Bloodshot

by Cherie Priest

  “That can’t be a coincidence,” he said.

  “Coincidence? Are you shitting me? No way.” Bruner was obviously in this up to his eyeballs, no doubt fancying himself a puppetmaster or something equally sinister. But how was he coordinating the operation from all these different angles?

  Earlier, Adrian had brought up satellites, which was superlatively worrisome—because I’d been tailed, that much was clear. But I hadn’t seen or heard or sensed any electronic equipment and I knew damn good and well it hadn’t been as simple as sending a car after me.

  I would’ve noticed that. I’m old and wily, and I’m not the kind of girl who fails to notice when she’s being chased.

  From a certain crazy, paranoid, conspiracy-theory slant, observation-from-space wasn’t the dumbest conclusion I could draw. It was frankly terrifying, the idea that Ian and I—and maybe, once upon a time, Isabelle, too—could be watched by some radar or spy satellite, just because this dickhead Bruner thinks vampires make excellent experimental subjects.

  The thought had me glaring down at the paper, in case I could channel all my rage through that signature upon it, sloppy and arrogant, and make the major’s head explode.

  “It’s my own fault,” I grumbled.

  “What is?”

  This time I shook my head, not sure how to tell him what I meant without telling him too much. “I’ve gotten into this guy’s sights, somehow. Just like your sister did, and just like my client did, a long time ago.”

  “You said that already.”

  “I meant it, too. See,” I said, putting on my teacher voice and refusing to notice that the towel was slipping, “most vampires conduct business through thralls or ghouls—in order to keep their own names and identities out of the social security office, or the DMV, or anywhere else. But I’ve spent a very long time conducting my own business, apart from any of the Houses. As you so astutely gathered.”

  “Why do you go it alone? If it’s so much safer to work through other people, I mean.”

  “Habit, I guess. I left my House just a few years after I turned.” And I wasn’t sure why I was telling him all this, except that I so rarely had anyone to talk to, and once I got started talking I found it difficult to stop. Besides, I wasn’t telling him anything important. All of this was ancient history as far as I was concerned. “I had a falling-out with the matriarch, a woman who thought I ought to wait on her hand and foot, and take the fall for her … indiscretions.”

  Talk about your euphemisms. She’d fucked and killed her husband’s favorite ghoul, and then she tried to pin it on me. I was new to the family, and no one was willing to take my word over hers—even though everyone knew she was lying. It was bullshit politics, plain and simple. I never got over it. I never shook the idea that other vampires are exactly as horrible as regular people, except that they have a greater capacity to ruin lives and wreak havoc.

  No thank you. Call me lone wolf and leave me the hell alone. Besides, I’ve already mentioned my deep-seated mistrust of ghouls. Houses almost always come with ghouls, often a whole consortium of them. If I don’t like and don’t trust one ghoul, you can imagine my comfort level with an entire slave class of them.

  I went on, “I may have built up more of a paper trail than I thought. And I don’t have anyone out there watching my back. Most of the other vampires I know I don’t like much. Except Ian.

  He’s okay.”

  “He’s your client?”

  “Yeah. He’s the guy I’m working for.” It could be argued that I never should’ve told him this, but he’d already overheard Ian’s name and I decided it was all right … because I’d already come to a conclusion. “I think you’re going to like him.”

  Adrian was taken aback. “Like him? When am I ever going to meet him?”

  “Sooner rather than later. Bruner’s office is in D.C., and I’m interested in paying the major a visit. A very quiet visit. The kind where I rifle through all his shit and maybe do him a little bodily harm while I’m at it.”

  “How do you know where his office is?”

  “Because he told me in an email.” Something else occurred to me. “And I told him I was going to be in D.C. come the weekend. What’s today, Tuesday?”

  “Tuesday, going on Wednesday,” he said, glancing at the clock as if it were a calendar.

  “Shit. Well, we still have a few days to get there and kick around before he expects me.”

  His eyes widened. “You told him to expect you? What kind of—”

  “Look, I had my reasons. I needed to know where his office was, so I asked him if he’d tell me—on the grounds that I’d visit him when I’m in town. And he went for it. Sometimes it’s exactly that easy, you know? The vast majority of people in this world are not even a fraction as careful and crazy as I am. So this is fine. It’s no big deal, and nobody knows we’re coming. We’re free and clear, and we’re going,” I insisted stubbornly, even though I only half believed myself.

  “What makes you think I’ll come with you?” Adrian asked.

  “I think you’ll come with me because Ian might’ve known your sister. He might even know what happened to her—how she was turned, and what happened to her before the military caught up to her, and kept her. And you want to know about it.”

  He mulled this over, and then said, “No promises past meeting your client, just for a conversation. But okay. I’m in at least that far.”

  “Good,” I said, as if that settled everything, but I was pretty sure it hadn’t. I was pretty sure I had Adrian along until Major Bruner was taken out of the picture in a permanent fashion, but maybe that was an unfair conclusion to draw.

  Yet when I looked at this beautiful man with one hand holding up a towel, his jaw set firm, and his eyes staring down at the paper … I knew that this was a man who wanted answers. He wanted the vengeance he’d never had the opportunity to take.

  And here I was, offering to draw him a map and give him a ride.

  10

  Ian was somewhat less excited about meeting up in Washington, D.C., than I’d expected. I think his impatience was getting to him, but he was too much of a class act to scream at me on the phone. Instead, his voice took on that polite tightness that almost disappointed me with its lack of friendliness.

  Not that I should ever try to make friends with my clients, because obviously, I shouldn’t. But still.

  Eventually I conveyed the urgency to him—how I’d reconsidered, and we’d be running extra risks by scanning and copying and emailing the material, opening ourselves up to heaven knew what sort of tracking was tied to my email account, or my computer, or whatever. We knew I’d originally scored the feds’ attention via the contact with Bad Hatter, may he rest in peace or live on in infamy wherever he was, but given our nervousness about potential satellite observation, we didn’t know if I’d brought the net down on Adrian.

  This final point did in Ian’s resistance, and his voice turned from icy aggravation to unhappy acquiescence. “You’re right,” he told me with a sigh. “I know you are. It’s only that I’ve waited so long, and Dr. Keene has been so patient.”

  “He’s the guy who’s trying to fix your eyes, in Canada?”

  “That’s right. And I hate to drag this out any longer than strictly necessary. I’ve been keeping him loosely informed regarding the situation, and I fear he’s becoming tired of hearing that I almost have the paperwork in hand. So far, he’s been kind enough to keep himself available—nearly on call—for me over the last year, but he’s preparing to leave the country next month and I don’t know when I’ll next have the opportunity to consult with him.”

  “He’s leaving the country?” I echoed.

  Ian said, “He’s a member of Doctors Without Borders. He’ll be going away on a volunteer work sabbatical, to Southeast Asia I believe.”

  “Sounds like quite a saint. Can’t you follow him there for treatment?”

  “I could,” he told me. “And I almost certainly will, if I have no o
ther choice. But I’d rather engage him at his own facilities in Toronto. He’s led me to believe that they’re rather superior to where he’ll be working gratis.” He laughed nervously. “By now, he’s almost as impatient as I am.”

  To soothe him, I said, “If you just swing down here and meet me, then we can sort all this out and have you on your way back to Toronto in a week or less. No problem.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” I fibbed. But he was hard to fib to, so I amended my certainty to include, “Barring unforeseen catastrophe. And anyway, Adrian wants to meet you.” Perhaps I exaggerated.

  “He … he does? He’s still with you?”

  “Yeah, he’s still with me. He’s coming to D.C. on the off chance I turn up something thrilling about Major Bruner and his connection to the project, and unless I miss my guess”—I didn’t bother to lower my voice; Adrian was watching TV in the other room and either he’d hear me, or he wouldn’t—“he’s plotting a little street vengeance.”

  “Really?”

  “Uh-huh. Wait’ll you meet him. He’s a former Navy SEAL who’s on the warpath.”

  “I thought you said he was a drag queen?”

  “That too. He’s a man of many mysteries.” Again I remembered that silver spangle outfit and the tuck-job. “And maybe I’m wrong, but I bet I’m not. More to the point, however, he wants to talk to you about his sister. She was in the program with you.”

  “She was?”

  “You knew you weren’t alone,” I said, trying to avoid the roundabout talk that he resorted to every time the subject of his imprisonment came up. “You’ve already told me that much. Well, she was one of the others.”

  “One like us?” he asked. It felt like his umpteenth question in a row. I heard fuzz and noise in the background. I assumed he was outdoors somewhere, and being careful with his language.

  “Yes. A vampire. And I have no idea if you knew her or not, or if you ever spoke to her or not, but this guy is grieving for his sister and desperate for any scrap of information. If you don’t want to talk to him, that’s fine. But you can tell him so to his face.”

  My phone began to beep, and I glanced at the face. “Hey, Ian, I’ve got to go. Getting another call.” We’d already exchanged all our connection information anyway; we’d picked a hotel and a date, and we’d talk again when we both got into D.C.

  “Very well. See you soon.”

  I hung up on him and pressed the button to accept the other call. The number looked familiar, but I couldn’t place it right away. The voice on the other end of the phone brought it all back in an instant.

  “Raylene?” Soft. Whispered. I didn’t like the whisper. I’d never heard him whisper before.

  “Domino. Glad you got the phone. Is everything okay?”

  I could hear him breathing softly into the receiver, and I couldn’t hear his sister, which didn’t necessarily mean anything. But his further silence probably did. He didn’t say anything for another five seconds. “No.”

  I asked, “What’s going on?”

  The urgency in my voice snared Adrian’s attention. He manifested in the doorway wearing a questioning look and a fresh smearing of my best avocado face mask. I waved him away. I wasn’t prepared to explain, and I had a feeling I was about to have a full-body freak-out. My waving and dodging did not prevent him from following me, though. All I could do was turn my back on him as I said into the phone, “Domino, you little shit, you tell me what’s going on right this second!”

  “Shh!” he hissed.

  I’m not ordinarily the kind to be shushed by anyone, much less that prepubescent cretin, but this was different, I could tell. And after a few more moments of silence, I realized he was holding up the phone and trying to let me hear something.

  The television was still on in the other room. I snapped at Adrian, “Go turn that off. Now!” And the command was passed down to someone else who doesn’t ordinarily obey random commands, but Adrian did it, and he did it swiftly.

  I turned my back to the living room and jammed my eyes shut, as if that could make it even quieter in my condo. I strained to hear any scrap of static and I prayed that Domino wasn’t pulling some crazy stunt. Because if he was, I’d have to beat him to death the next time I saw him. And that would be sad for his sister.

  Pepper. I said her name aloud and then I breathed into the phone, “Where’s your sister, Domino?”

  His response made me go cold all the way down to my toes. “I don’t know.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked again, confused and alarmed, and conflicted, too. Obviously I was worried about my stuff. I have lots of stuff—easily millions of dollars’ worth of stuff in that warehouse. And as I’ve implied before, I didn’t really care if Domino vanished off the face of the earth at any given moment. But goddammit, that little girl didn’t have anybody else looking after her and, okay, she wasn’t exactly a ghoul or a pet person or anything like that, except that apparently she was all of those things almost, and very suddenly I felt like I was going to throw up.

  It was frankly unexpected.

  “Listen,” the boy urged in his softest voice yet. He may as well have been shaping the word with his lips but holding his breath. If I hadn’t been what I am, I would’ve never heard it.

  But I heard him shift the phone in his hand, the scrabbling of his fingers almost slipping, almost dropping it, but holding fast and turning it face-out, I imagined—to better catch the sound of whatever he wanted me to hear.

  I held out my hand toward Adrian, who’d come back to join me in the “dining area” (if any room in any home of mine can be dubbed such). He wasn’t wearing the face mask anymore, though tiny threads of it showed around his hairline where he’d washed it off too quickly. I don’t know what I was trying to do with the gesture—hold him at bay, keep him from talking, shoo him out of the condo. Any of those things. All of them. I was only trying to concentrate, and concentrate hard. I directed every ounce of my supernatural hearing to the scene back in Seattle, and I even tried to picture it: my warehouse, my things, my floors full of unsecured merchandise and two children who shouldn’t be there, really, but where else could they go? I visualized Domino, doing one brave thing, perhaps—just this once. Because when it came to his sister, I didn’t think he’d lie to me, and that vestigial psychic sense was bouncing up and down behind my tightly shut eyes, telling me that he was telling the truth, and trying to tell me more without making a sound.

  At first, I didn’t detect much. The scraping of dry hands on the phone’s plastic shell. A shuffle and the rustle of clothing. An occasional breath that sounded like a ragged gasp, and sounded like Domino.

  Then the rest began to come into focus. At least, it did whatever sound does when it phases from white noise to something more specific.

  It must’ve looked to Adrian like I was in pain, hunkered over almost double with my eyes closed and my hand still held out, still keeping him away. I backed up slowly until I hit a wall, and then I sat down against it and listened, and listened, and listened.

  And now I could catch static—not miscellaneous noise, but actual electronic static, in tiny fuzzes and blips. Footsteps. Carefully uttered words, spoken low and without any of the rambling stutters of ordinary conversation. I couldn’t make them out, no matter how hard I tried.

  “Domino,” I whispered, trying to match his closeness to silence, yet trying to make sure he heard me, too.

  “Raylene,” he said back. “They’re here.”

  “Who?” I asked, knowing he couldn’t say. Even if it weren’t blindingly obvious that the boy was hiding for his life, the odds were great that he wouldn’t have any idea who was invading our turf. My turf.

  Bless him, he tried anyway. I caught a scrambling of clothes and sneakers that sounded like a herd of elephants in my ear, but surely made nothing more than tiny scuffs and squeaks in the vast labyrinth of the old factory. Even so, I cringed with every rustle of cloth against the microphone. I ten
sed myself into an even tighter ball as the boy on the other end of the line adjusted himself, and I tried to remember if there was anything … anything at all … incriminating inside that building.

  It was a ridiculous thing to wonder.

  Everything inside it was incriminating. But try as I might, I couldn’t think of any paperwork, or electronics, or anything like that. They’d already found my Seattle condo; I was virtually certain of this. Where else could the storehouse send them, except to Interpol? And baby, I’d rather face off with international crime fighters than mad-scientist military yahoos any damn day of the week.

  Everything was unraveling. I could feel it, my whole world being teased open, like a thread of spaghetti pulled twisting onto a fork.

  But I listened, and listened, and listened.

  Somewhere in the distance of wherever Domino had secreted himself away, I heard a digital pop—the kind you hear when people are using walkie-talkies, or those phones that come with that same function. It was chased by a man’s voice, confirming something.

  “Affirmative.”

  The phone shifted again in the boy’s grasp; I suppose he was bringing it back up to his face. “I can’t find Pepper,” he said. “I think maybe they got her.” He was whispering as only a kid who’s truly half afraid to death can whisper, but apparently he felt secure enough to do so. I thought maybe there was a metallic echo to the soft puffs of words, and I assumed he’d climbed up into one of Pep’s favorite old hiding spots—inside the square aluminum tunnels of the ventilation system. They weren’t original to the building, of course, but they’d been added by the man who’d owned it before me.

  “Why do you think that?” When I spoke back to him, I was quiet, too. Didn’t want to give him away. “Did you see them take her?”

  “No. I got here, and she was gone, and they were here. But they were talking about her.”