Graves get some rest. You can always resort to more drastic measures if the

  investigation dead-ends.”

  “Assuming she lives that long.” Tweedledum’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. Then again, neither did

  mine.

  “I’l do my best.” I was tired of the posturing, tired of them. So I gestured to the open door. It was a

  dismissal, and they didn’t like it one bit. Even so, everyone but Bruno took the hint. I waited by the door

  for a moment, listening. I could hear their footfal s and muted conversation even when they reached the

  ground floor.

  Dawna’s voice came through the clearest. “Excuse me, Agent Erikson, don’t forget your pen. You left

  it on my desk this morning.”

  Someone mumbled something that was probably thanks. I heard the front door squeak open, then the

  slam of the screen, and they were gone.

  “Thank God that’s over.” I meant it as gratitude, not blasphemy. Although since my relationship with

  the almighty is a little sketchy, I suppose it could be taken either way. I went into my office. Pul ing the

  door closed behind me, I sank grateful y into my chair. I was exhausted, but wired and twitchy rather

  than sleepy. The scent of the cinnamon rol s that had been so appetizing earlier now made me

  nauseous. I thought about taking them downstairs to the kitchen, but it just seemed like too much

  bother.

  “I wouldn’t count on that.” Bruno’s voice came from the chair across from mine. “Those foreign guys

  aren’t the type to give up. They had to behave because of everyone else who was here. But that

  doesn’t mean they won’t try to catch you alone later.”

  “I know that.” I didn’t hide my exasperation. “I’m not an idiot, you know.” I opened my eyes to glare at

  him. I was tired and irritable. But more worrisome, my gaze kept straying to pulse points … the base of

  his throat … his wrists. “What time is it?”

  He told me and I flinched. Crap. I was way overdue for a feeding. Stretching out my arm, I punched

  the intercom button. “Dawna, could you bring me up one of those shakes?”

  “On my way.”

  I closed my eyes. If I didn’t look and didn’t move it should be easier to ignore the fact that I’d been

  wondering what Bruno would taste like.

  “Are you okay?”

  “Hel , no.” I admitted it freely. Fortunately, Dawna’s tap on the door saved me from having to

  elaborate. She came in and handed me a pair of cans fil ed with the dark chocolate nutrition that should

  get me through another four hours without incident. I hoped.

  I flipped the tab and downed the first drink in one long chug. It hit my empty stomach hard, and I had to

  fight to keep it down where it belonged. I decided to sip the second can while I ignored the cramping

  that made me want to curl into a fetal position.

  Dawna left, pul ing the door closed behind her. When she was out of earshot, Bruno said, “I’m sorry,

  Celia. I know you can take care of yourself. I do. But this …” His voice trailed off. Apparently he was at

  a loss for words.

  I set the drink can on top of my desk, dragged myself out of the chair and over to open the weapons


  safe. Staring at the contents of my safe, I debated what weaponry I wanted on hand. The chances

  were good I wouldn’t make it back here or to the house before dark, so I wanted to be prepared.

  Besides, I was feeling just a touch paranoid. Of course there was a growing list of people who were out

  to get me, so maybe “paranoid” wasn’t the right word. Let’s cal it proactive.

  “If I hadn’t stayed, would you have told me about the demon spawn? Or would you have just left me in

  the dark?” Bruno’s tone was perfectly conversational, but I knew better than to believe his questions

  were casual.

  I didn’t look him in the eye as I spread the denim jacket out flat on the desktop and inspected it. It

  wasn’t the same brand as the one I usual y wore, but the pockets were lined with cotton and tacked

  down the same way, creating a pair of nice little slots that were just the right size to hold one of the little

  One Shot squirt guns or a sharpened stake. I grabbed one of each from the safe. I considered a

  couple of the little ceramic disks that held “boomers,” a spel similar to the flash-bangs used by the

  military, or maybe one of the immobilization curses but decided against it. They are handy as hel in

  certain circumstances, but I didn’t real y think I’d be needing them and there was only so much I could

  carry in this jacket. “I absolutely would have told you.” I glanced over and gave him a wry grin. “After

  your nap.”

  He gave a snort that might have passed for laughter.

  “You’re wearing yourself out. You’ve got power to burn, but it won’t do you any good if you’re too tired

  to use it properly.” I expected him to argue, but he didn’t. He just gave one of those guy grunts. Knowing

  I wasn’t going to get anywhere pursuing it, I changed the subject.

  “How do you know Rizzoli anyway? He doesn’t seem to like you.” I grabbed the pair of wrist sheaths

  I’d bought for the knives. It was the work of a moment to strap them on. Bruno passed the knives to me

  one at a time, hilt first, without comment. I slid them into place, feeling the power hum through my

  fingers as I did. Damn, he’s good. Better than back in college, and he was no slouch then. But I was

  stil worried about him. He’d pushed himself too hard, too long. He wasn’t just tired, it was more a bonedeep weariness. One little “catnap” wasn’t going to cut it. I shook my head, brushing the thought away