Cat Adams - Blood Song

recognized more than a few names, most of them on the shiniest plaques.

I’m not particularly religious, but I said a quiet prayer for the souls of the fal en to whoever might be

listening. It’s been a rough couple of years. The experts have been debating why. Maybe it’s just a

natural cycle. Maybe not. Nobody seems to have an answer, not even El Jefe and the rest of the

experts. So the religious orders and the cops do the best they can fighting an increasingly losing battle

against evil and destruction.

I heard the buzz of the security door opening and turned to see Alex standing in a discreetly recessed

doorway, beckoning to me. Standing next to her was a middle-aged man with close-cropped graying

blond hair. Everything about him was square and boxy. He wasn’t tal , probably five eight or so, but he

was built broad. Not fat, but broad and strong, like a former linebacker who, while he didn’t precisely

work out, hadn’t let himself go to seed, either. He had a square jaw and big, blunt-fingered hands. His

only jewelry was a plain gold watch. His suit was a medium gray that was almost the exact shade of the

eyes staring out at me from behind a pair of rimless glasses. His fair skin had an almost greenish

undertone and a flaccid quality that spoke of il health. He was dying. I don’t know how I knew this, but I

did, just as I knew his blood would taste bitter from the toxins his failing kidneys were no longer

processing. He won’t taste good.

I shuddered a little in fear and revulsion. He was a man. He was not food. But as much as it terrified

me, I couldn’t take back that errant thought, the thought of a vampire. God help me.

6

You can smel it on me, can’t you?” Gibson spoke softly, each word measured.

I sat across the table in an interrogation room that looked pretty much exactly like the ones they show

on the television cop shows. This one was clean, with a coat of paint fresh enough to stil smel of

chemicals. I sat across a scarred table from Gibson, facing a big bank of mirrored glass that probably

gave another officer or two an unobstructed view of the proceedings. In the corner, near the ceiling,

was a recorder—audio and video from the look of it. The lights weren’t lit, but that was because Gibson

hadn’t hit the button on the remote.

We’d stopped by the commissary for a cup of coffee before coming up. It sat on the table in front of

me. I couldn’t drink it. I was too nauseous. Up close the scent of his decaying body was making me

gag. Only keeping the coffee directly under my nose made it bearable. I shifted uncomfortably on the

hard plastic seat and wished I were anywhere but here. My nose hadn’t been this sensitive earlier.

Would it get worse?

“I saw it in your eyes in the lobby.” His lips twisted in what was supposed to be a wry smile. “If

Alexander hadn’t told me you’d been bitten by a vampire, I’d have assumed you were a werewolf. So

far they’ve been the only ones who can tel .” His expression turned into a grimace. “They act like I’ve

got a real y bad case of BO. The reaction outted a few people I’d never even suspected.”

“Did you turn them in?”

His eyes met mine, his expression grave. “Technical y, it’s not against the law to be a werewolf—so

long as you don’t endanger the public.”

Technically, no. But that doesn’t stop the persecution. There are more than a few people who figure

werewolves endanger the public just by breathing. The prevailing attitude is “cage ’em or kil ’em.” In

fact, that exact motto had been used by one of the more popular politicians.

I’m perfectly capable of kil ing monsters if they endanger me or the people I’m protecting. But for al

but three days out of each lunar cycle werewolves were absolutely ordinary folks, with families and

jobs. If they took appropriate precautions, there was no need for them to be made prisoners.

Evidently Gibson agreed with me, and it made me think better of him.

“Does Alex know about your condition?” I asked him.

“No. I haven’t told anyone here at work. They’l find out soon enough. In the meantime, I don’t want

their pity.” He gave me a dark look. “And I do not want to leave a big case open.”

“And you think I can help?” I deliberately kept my voice neutral, my expression pleasant but

noncommittal. “What sort of case is it?”

He didn’t answer. “What do you remember from last night?”

“Not a damned thing. I’ve lost al of yesterday.” I sighed. “It was bats, so I’m assuming the attack took

place after dark. And I’m stil alive, so I figure it took place just a few minutes before my rescuers

showed up. But those are just guesses based on logic. I’m a complete blank from yesterday morning

until I woke up strapped to the zombie table in the university lab.”

He gave me a sharp look and I sighed. “I’m not lying. If only. I’ve been trying, struggling to find

anything, but nope. Pisses me off, too.” Because those few missing hours were some of the most

important of my life.

The stare he gave me seemed to dril into my brain. Final y he nodded. “Al right.” He reached into his

pocket and pul ed out a little black microcassette recorder. I wasn’t surprised he was using one.

Recent rulings had caused evidence to be thrown out because digital recording devices were too easy

to manipulate magical y. So the cops were back to using old-fashioned tape. Flipping the switch, he set

the recorder on the table between us before reaching for the remote and turning on the camera.

“Al right, we’l start at the beginning. With your permission, I’l use a spel to prompt you on things that

happened earlier in the day. We’l stop at sunset, so as not to risk triggering any traumatic memories.

But sometimes going through the mundane stuff first helps people remember more of the details of

what happened.”

I nodded my agreement.

“This is Detective Karl Gibson, Badge Number 45236, Santa Maria de Luna Police Department. It is

eleven A.M. on October 14.” I only half-listened as he droned on, giving al the details necessary to make

the statement official. I’d done this before. I knew the dril . In just a few seconds he’d ask me to state

my name, address, and whether I was giving this statement of my own free wil and volition and giving

him permission to use a spel to elicit memories.

I gave the appropriate answers. Slowly, patiently, he led me back through the previous day. I

remembered a lot of it with crystal clarity. It was Vicki’s birthday and I had worked real y hard to find her

a superspecial present.

Good afternoon, Ms. Graves. If you’l pul over to the guardhouse we’l complete the inspection

there.”

I recognized the voice coming through the speaker. It was Gerry, the supervisor of day shift

security at Birchwoods. It was an executive position, and I imagined the pay was impressive. It

should be. The people who checked into the facility were wil ing and able to pay exorbitant sums

to make damned sure that no one knew they were here or why. In al the years the place had

been in business, not once had word leaked about a celebrity patient—much to the frustration

of the press, who hovered at the required legal distance from a psychiatric facility.

I slid my visitor’s card into my wal et and tucked the whole thing back into my bag. I heard the