Cat Adams - Blood Song

maybe her grandmother did some ancient Vietnamese magic on her that drew them like flies to honey.

Whatever. As soon as Gibson was out of earshot I’d warn her off. He was dying. Getting involved with

him would be an invitation to heartbreak.

I started up the stairs. Gibson fol owed. The staircase isn’t wide and it’s steep, with narrow treads.

Most folks get breathless by the first-floor landing. By the time they reach my digs on the third floor,

they’re usual y gasping and irritable. If the building hadn’t been designated a historic landmark, we’d

probably have been forced to instal an elevator and make the whole thing handicapped accessible.

Instead, we have a ramp leading up to the back porch and a shared, accessible conference room on

the first floor.

The staircase ended in an open area on the third floor. It’s a sunny space, lit by large east-facing

windows. I usual y like it, but today I hurried down the hal , past the door to Freedom Bail Bonds, to

unlock the door to my office.

In some ways my office is very feminine. The wal s are painted a deep, warm peach. The trim is

painted off-white, as is the elegantly patterned tin ceiling. Heavy drapes printed with cabbage roses in

white, peach, and russet cover the various windows. Al of that femininity is nicely contrasted by the

dark wood office furniture, black metal filing cabinets, and big, glossy black gun safe bolted to the floor.

It’s large enough to hold an arsenal. We had to reinforce the floor so it didn’t crash down into the

second-floor bathroom, which didn’t make the landmark people very happy. I scrounged around old

houses for nearly a month to find enough hardwood rafters from the right time period so we’d qualify

for the brass plaque.

The safe is top-of-the-line, with not only heavy-duty locks but also level-eight magical wards

protecting it. Anybody who tries to mess with it wil wind up on their ass at least, and probably in the

hospital for an extended stay. I’d have made the protections lethal—but the police frown on that sort of

thing.

My mother whines to Gran about how I make so much money, where could I possibly spend it al ? I

was looking at a chunk of it. A lot goes into savings and investments, of course. No matter how good

you are, you’re going to get hurt in this job—if you don’t get kil ed. Insurance companies won’t give

bodyguards a disability policy. So you have to prepare for the worst on your own. I have a tidy little nest

egg, and anybody who signs my contract has to guarantee a lump sum payment of a quarter mil in

case of death or permanent disability. I charge a rate that is significant enough to al ow me to live quite

nicely. What’s left over gets either invested or spent on things like the safe and weapons.

And art. A couple of smal high-quality framed prints are hung on the outer wal s. The cherry frames

match the wood of the coffee table and the arms of the visitors’ chairs. The paintings were created by

a magician several centuries before. I swear there’s more to them than pretty seascapes. I just haven’t

figured out what yet.

The inside wal is al business—a large-scale, detailed map of the city and surrounding areas. It’s

been laminated and mounted on cork and takes up most of the wal . I use it to plan transport and

emergency evacuation routes, among other things. I’ve marked ongoing construction projects and

detours. Because if a map like that isn’t accurate it’s worthless.

Gibson wandered around the room, taking it al in. I stepped behind the desk and over to the safe. I

stated my name very clearly, and a panel slid out. I set my left hand on it, palm downward, holding stil

as a soft blue light scanned from left to right, then top to bottom. Two of the lights on the display panel

switched to green. The third, however, remained a sul en red.

“What the hel ?” I glared at the machine. The technology part of the security was working just fine: My

voice had passed, my palm and fingerprints accepted. But the magical wards, the ones keyed to my

DNA, didn’t accept my identity. I couldn’t open the safe.

“Is there a problem?”

“The safe doesn’t recognize me.” I kept my voice pleasant, but I was swearing inwardly. This was

bad. Real y bad.

“How long before the wards wind down?” He said it as though he figured it would be a matter of

hours. Little did he know.

“Probably a decade or so.”

He stared at me with wide eyes. It probably took a ful minute before he gathered his wits enough to

say, “Isn’t that a bit excessive?”

I turned, my eyes locking with his for a long moment. “There’s no point in having a safe if it doesn’t

keep things safe. ”

He shook his head, obviously both annoyed and amused.

Glad he could find something funny about it. I didn’t. Most of my weapons, and al of my computer

files, were locked behind those wards. It had never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to get to

them. Crap.

I turned back to the desk and picked up the phone with my right hand as I thumbed through my oldfashioned Rolodex with my left.

I found the number quickly enough and was pleased when the tech support rep picked up on the third

ring—without routing me through an annoying voice-mail system.

“Moore Lock and Safe, Justin here.”

I blinked a couple times in surprise. Justin is the owner, and the man who most often comes by to

refresh the warding. I couldn’t imagine what was going on that he’d be stuck manning the phones.

“Justin, it’s Celia. We have a problem.” I settled into my desk chair as I explained to him what the safe

was … or, more accurately, wasn’t doing.

“Any chance you’re preggers?” he asked. “That kind of a heavy-duty biological change can play

havoc with the system.”

I stared at the phone for a long moment in silence. I couldn’t be. No. Not possible. But the question

itself was unexpected. It would never have occurred to me that sort of thing could be a problem. I

mean, yeah, you’re carrying a baby, but you’re stil you.

I’d been quiet too long. He let out a soft chuckle that managed to mix wry amusement with sympathy.

“Sorry or congratulations, whichever applies.”

“No, it’s not that.” I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see it. “I mean, I’m not. But I got attacked

by a bat last night, and he tried to change me.”

The humor evaporated immediately, replaced by a flattering level of concern. “Oh, crap. Are you al

right?”

“Apparently the safe doesn’t think so.” I tried to make it a joke, but I couldn’t quite pul it off. There was

just the hint of a tremolo in my voice. I plowed on anyway, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Any ideas as to

how we can fix this?” Gibson was probably listening, but he didn’t make a big deal out of it. He opened

the door to the balcony and stepped out, then leaned against the railing and basked. Bright sunshine

il uminated the harsh contours of his face.

“Wel … um … wow,” he muttered under his breath while he thought and I drummed my fingers

impatiently on the desktop. “Theoretical y the same procedure should work. I mean, I’ve never tried it,

but the principle is sound.” He sighed. “And let’s hope it does, because if not you are so screwed.”

“What do I do?”

“We need samples with your DNA from before you changed. Hair, fingernail clippings, something like