Cat Adams - Blood Song

heated the air between us.

“That was just luck—and those damned knives. I won’t be as easy.”

“Enough.” Edgar’s word cracked like a whip, and the younger-looking vampire hissed. “Give Kevin my

message.”

Before I said a word in answer, they were gone. As they disappeared, the spel mesmerizing the clerk

fel away. He blinked, shook his head, and looked around, but not like he suspected anything. Good

thing. I real y wasn’t sure I wanted to explain what had just happened.

12

I didn’t dawdle on my way home. A lot of the churches offer sanctuary. But they expect you to get

there before dark. They certainly wouldn’t invite in someone with fangs, no matter how easily I could

walk through the door. Thanks to Bob and later Justin, Vicki’s estate had ful y maintained, state-of-theart protections, even if she didn’t currently live there. I’d be as safe as or safer there than anywhere

else I could come up with on short notice. Besides, it was home. It was normal. I needed something

normal to cling to—a psychic teddy bear if you wil .

The estate covers ten acres. I stopped at the gate to lay my palm on the scanner, letting it read my

print. The light flashed green, unlocking the computerized security system and rol ing the gate open. I

passed through quickly. It’s set up similarly to the outer gate at Birchwoods, only staying open thirty

seconds. Just long enough for you to get through and a little ways down the drive. I paused after I went

through and watched the gates close, making sure nobody came in behind me. I didn’t trust Edgar, and

I trusted his “friends” even less. But the magical wards on the high fence were put in place by Bruno,

and he’s one of the best in the business. They wouldn’t get through once those gates locked.

I fol owed the wide, paved road that leads to a main house styled like an Italian palazzo. It’s huge, with

amenities like an actual bal room, a movie screening room—you know, the everyday stuff. There’s a

servants’ wing, where David and Inez live. It’s twenty-five hundred square feet, renovated and

decorated to their taste, with a separate outdoor entrance to ensure their privacy. There’s a pool

house to go with the Olympic-size pool. Vicki had had a weight room and exercise equipment put in

there. My rent includes use of the pool and exercise facilities if I want to. I swim every day—in the pool

or the ocean—and use the pool house to do my bal et stretches and martial arts kata. But I don’t do

weight training, so those machines would be gathering dust if David hadn’t decided to drop that extra

ten pounds he’d been carrying.

My place is the guest cottage. It sits a couple of hundred yards back from the main house, at the end

of a winding brick path that passes through beautiful y landscaped blooming plants and shade trees and

over a tiny man-made brook that burbles in a rocky bed. The cottage isn’t large, as those things go,

probably eight hundred square feet, with one bedroom, one very ordinary bathroom … wel , ordinary

except for the big claw-footed tub … and a back deck that is only a few hundred yards from the little

strip of sand and rocks that edge onto the ocean. It’s too rough and rocky for good swimming, boating,

or surfing. But it’s beautiful. When I’m troubled I go there and sit on one particular rock, listening to the

ocean as I watch the gul s dive-bomb each other as they compete for tasty tidbits. When I want to swim

in salt water, al I have to do is go a little farther down the beach. Al the residents here have unlimited

access to the private beach.

This secluded spot has been my home for several years now, since before Vicki went into

Birchwoods. When my lease ran out, we never got around to signing more paperwork. I pay month to

month, direct to the attorney. What my status here would be once the Wil got read I had no clue. I

might inherit it. It might go to David and Inez, or charity. Most likely it would go to Vicki’s folks.

I didn’t want to think about things like “inheriting.” It was too soon, and I would rather be as poor as I’d

been growing up than have lost Vicki. I’d give just about anything to have her back. But al the money, al

the power, in the world can’t manage that. Magic or no, dead is stil dead.

I dragged my mind away from the sucking hole of grief by thinking of practical things—primarily my

ongoing survival. I got the feeling that so long as Edgar considered me useful he wouldn’t kil me

himself. I believed that. The same couldn’t be said for his associates. And I wouldn’t want to bet my life

that he’d be able or wil ing to keep them in line. Then, of course, there was my sire—whoever he was

— and the folks who’d set me up in the al ey. I’d been supposed to die. Instead, I was alive and a

witness to whatever the hel was going on. They wouldn’t like that. Not one little bit.

Oh, and let’s not forget the demon spawn. Nothing else could do that perfect of an imitation.

I pul ed into the smal parking area by the cottage and climbed out of the car, shaking my head. There

was a line: a freaking line of people who wanted me dead. Worse, they weren’t normal folks. No, I had

monsters and professional kil ers hunting me.

Such were my cheery thoughts as I made my way up the sidewalk, burdened with bags of groceries.

There was a note in Inez’s handwriting pinned to the door with a strip of duct tape.

Dawna brought by a pot of her grandmother’s pho for you. I put it in your fridge. I was afraid

if I didn’t bring it down here David would eat it all. Hope you are okay. We’ll talk in the

morning.

Dawna’s grandmother is Vietnamese. She married Al, a Marine, during the Vietnam War, coming

back with him to the states. Tiny, exquisite, she is smart, tough, and one hel of a cook. Her pho is

legendary. I might have to run it through the new blender, but by God I would eat it. In fact, I could smel

it already, if ever so faintly.

I promised myself that it would be my reward as soon as I got my purchases put away. It took a

couple of trips to get it al inside. The weapons bag came inside, too. I’d be putting on my knives

momentarily—just in case. I mean, I thought the wards would hold. But better safe than sorry.

In the course of hauling everything out of the car I found the new cel phone. The light was flashing. I

hadn’t set up my voice mail yet, but I had a lot of missed cal s and text messages. The texts were

probably from Dawna. Unless she’d given the number out to everybody. Which she would.

I didn’t real y want to talk to anyone. But I could text. I sent a couple of quick messages out, letting

everybody know I was safely home, thanking Dawna for the pho, sending condolences back and forth

about losing Vicki. It didn’t take long, and my friends real y did need to hear from me if I wanted them

not to worry.

The “cottage” isn’t as large as David and Inez’s place, but it’s bigger than the house I grew up in,

bigger than my gran’s. It’s also considerably nicer. The living room is airy and open, with French doors

leading out onto a deck and skylights that let in sunlight or moonlight dappled with the shadows from the

palm trees that surrounded the building. I plugged in the slow cooker with the pho, cranked the dial,