Cat Adams - Blood Song

click of lock tumblers, fol owed by the buzzing of electronic equipment. A moment later the

heavy outer gate rol ed smoothly aside.

I stomped on the gas. The Miata positively leapt forward. I’d had it tuned up a couple of days

earlier, and I stil wasn’t quite used to the upswing in power. Stil , it was better to move fast. I had

forty-five seconds to get across the outer grid before the gate slammed shut. It took a manual

override with a supervisor’s key to get the gate back open. I knew this because I’d been caught

once behind a ditz who’d decided to rummage in her purse for something rather than drive on

in.

I pul ed the car into one of four spots in front of a smal white brick building with a red tile roof.

As I turned off the engine, Gerry stepped out the front door. I was surprised to see him on gate

duty. Since his promotion to management, it was way below his new pay grade to be checking

IDs. Stil , there he was, big as life and twice as ugly. He was wearing an electronic device

clipped to the waistband of his suit trousers, with a cord connecting it to the wand he carried in

his left hand. Behind him was a woman in the standard navy and white security uniform. She

wasn’t one of the regular crew. After al this time I know pretty much everyone who works at

Birchwood, whatever the shift. And “Lydia” (according to her little brass name badge) wasn’t

familiar.

She was a mage of some sort. I’d have bet on it. Their talents may not be as versatile or as

dangerous as some of the other “gifts” but are by far the most marketable and easy to control.

I took a good look at her. Probably in her mid-thirties, she had dark hair pul ed tightly back

from her face to reveal strong bone structure made even more harsh by the lack of makeup or

jewelry. It was the kind of face that would look better in photographs than in person.

The woman strode up to the passenger side, ignoring me completely. Her eyes were only for

the packages on the front seat. Yup. Definitely a mage. She’d sensed the power emanating

from them.

“I’ve cleared those with the management. They’re birthday gifts for Vicki. Since they’re glass,

the administrator required I have them put under at least a level-five charm to prevent

breakage.” She gave a slight nod but didn’t take my word for it. Instead, she withdrew a palmsized object from the pocket of her uniform trousers and began running it over the outside of

the package as she murmured words I couldn’t quite catch. Gerry, meanwhile, had been busy

running the plates of my car and cross-checking them against the VIN number posted on the

dash just inside the windshield on the driver’s side. Next he’d run the wand over me to check

for traditional weapons and have me sign the visitor’s form with a silver pen—probably

charmed to make sure I couldn’t forge someone else’s signature. The computer would then

cross-check it not only against al of my other signatures but also against the file and the

signature on my driver’s license. Last, but not least, I’d be checked for il usion charms and

sprinkled with holy water to make sure I wasn’t a vampire playing mind tricks. This even though

it was broad daylight and any normal vamps were stil safely asnooze in their coffins, dead to

the world.

We went through it every time. Wel , most of it. Inspecting the presents was unusual but not

unexpected.

Since I visit three to four times a week I’ve gotten pretty used to the whole rigamarole. Usual y

I even joke around with the guards. I know most of them by name and a little bit about them

—from those times when I’ve been forced to wait on admission until after a group therapy

session ended, or for whatever other reason. Today, however, everybody was acting grim and

businesslike.

“What’s up, Gerry?” I asked softly, while the female guard went over the outside of my trunk. I

wasn’t sure he’d answer, even if she couldn’t hear, but he might.

“We’ve had an incident.”

My eyebrows shot up in surprise. I mean, there are prisons and government instal ations that

don’t have the kind of personnel vetting programs they put people through to work here. And

I’ve never, once, seen any hint of anyone bending the rules, which is pretty impressive al things

considered.

“What kind of incident?”

Gerry’s baby face hardened into harsh lines, his eyes darkening almost to black. I could see

the sinews strain in his neck as he thought about it. For a moment, I thought he’d refuse to say,

but he shocked me again.

“One of our guards was found murdered. His right hand had been cut off at the wrist. The

body had been frozen, so we don’t know how long he’s been dead.”

My stomach clenched in reaction. I hated to ask, but I had to. There was a good chance it

was someone I knew. “Who?”

“Louis.”

Shit. Louis, who had four kids under the age of ten, whose pictures he pul ed out of his wal et

every chance you gave him, so that he could brag about their latest report card, dance recital,

or sporting event. Damn it.

“Julie had taken the kids to visit their grand-parents in Idaho for a week. She says they talked

on the phone every night until Thursday. That night she got an e-mail that he’d lost the cel

phone, so he’d be sending e-mails instead.”

“But I saw him …” I let the sentence drag off unfinished. It could’ve been him. Or not. He was

night crew. But there aren’t a lot of creatures that can use magic and il usion wel enough to get

by. The ones who can often do fingerprints. But they can’t manufacture the oil in a human hand.

Or DNA. Oh, shit. This was bad. And it certainly explained the extra searches and personnel

shifts.

“Any idea why?”

He shook his head. “It could be anything. We’re talking high-profile, high-money people here.

There’s plenty of folks who’d stop at nothing to get inside information.”

“And now somebody has.”

“Open the trunk please.” The mage’s voice cut across our conversation like a sharp knife. “I

need to see inside.”

I started to open the car door and Gerry stepped out of the way. Normal y, I’d stay sitting, but

something about her bugged me. I didn’t like having her literal y looking down on me. “I’m a

professional bodyguard. My weapons are in the trunk. I lock them in there when I come to visit.”

Also locked in the car was the special y cut black suit jacket I wear on duty. There’s magical y

charged Kevlar hidden beneath the silk lining. That jacket cost more than some of my guns, and

I take very good care of it. I’d bet it was setting off al sorts of radar with her.

I stepped out of the car, standing with deliberate ease, leaving just enough room for rapid

movement in any direction.

She noticed that, and she didn’t like it. She turned to me, cold blue eyes the color of a

December sky taking in every inch of me.

Her eyes lingered on the cut of my clothes, and the fitness of the body in them. Since I work

out hard, I’m pretty damned fit. Early bal et training may have given me grace and good posture,

but running, swimming, and exercise machines give me strength and muscle definition. It

shows, even under clothing. She was no slouch, either, in the muscle department.

Her expression stayed neutral, except for the eyes. Not for the first time I wished for just a bit

of psychic talent.

“How much did you wish for it?” Detective Gibson’s voice cut into the memory and I started. My eyes