Better Off Undead: The Bloodhound Files

by DD Barant

  That’s fine. I’ll just keep kicking over rocks until I find the one he’s hiding under, and then—sange ucenicie or not—he’s mine.

  But in the meantime, I have to go home and walk my dog.

  I know, I know, the glamorous life of a crimebuster. Charlie’s familiar with my routine and doesn’t complain when we stop on the way to the morgue. “I’m in no hurry,” he says as he pulls up to the curb in front of my apartment building. “Everybody gets there eventually.”

  “Wow. Philosophical and morbid. You’re a real ray of sunshine today.”

  “Just go get the damn dog,” he growls.

  So I do—but I run into Xandra outside, pressing my button impatiently. “Hey, X, what’s up?” I say.

  “You were supposed to meet me here?” she says, doing that teenage thing where she asks a question and accuses you at the same time.

  “Oh. Right. We have that movie deal tonight. Well, the problem is—”

  “You’re working. Still.”

  I give her a hapless shrug. “Sorry. The case is heating up. This is just a pit stop to go drain Gally’s bladder, and then I have to take off again. But tell you what—why don’t you come on in and start without me? You can hang out with Gally, watch one of the movies, gorge yourself on junk food—I know that backpack isn’t stuffed with homework.”

  I also know this is pretty much an irresistible offer, since half the reason Xandra hangs out with me is to get out of her own house. Not that there’s anything wrong with where she lives; it’s just a teenage thing, the desire for independence, for a place where you don’t have to follow someone else’s rules.

  I have rules, too, of course. But mine tend to be the Don’t drink my scotch, don’t let Gally eat anything that will kill him, don’t tell your folks all the stuff I let you get away with type of thing. Not quite independence, but close enough to provide a comforting illusion. And, of course, I have the convenient habit of abruptly leaving her alone for hours on end. I can see her mentally calculating which of her friends she can invite over and then kick out before I get back.

  “Yeah, okay,” she says. I unlock the door and we go in.

  That’s when my phone starts to ring.

  NINETEEN

  I glance at my phone’s screen and see that it’s Gretch. “Hey, Gretch.”

  “Jace. I have some … sensitive information for you. It’s best if we talk face-to-face.”

  I follow Xandra to the elevator, get on with her. “I’m at home right now. Charlie and I are on our way to the morgue after I walk the dog.”

  “On your way to the morgue after you walk the dog? That sounds like a euphemism for something unspeakably obscene.”

  I chuckle. “Well, it’s not. Can it wait until we get back?”

  “Certainly. But I’m actually very close to you—why don’t I just drop in and we can have a quick chat? Won’t take but a moment.”

  I frown, glancing at Xandra. The two of them aren’t a great mix, and I’m only going to be here for a few minutes. Well, maybe a little longer—my stomach’s starting to growl again. “I don’t know if that’s such a good—”

  “Fine, I’ll see you in a few minutes.” She hangs up.

  I stare at my phone for a second before I put it away. “Now, that was weird,” I mutter.

  “What was?”

  The doors open and we step out. “Gretch,” I say. “First that joke, then insisting she come over. Something’s not right.”

  Xandra gives me a roll of her eyes so pronounced I can practically hear them spinning in their sockets. “That’s for sure. Maybe that stake up her ass punctured something vital.”

  Have I mentioned Xandra and Gretch don’t get along? “Be nice,” I say. “Gretch does a job that would turn most people’s brains to mushroom soup and their souls to hard little chunks of coal.” I pause. Mmm. Mushroom soup …

  I unlock my door and step inside. Gally’s already there, barking excitedly; the sun isn’t down yet, so he’s still in dog form.

  I’m a little worried about Gretch, actually. This isn’t the first time she’s seemed a bit off, and she was one of the very first people affected by the Ghatanothoa footage. Delayed onset of symptoms is entirely plausible, too.

  “Uh, how would you feel about taking Gally for his walk?” I ask. “Gretch and I have to discuss some work issues. I’d really appreciate it.”

  She sighs. “Yeah, sure. C’mon, Gally—we know when we’re not wanted.”

  Gally gives her a bright-eyed, panting look that says, Not wanted? I don’t know what that means. Does it mean baloney? Will there be baloney? Baloney is my friend.

  She grabs the leash and slips out, pouting. I call down to Charlie to let him know what’s going on and that I’ll be a few minutes more. He says he’ll stay where he is.

  Gretch shows up a few minutes later. I buzz her up and go back to making what started as a quick snack and mutated into some sort of epic sandwich too large to fit into my mouth.

  I let Gretch in when she knocks, a squeeze bottle of mustard in one hand and a jar of pickles tucked under my arm. “Hey,” I say. “What’s going on? You sounded a little—”

  “I didn’t want to be too forthcoming over the mobile. Jace, it appears you’ve stumbled onto something much bigger than we thought.”

  I put down the mustard and open the jar of pickles. The whiff of dill and vinegar that wafts out is overpowering, so I put the lid back on. “You’re talking about the guy from Panama?”

  “Yes. It seems our investigation has stirred up things on not just a local level, but also an international one. Are you aware of the South American lem trade?”

  I open the jar of pickles again. Still overpowering. I close it. “Not really.”

  “Panama is a hub. It’s where many illegal lems are shipped to, and from. Nasty place. The Gray Wolves do a lot of business with them, and it looks like they’ve imported some help.”

  I open the jar again, hold my breath, and dive for a pickle. Success. I yank it out, close the jar, and rinse the pickle under some tap water. “Okay, I’m with you. Paramilitary, right? A merc to deal with their Don problem?”

  “That’s what I thought. But I have a contact at the CIA who’s just told me something far more troubling.” She pauses, eyeing my sandwich. “Good Lord. Are you really going to attempt to eat that? It looks as if it were constructed over several years by Egyptian slaves.”

  “It’s a work in progress.” I cut the pickle into long slices and balance them on top of what I’ve already got, then add a slab of smoked cheddar. “So what’s your fellow spook have to say?”

  “Two things. First, that someone very high up is pulling strings to get us to walk away from the investigation—the lem part of it especially. Second—our Panamanian friend isn’t alone.”

  I slather some mayo on a piece of bread. “Meaning what, exactly?”

  “He came into the country with twenty others. A squad.”

  I frown. “Huh. That seems excessive. Even if the Don is a real badass—and so far he seems to be—twenty-one guys is overkill. Something else must be going on.”

  “Indeed. My contact couldn’t say anything more, but he hinted strongly that we should be very careful about political ramifications—both local and federal.”

  I regard the sandwich with a mixture of pride and fear. “So our upcoming trip to the city morgue should be as low-key as possible.”

  “I’d advise keeping it under the radar, yes.”

  The buzzer sounds. Xandra’s back already? I figured she was good for twenty minutes, at least. I let her into the building, then turn back to Gretch. “Okay, so what’s your take on this? Who wants us to back off, and why?”

  Gretch taps one elegant red fingernail against her chin as she thinks. “I would say that La Lupo Grigorio are trying to protect their investment in the lem trade. A good way to protect an investment is to buy insurance—which in this case would be someone with political access.”

  Sure. The be
st way to win friends and influence people is with cold, hard cash, and the Gray Wolves have plenty of that. Their shopping list generally contains members of the legal profession, from cops to prosecutors to federal judges—and sometimes even higher.

  “So the Wolves own someone and we’re getting a little too close for comfort,” I say. “Any idea who it might be?”

  Gretch shakes her head just as Xandra knocks on the door. I open it and she and Gally saunter in. “Hey,” she says. “Forgot to bring a plastic bag for his you-know.”

  “Hello, Xandra,” Gretch says.

  “Hey,” Xandra says. Her voice is neutral, but Gally knows better. He whines, which I translate to Uh-oh. The you-know is about to hit the fan.

  “I love dogs,” Xandra says, rummaging in a drawer for a plastic bag, “but man, can they poop.” She glances over at Gretch. “Whoops, I’m sorry. I probably shouldn’t say things like that around you.”

  Gretch frowns. “And why is that?”

  “Well, you know. It must be a century or so since you’ve cleaned out the old colon.”

  Time stops. Okay, it doesn’t really, but a few glaciers mosey through the kitchen while I’m processing what Xandra just said. Hoo, boy. I think my apartment just went to Defcon One. Or Two, or Zero, or whatever number is really bad and implies imminent global destruction.

  Gretch smiles, ever so slightly. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, but you could cut glass with what’s coming out of her eyes. “A hundred and twelve years, five months, seventeen days. But if I ever have another bowel movement, I shall be sure to think of you.”

  “Uh, speaking of which, Gally looks like he has to go pretty bad,” I interject. “We should—”

  “I’ve always wondered about that,” Xandra says. Her voice is light, but I know aggression when I hear it. “Is there, like, some kind of final purge? Or does that last steak-and-kidney pie just sort of sit there for the rest of eternity and rot?”

  “Good question,” I say. “We’ll get back to you on that—”

  “There’s something I’ve always wondered about, too,” Gretch says. Her voice is like silk. “When you’re at home, do you use glasses and cups, or simply drink from the toilet?”

  “Have you ever seen a sandwich this big?” I blurt desperately. “I mean, wow, look at the size of this thing! It’s ginormous! It’s huge-mongous! It’s …” I falter as they both ignore me completely and stare at each other like two samurai waiting for the other one to make his move. “ … it’s gonna wind up all over this kitchen,” I say wearily.

  “Why don’t you run along?” Gretch tells Xandra. “The adults would like to talk.”

  “I’ll leave when I feel like it.”

  “Am I going to have to strike you on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper?”

  I step between them and open the silverware drawer to get a knife and fork. “’Scuze me. Rescue mission. Probably hopeless, but I gotta try.” I sit back down at the table and carve off a mouthful, then sit back and chew. Might as well enjoy the show.

  “You don’t intimidate me, Gretch. I know all you pires think thropes are just hairy, disgusting animals, but I’m proud of what I am.”

  “And what would that be, besides a rude and ignorant child?”

  “I’m Jace’s friend!”

  “This sandwich is really good.”

  “I’m her friend, too. But I don’t attack her other friends out of spite.”

  “I was worried about the sauerkraut. It was a gamble. But I think, in the end, the risk paid off.”

  “No, all you do is pass judgment on everyone you know! Well, what are you going to do now, huh? Jace is gonna be one of us!”

  Silence.

  “Ah,” I say. “So that’s—”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure,” Gretch says.

  “What do you mean?”

  “She’s being treated. She may not become a thrope at all.”

  “What?” Xandra looks at me, stunned. “No. That’s impossible. Nobody can do that.”

  “My mistake. I’m sure you’re much better informed than a national agency full of the most experienced and powerful shamans in the world. Isn’t that right, Jace?”

  I manage a weak smile. “Well, she is pretty bright.”

  The look on Xandra’s face is equal parts disbelief and betrayal. “What’s she talking about, Jace?”

  “It’s … experimental,” I say. “It’s a treatment using pire blood as a kind of antibody serum for the thrope bite. It’s not guaranteed.”

  “Pire blood? So you might become one of them?”

  Okay, that was the wrong thing to say … “Look on the bright side. It might just kill me instead.”

  “I can’t believe this. You’d risk dying instead of becoming like me?”

  Never underestimate the teenage capacity for melodrama, or for making any crisis all about them. I love Xandra dearly, and she’s usually very levelheaded—but she’s still a high schooler, surfing those stormy teenage hormone waves and trying to figure out most of life for the very first time. I can’t blame her for feeling like I’ve stabbed her in the back. “Hey, give me a little credit, okay? This isn’t about becoming a thrope, or a pire. This is about me trying to stay me, all right? I didn’t choose to get infected.”

  “Infected? Is that how you think of it?”

  Oh, well done, Jace. Excellent use of exactly the right term.

  “This is becoming extremely tiresome,” Gretch says. “If you’re the friend you say you are, you should care about what’s best for Jace.”

  “What, and you think risking her life makes the most sense?”

  “She’s an officer of the law, Alexandra. She risks her life every day.”

  Xandra glares at Gretch. I notice that her fingernails seem to have gotten a lot longer in the last minute, and her eyes are starting to take on a yellow tint. Not that Xandra could take Gretch in a fight, but a scrap between them could break something—like my entire apartment. “Let’s just calm down, all right? Everybody take a deep breath—”

  “Gretch doesn’t breathe, Jace? Remember? Or eat, or use the bathroom, or any of that other messy stuff us living people do. You really want to be like her?”

  What I really want is to eat my sandwich, but I can’t say that without giving Xandra more ammunition for her argument—not that she seems to need any extra. She hasn’t even pulled out her big gun yet—

  “I thought you wanted to help Uncle Pete.”

  Uh-oh. Blam.

  “How is this not helping—”

  “If you were a thrope, you know you could bring him back.”

  Gretch gives her head an exasperated shake. “That’s absurd. Jace’s condition has nothing to do with your uncle’s.”

  “You don’t know everything! You didn’t know about the sange ucenicie!”

  “The link is irrelevant. The ceremony to eliminate the Tair persona didn’t work. Your uncle is gone, and he isn’t coming back. Jace becoming a thrope won’t change that.”

  Even for Gretch, that’s cold; Xandra must have really pissed her off. Xandra just stares at her, breathing a little too hard, her upper lip twitching into the beginnings of a snarl.

  Gretch crosses her arms. “Jace and I have more important things to do than indulge in childish agonizing. Let’s make this simple. We both know this is going to end with you making a dramatic exit—shouting or crying or both—so let’s get on with it, shall we? Have your tantrum, storm out, and let us get back to work.”

  And that, oddly enough, seems to cool Xandra right off. Which could have been exactly what Gretch wanted.

  “I told you, I’m not a child,” Xandra says. “I’m just someone with something called a heart. If you can still remember what that is.” And then she turns around and leaves without another word, taking Gally with her. She doesn’t even slam the door.

  “Hoooo, boy,” I say. “That could have gone better.”

  “I apologize. That was unprofessional of me.”

&nb
sp; “No, it was very professional of you. If, you know, your profession was character assassination.”

  “She needs to recognize reality.”

  “No, she needs to be exactly what she is. And right now, that means confused, angry, sad, hopeful, and just a little irrational. You know—a teenager.”

  “Fair enough. And what about you?”

  Good question. What do I want to be when I grow up? Or grow fangs? “Damned if I know. Probably damned if I don’t, too. Hey, what’s the official position on that, anyway? Do all good thropes go to heaven? Are pires still eligible for a halo and a pair of batwings?”

  Gretch smiles. “Depends on who you ask. The Catholic Church recognized thropes as part of God’s creation centuries ago, but it took longer for them to admit pires might have souls, too.”

  I hew off another chunk of sandwich. “Yeah? What finally convinced them?”

  “Empirical evidence. Animist magic relies on the spirits that reside inside most things, and it responds to pires as well as it does rocks. Defending the proposition that a boulder had a soul while an intelligent and principled being did not proved virtually impossible and was abandoned by religious scholars long ago.”

  “Well, that’s a hypothetical weight off my chest. How about afterlives? What do I have to look forward to?”

  “Opinions vary.”

  “Well, what are you gonna do? Life’s a bitch and then you die and then yadda yadda something something. Or not.”

  “Succinctly put.”

  “Can’t talk anymore. Eating.”

  “For what it’s worth, I hope your treatment provides the desired results.”

  “The concept of an immortal me scares you, too, huh?”

  “More than I can express.”