Cat Adams - Blood Song

been there before. He was pale—but then he’d been living on the East Coast. Probably hadn’t had a lot

of beach time. Stil , there’s pale and there’s pale. I hesitated, trying to think what to say, and couldn’t

come up with a damned thing that wasn’t prying. So I reached forward to hit the intercom button.

“Celia Graves.” I pronounced each syl able of my name clearly as I held down the button to the

intercom speaker.

“Bob Johnson.”

The two of us turned to face the security camera, giving them a good look. I didn’t bother to glance up

at the monitor mounted near the ceiling in the corner.

“So,” he said, while we waited for someone to answer. “You’re looking good—real y good. The

business must be agreeing with you.”

It was my turn to snort. “Hardly, but thanks.” I unconsciously smoothed fingers against my ash-blond

hair. The hair is shoulder length at the moment, longer than I like to keep it. I’ve had enough business

that I haven’t had a chance to get it cut. If I hadn’t been wearing it pul ed back it’d be driving me crazy.

“No, real y. You’re closing in on beautiful tonight.”

That made me stare at him with an open mouth. I am not beautiful. Oh, sure, I have pretty good bone

structure, but my features are too harsh to be considered traditional y pretty. At five ten, I’m too tal for

my body type, and my skin goes beyond “creamy” to nearly goth pale. My last boyfriend described my

eyes as the gray of storm clouds with chips of ice. A fair enough description, and certainly more poetic

than I would have expected.

“I’d better not look beautiful. Seriously, Bob. That’s not good for business. Be honest. Is this outfit too

… much?” I looked down at my clothes and then looked up at his face. He final y understood what I was

talking about and my question made him look at me critical y. I was wearing mostly black, from the

comfortable flats on my feet to my jeans and blazer. The only contrast was the deep burgundy of my

blouse. Wel , that and the garnet earrings I was wearing that matched it. I’d put on makeup, but it was

minimal. I was, after al , here on business. I’d noticed that if I look too good, male clients get the wrong

impression—start treating it as a date—and the other bodyguards don’t take me seriously. Better to

keep things simple and avoid misunderstandings.

He’d just opened his mouth to reply when a voice came through the speaker above. “You’re early.”

The tone made it sound like we’d done a bad thing, but I heard the whir of machinery as the private

elevator descended toward us from the penthouse.

“We came early to check the perimeter for threats. There was a problem.” Bob did his best bored,

professional voice. “We’l need to report it to the authorities.”

I could’ve sworn I heard swearing in the instant before the intercom was cut off. It surprised me a

little. One of the first things I’d learned as a bodyguard was that you don’t let the protectee know you’re

upset. Concerned is okay. But you stay calm. Emotions just get in the way, so you bury them deep.

Don’t get me wrong, you stil feel them, but they’re under control and they don’t show.

Which meant somebody upstairs wasn’t a professional. Terrific. I just love working with amateurs.

(And if you believe that, there’s this bridge …)

I cast a meaningful look at Bob, and he rol ed his eyes. We stood in silence for a few seconds. In the

end he was the one who spoke first.

“The outfit is fine. Not overdone. Sorry. I understand how compliments can be a double-edged

sword.” He paused. “So, how’s Vicki?”

I shrugged off the compliment. He’d meant wel , but … wel , it does always worry me. “Stil in the

hospital. She seems to like it there.” She did. I’d have felt trapped, but she liked the safety of it. “How’s

Vanessa?”

He flinched, and I saw a flash of pain in his eyes before he was able to hide it. “We’re divorced.” He

closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, his face was a pleasant mask. “Back on

the market again.” He smiled, but I knew him wel enough to know he didn’t mean it. “She got everything

except the clothes on my back and my weapons. That’s the main reason I took this job. I didn’t real y

like the look of the guy they sent to talk to me, but I needed the money.”

“Speaking of weapons, what have you got on you?”

He held open his jacket to show me his main gun, a Glock Safe Action 9mm in a custom leather

holster. Loops in the lining of his jacket held a pair of throwing knives. I knew they had high silver

content, and could tel from the engraving that he’d sprung for the throwing accuracy spel s. But that

was it. Which was so not like him that I was actual y taken aback. I tried to hide my surprise, but it

must’ve shown, because he answered me, his voice gruff with embarrassment.

“I had to pawn some of my stuff to pay for the ticket out.”

Wel , shit. I real y didn’t know what to say in response to that, so I kept my mouth shut. It just seemed

safer.

“Wel ? I showed you mine—” He made a gesture that was more a demand than an invitation. Which

was fair, I suppose. But I was almost embarrassed to show him. Steeling myself, I held open the jacket

and watched his eyes widen as he took inventory of my armament. “Damn, girl! And it doesn’t even

show.”

“Special tailoring and spel s on the jacket,” I admitted. “And I had the sleeves made wide enough that I

could draw my knives.” I did just that, pul ing one with a smooth, easy draw. I held it out to him hilt first.

Anybody else, I wouldn’t have shown the knives. They were a gift from Vicki and are valuable as hel .

The spel work on them is such that they rank as major magical artifacts. People have kil ed to get their

hands on that sort of thing. For me, though, they were a major part of my kit, because a single scratch

from the blade wil kil pretty much any of the monsters. I never wanted to get close enough to have to

use them, but I damned wel wanted to have them … just in case.

Bob let out a long, low whistle as he ran his hands over the polished wood handle. I was guessing he

was testing the spel work as wel but couldn’t be sure. “Damn, girl, you get the best toys.”

“Gift from Vicki,” I admitted.

He shook his head and passed the knife back with what was almost reverence. “Keep those out of

sight if you can. Don’t want to invite trouble.”

I just nodded my assent and thought about the possibility of trouble. Something about this job was

bugging me. (Other than the obvious demon thing.) It wasn’t obvious, just a pebble in your shoe kind of

thing. Bob had said he didn’t like the guy who’d interviewed him. I couldn’t say I disagreed. The guy I’d

talked to had been vague about details of the job to the point of being coy. I don’t like coy. He’d

answered my questions in ways that real y didn’t tel me much of anything. I’d come damned close to

rejecting the job.

And then there was the fact that I suspected I might have been chosen just because I was a woman,

to force Rezza into toeing his father’s progressive line.

Don’t get me wrong, there are cases when a woman is specifical y needed—you get a female client,

she needs someone who can check out the ladies’ room without problems, go into dressing rooms. But