Bloodshot

by Cherie Priest

  I might have a transient, or I might have something weirder and worse on my hands. I hauled myself to a stop on the edge of the roof next door. I stalked as far as I could around its perimeter, and I thought that the side door might be open a crack.

  It shouldn’t be.

  I launched myself over the side and landed more carefully, almost silently, in the alley beside the door.

  A bending on the frame and a crease in the metal showed where it’d been jimmied, and I was not reassured to note that the jimmying job appeared to have gone quite smoothly. Someone had popped it fast, and without a lot of struggle.

  My stomach tightened with irritation and outright anger. Another pro?

  The thought made me want to bite something until it stopped twitching. If I found another thief inside, he’d suffice.

  (Yeah, or “she.” I’m not trying to be a hideous sexist with my presumption of a male pronoun. I’m a lady in a tramp’s game, that’s all, and no one’s more aware of it than me.)

  I pushed my fingers lightly against the door, and it opened inward on hinges that gave only the faintest squeak. I didn’t move. I waited for the squeaked alert to settle into the silence, and I listened around it.

  Upstairs at least a floor—maybe even two floors—I heard footsteps that were far too dense to come from an eight-year-old girl or her teenage brother. Upstairs, a man was moving with the kind of careful precision that thinks it’s being sneaky, but I heard it anyway. My ears are just like the rest of my sensory organs—exceptional, courtesy of supernatural enhancement—and Mr. Sneaky Feet did not fool me.

  I closed the door behind myself and didn’t mind the creak so much since I was alone on that floor.

  I figured I was alone, anyway. I extended my mind just a tad, listening with my piddly-but-occasionally-useful psychic senses for the heartbeat of something small, crouched, and concealed. No, Pepper wasn’t down here. She was upstairs someplace. At the very fringe of my perception, I sensed her heart fluttering like a canary in a coal-mine cage.

  She was terrified, and becoming more so with every passing second. Wherever she was hiding, I hoped she was fully concealed.

  I crossed the room lightly, dodging between the boxes and ducking past the crates stored on shelves overhead. I reached the stairwell door and gave it a swift but controlled yank, pulling it away from the frame and slipping through the opening. It shut itself behind me, tugged back into place by a set of fat iron coils that passed for springs.

  It didn’t make enough noise to give me away, not to an intruder a full floor above.

  Or so I thought—until he quit moving.

  He froze and I froze, because I knew good and well that I’d been quiet even in my haste. So either he’d heard me, or he’d found something he wanted. But I didn’t get the feeling, from the eager silence that smothered the whole building, that he was examining anything. I got the feeling that he was waiting to hear that sound again.

  If he’d found Pepper, everyone within a mile would’ve known it. That child can scream like no mere mortal I’ve ever met. I tell her that she must be part banshee, and I’m only half teasing.

  Wherever she was stashed, her presence had gone undetected.

  Mine, on the other hand, might have been blown.

  I waited for him to make the next move. He didn’t. He was patient, the son of a bitch. I had to give him credit.

  All right. That was fine. I had worn my comfy boots—chosen partly because they look good with everything, and partly because they have soft leather soles that don’t make a peep when I walk in them. Yes, I am always prepared for action. Trust me when I say it seriously beats the alternative.

  My initial guess had been that this was another professional creeping in on my turf—trying to steal my rightfully ill-gotten gains. But a second possibility dawned on me. Could it be another vampire?

  What were the odds? Prior to Ian Stott, I hadn’t seen or spoken with another one of my kind in … I had to think about it … the better part of five years. And then two in one night? Surely not.

  But I didn’t believe he was holding still up there. I didn’t believe he was that patient, or that stupid. It’s one thing to hold your ground and wait out a threat—but this guy was out in the open on the floor above me. From his last foothold I’d guessed his location, and there was no way he was just camping there, waiting for me to come smack him around.

  That’s what I told myself. My ears argued. They couldn’t hear a thing. Not a scraping boot or an accidentally brushed box. Nothing.

  I wasn’t armed with much.

  When I left the condo, I’d been heading out to meet a potential client in a public place; there was no sense in dragging a big blade or a big gun along. And it’s not like I live in fear of being mugged or anything.

  However, I do live in semi-nervousness (if not fear) of having my storage facility breached, so there was a stash of weaponry on the premises. I don’t leave the stuff out in the open—not least of all because I don’t want Pepper or Domino to get hold of it—but behind a pair of loose boards under the stairwell I keep some sharp things, some loud things, and some heavy things.

  “Fuck it,” I said under my breath. He knew I was there, and I knew he was there, and he was either sneaking up on me or sneaking away. I threw my quest for absolute silence out the window and made a headlong charge for my cache of deadly items. I didn’t feel like I had time to make a cautious prying of the boards, so I punched my fist through the top one and grabbed whatever my hand found first.

  The Glock subcompact. Noisy, but effective. I crammed it down the back of my waistband and made a little squeak. That thing was cold against my spine. But I’d rather not shoot if I don’t have to; why call more attention to a tense situation? Let’s not wake the neighbors.

  I threw my purse into the hole. There was nothing useful inside it except the laptop, which wasn’t much of a melee weapon.

  I took another split second to fish around and pulled out a reverse-blade katana that I almost never use, but in which I place a great deal of faith. I love a good sword. In this day and age, it’s so damn unexpected.

  There was more inside the cubbyhole, but I was in a hurry.

  With the gun in the back of my pants and the sword held in the ready position, I bounded up the stairs with more speed and light-footedness than anyone should’ve been prepared to expect. At the second-floor landing I made a fast ninety-degree turn and broke for the main room.

  Its floor plan was open in order to accommodate machines and workstations; it wasn’t created to be a maze. But fifty years’ worth of accumulated junk can turn almost anyplace into a labyrinth, and for a brief second I thanked heaven that I hadn’t owned the building any longer than that. It was hard enough to navigate around the boxes, crates, slabs, and refurbish-ready sheets of drywall as it was.

  I whipped my way around the corner and stopped, then jerked myself back into the hallway. The asshole had turned the light on. The lone bulb swung dimly from a contractor’s-style wire frame, which had been draped over a high beam.

  On the floor beside me I saw a large black bolt, covered in dust. I picked it up and flung it into the light, which shattered, and the whole room fell into darkness.

  Good.

  The advantage was once again mine. If he’d had any special night-vision glasses, my intruder wouldn’t have turned the bulb on in the first place. So now he was blind, and I was in my element. We were on my turf, surrounded by my belongings. The setting was homey to me, and unfamiliar to him. It was only a matter of time before he blew it and I turned him inside out.

  So why the hell couldn’t I find him?

  Back in sneak mode, I crouched down low and went tiptoeing across the slightly cleared expanse between two rows of shelving units.

  I saw boxes and books, and open crates with files, and old pieces of manufacturing equipment that had come with the building. I’d left them, because they were too heavy to move without assistance, and I didn’t want
any assistance. Let ’em sit there and rust, that’s what I figured. They weren’t hurting anything.

  Except now they were providing cover to my intruder.

  I sniffed the air like a dog—which is not a comparison I’m fond of, but it’s accurate. I can’t smell as effectively as a dog can, but my nose is comparable to a cat’s, and I can learn a lot about a room by tipping my nostrils into the air.

  For example, even though I couldn’t see her, I knew that Pepper was off to my left—burrowed back inside the old air system. I can’t always be so specific, but the scent of freshly disturbed aluminum and stale air gave away her hiding place. I felt a twinge of admiration for her. She’d found a good spot, and she was following directions. Hold still. Stay quiet. Done.

  And I knew that there had been a man paused roughly beneath the now-broken lightbulb not thirty seconds earlier.

  I couldn’t tell much about him, though. No after-odor of shampoo or cologne lingering in his wake. No eau de guy funk. All he left was a trace of minty-smelling astringent.

  My nervousness was climbing to new heights.

  A professional jimmy-job. Super-quiet movement. Prepared for the prospect of a superhuman nose, or at least a propensity toward mouthwash. This was Not Good.

  And I still hadn’t gotten a good look at him yet. I didn’t even know where he was, but I didn’t think he’d left.

  Pepper was still hiding, and even if she didn’t have my hearing or eyesight, she had exceptional instincts. I hunkered myself against a wall, taking preemptive cover between an old rubber-cutting device the size of a compact car and a set of steel shelves that reached halfway to the ceiling. There was nothing behind me but a brick wall. I was as safe as I was going to get.

  But I felt like I was wide open, standing in a clearing, holding up a sign that said, COME AND GET ME.

  I was straining for all I was worth—to hear something, or smell something, or see something. It’s not another vampire, I thought. He wouldn’t have turned on the lights. Whoever he was, he was mortal enough to die. And I was immortal enough to take quite a beating before going down, so what exactly was I so afraid of?

  Again I tried to run a scan with my mind. My psychic powers aren’t profound, and I’m lucky I have any at all. Some vampires don’t, and those who do tend to be women—though nobody knows why. It’s kind of like how men are more likely to be left-handed or color-blind; it’s not a hard, fast rule, but a generality. My abilities aren’t very good, but they give me a slight leg up.

  I can usually scope a room and pinpoint the places where everyone was standing. Or sitting.

  Or …

  I looked up.

  There he was, doing his best bat impression—hanging from a square iron beam that used to be part of a ceiling track for machinery. He was clinging to the support at the other end of the room like a baby monkey on its mama’s back.

  And he saw me.

  He’d probably seen me come bursting in, smashing up the light, and squatting behind my inherited machinery. He’d been watching the whole time, and now he could see me, seeing him.

  I did not wait for him to make the first move. He’d already made the first move by breaking into my building. If that isn’t a grievous act of aggression, then I just don’t know what is.

  With a scramble worthy of the aforementioned monkey, he righted himself on the beam and scurried along it. He was running toward me, and I was running toward him, but he was about twelve feet above me and I was on the floor.

  As soon as I realized what he was up to, I hit my metaphoric brakes and doubled back to the door. He was trying to zip past me and get out behind me. No way, José. Whoever he was, he wasn’t going anywhere until I’d gotten some answers or some blood. I’d settle for either one, but I’d shoot for both.

  I reached the door about half a second before he could. I kicked it shut and whirled on my heels, katana poised, as I faced him.

  He did a backward shuffle-hop on the beam and I was certain he was going to fall, but he didn’t. Instead he did a quick gaze-around-the-room, then bolted down a side beam toward a small square window at the far end of the premises.

  Never at any point did he appear properly on the verge of panic. And never at any point did I get the impression that the darkness was inhibiting his flight.

  I didn’t see any goggles or glasses but he wasn’t missing a step, and that beam wasn’t more than eight inches wide. Great. I had a night-spying ninja on my hands. Was he armed? I couldn’t tell. He wasn’t trying to fight back yet; he was intent on getting away—which was a good move on his part because when I caught him, I intended to hurt him. A lot.

  I chased him from the floor level, tagging along underneath him as he bolted for the nearest promising exit, and while we raced, my hopeful guess that he wasn’t a vampire was borne out. I outpaced him easily—skipping up a stack of crates and vaulting up onto the beam between him and the window without even breaking a sweat.

  Yes, I know. I already told you that we don’t sweat. But you get the idea.

  Now he was nervous. He’d kept his cool nicely until we were eye-to-eye and he was empty-handed against my sword and my terrifically bad attitude.

  In the fraction of a moment between me startling him into immobility and his fight-or-flight mechanism kicking in again, I sized him up.

  He was taller than me by a fair measure, probably a whole head taller, but it was hard to tell with both of us crouching to keep from knocking our heads on the ceiling. Wearing black from head to toe, he might’ve stood out on any street except for one in downtown Seattle. Even his hat was black, and fitted close against his head. Around his eyes and across his cheeks he’d smudged black greasepaint, which I thought was overkill. How much difference did he think the guyliner would make?

  Not enough to save his ass, I could promise him that.

  I don’t know what the track used to carry, but it must’ve been heavy, because it didn’t creak at all beneath our weight—not even when I bounced on it just a touch to see how stable it was. I’d never fought anybody Errol-Flynn-style before, up on some high ballast. I wasn’t really looking forward to it, but if I was going to cut the shit out of some guy while trying to hold my balance, I wanted to be sure that the surface would hold us both.

  He beat a retreat, backward, not very well this time.

  His right foot missed, almost, he slipped, and I’ll be damned—he caught himself, just in time to sling out an arm and snag the beam. He lowered himself in a hasty drop that was impressively smooth and painless.

  I jumped down after him, and it was equally smooth and painless. Probably more so, since I’d made my descent on purpose. I was almost disappointed that he hadn’t seen me do it, but he’d turned tail and was running like the wind again, back to the door, betting that I’d only kicked it shut and that I hadn’t broken it. He was willing to give it another shot, since he didn’t have much of a choice.

  “Oh no you don’t,” I told him, and before he’d gotten another two steps I was in front of him. He tried another direction, but I was in front of him that way, too. And there it was, the fear, wafting up off his skin. His eyes, too. Smudged with the greasepaint for added invisibility (or something), they were on fire with the realization that he had not been busted by some half-asleep rent-a-cop.

  As for my eyes, they were probably on fire, too. I could smell him and it turned me on, for lack of a better way to put it. I was hungry; I hadn’t eaten in the better part of a month, and look. Delivery.

  I grabbed him by the throat and I would’ve killed him on the spot but I felt like someone was watching me and I hesitated.

  Oh yeah. Pepper. She’d crawled out of her hidey-hole and she was staring, blank-faced, at our little tussle.

  The guy in my grasp twisted and managed to kick me hard in the gut. It hurt, yes. I made the appropriate “oof” noise and almost let go, but didn’t. He kicked again, but I dodged that one. With the momentum of my dodge, I pulled him after me, yanking him off hi
s feet and dragging him over to the door. Hey, he’d wanted to go there, right? I was only helping.

  I knocked the door open with my shoulder, even though it was supposed to open in, and not out. So I’d have to replace the hinges later. No big deal. But I was angry, and wound up, and trying to blow off enough steam to keep from sucking him dry in front of a little girl.

  He fought like a wolf, though. He wrestled and contorted himself, and it was hard for me to drag him along by the throat or anything else, but I did it. I hauled him a few feet at a time, letting him use his weight to play a futile game of tug-of-war. Back and forth we went, me gaining ground, and him losing it.

  Out to the stairs we bumbled, and I threw him down them, which took the edge right off him. After that, he was slower and easier to haul. We had one more flight of stairs to the basement, and he took them the hard way, too. At the bottom I half dragged, half kicked him around the nearest corner with a door so I could close it and make sure we were alone.

  It’s more than being a secretive eater. It’s a matter of practicality (easier to force him down than up), and consideration for others (Pepper, who frankly did not need to see it), and ease of cleanup (concrete floor with a slightly sinking foundation).

  Down in the basement it was so dark that even I could barely see, but I didn’t mind so I didn’t do anything to correct the situation.

  My quarry was starting to babble. I don’t usually like to start up conversations with people I intend to nosh on, but I wanted to know what this paramilitary freak was doing on my premises, and it was either ask him now or figure it out later.

  I planted my boot in his back somewhere near his kidney.

  He groaned, and I demanded, “What are you doing here?”

  He groaned some more, so I swung my foot into his ribs some more until he answered, “Looking around. Just looking around.”

  I could smell blood when he talked. His face must’ve met the corner of a stair. Good. Or rather, good for me. Bad for him. Between the salt-and-vinegar tang of his sweat and the rich, metallic scent of bleeding, he needed to talk fast. He had less time left in this world than he knew.