Cat Adams - Blood Song

She sat up straighter, her face flushing, her breath speeding up. I noted the pulse on her neck without

meaning to but was able to tear my gaze away before she noticed. “Do you think we’re in danger?”

“Honestly, I don’t know. It would help if I had a clue what was going on, but I just don’t.” I gave her a

slow smile. “But I intend to find out.”

She shivered. “You scare me sometimes, you know that?”

“It’s the fangs.”

“No,” she said firmly, “it’s not.”

I didn’t know how to answer that, so I changed the subject. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?” I

asked as I opened the box and forked over the cash, which was actual y three hundred. Yay. “I know

it’s a bother.”

She glared up at me from the pen and Post-it note she was using to make a list. “Don’t be an ass,”

she scolded. “I wouldn’t have offered if I didn’t want to help. I’l lock the door behind me on the way out

and you should have the whole place to yourself until I get back. Ron and the others aren’t exactly

known for getting here early, and Bubba just left.” She took the cash from my hand, tucking it into the

pocket of her suit jacket along with the note and pen.

I put the cash box and duffel into the safe, then closed it and put up the wards. I was going to be down

the hal for a bit, and I do not leave weapons unattended. Ever.

“Thanks, Dawna. Real y.”

“No problema.”

I grinned. It was her standard answer to everything—unless she was annoyed. Irritate her and she

got al formal, with a “yes, ma’am ” or “no, sir. ” In five years, I’ve only earned two “ma’ams.” Ron, on the

other hand, gets about half a dozen “sirs” a day and doesn’t even catch the sarcasm.

Some people are just so dense.

I limped out of the office and down the hal to the bathroom. Hitting the light, I took a look around.

It’s a fairly good-sized room. Not big by modern standards, it would’ve been considered positively

luxurious back when the house was built. In those days, the standard was to have one bath for an

entire house. But this building had started life as a mansion. Along with real parquet floors and an

honest-to-God stained-glass window on the landing between the first and second floors, it had been

built with a bathroom on every floor. The original tub had probably been a big old claw-footed

monstrosity, but somewhere around the sixties an ambitious owner had decided to do an update of the

bathrooms. There was a shower, with ceramic tile squares and a matching oversized tub in flamingo

pink. They exactly matched the pedestal sink and toilet. The wal paper was candy-cane striped in pink,

silver, black, and white. It was loud but undeniably eye-catching. A plain white shower curtain hung on

the metal rod, the only plain thing in the room.

I rummaged around in the built-in linen closet and the medicine chest, lining up toiletries on the edge

of the tub. Nobody in the building used the showers much, but the plumbing worked just fine, and I

always kept supplies on hand, just in case.

I decided to brush my teeth first.

I glanced into the mirror as I squeezed toothpaste onto the brush. Good news, I had a reflection; bad

news, I looked like crap. My skin was normal y pale, but not like this. There was an inch-long gash

healing on my right cheek and nasty green and purple bruising along my jaw, none of which I

remembered getting. They had to have come from this morning’s scuffle, but they looked days old. My

hair was a wreck, standing out in al directions, decorated with leaves and twigs. Jeez. No wonder

Dawna had stared.

My T-shirt had started out white but was now liberal y decorated with blood-and grass stains, and it

was real y too thin to wear in public. Only my plaid flannel boxers seemed to have survived the attack

unscathed.

But it was the weariness and strain around the eyes that was the most tel ing. It had been a hard

couple of days, and that was taking its tol . My body might be healing better than the average human

—not as wel as a vampire, but then, who did? But the healing, while welcome, couldn’t erase the signs

of exhaustion and pain that had nothing to do with physical damage. I had dark bags under my eyes

that looked like I’d been punched … repeatedly.

I looked down at the toothbrush, trying to escape my reflection, and was trying to master the

specialized technique of brushing fangs when I heard a commotion downstairs.

“Dawna? Dawna!!” Ron’s bass bel ow carried easily up the stairs. “Don’t worry. Our receptionist is

here somewhere.”

Of course . Of al the days for Ron to meet clients early. I stepped out of the bathroom, intending to

yel down that she’d be right back, but he was talking to someone, using a tone that was ever so

accommodating. I knew it must be a big client to earn that level of brownnosing. Mere mortals were

never treated so wel .

“You can have a seat in the lobby if you like. I can get you some coffee.”

“No, thank you.”

I recognized that voice. Hel , anyone who’d been to the movies in the past decade would recognize

that voice. It was Cassandra Meadows, star of stage and screen, “America’s Darling,” and … Vicki’s

mother.

I stepped back into the bathroom, looked up, and addressed my reflection. Well, fuck a duck. Spitting

out the toothpaste, I slid the brush into the little chrome holder mounted on the wal and grabbed rather

desperately for a comb.

It wasn’t that I expected to make myself look good. Only God does miracles. Hel , in Cassandra’s

company I’d look like a toad no matter what I did. But there’s a certain tension between most attractive

women. If I went out looking like this, I’d lose points and she’d use it to her advantage. I couldn’t do a

damned thing about the clothes. But my hair would be combed, my face clean, and my breath, by God,

would be minty fresh.

“Where are Ms. Graves’s offices?”

“She takes up most of the third floor. You can’t miss it.” I could hear the puzzlement in his voice, could

almost imagine him looking at the very beefy professional bodyguards she always had with her and

wondering why on earth she’d want to hire me.

She wouldn’t. Cassandra and Jason were an industry unto themselves. They earned salaries in the

multiple mil ions for every picture even before the points and incentives; their income rivaled the

economies of some smal countries. They hired a team of security experts—one of the best teams,

actual y. Mil er & Creede were top-notch. Most of their staff were former military or government

operatives. Al of them had magical or psychic ability of one sort or another, and Mil er & Creede

required ongoing certification and continuing education. To hire on with them you had to be the best. I’d

never applied. First, I wouldn’t have met the magical/psychic requirements. More important, I didn’t

have the right attitude. The staff at M&C work as a team. They are used to fol owing orders without

question, complaint, or comment. I wouldn’t last a week. Hel , I probably wouldn’t last a day.

I heard footsteps on the stairs. Two men in dress shoes fol owed by a woman in heels, then, much

more softly, a third man. I could smel gun oil and expensive perfume, feel the frisson of magical power

moving ahead of them, scanning for threats. Damn, they were good.