Cat Adams - Blood Song

“Why aren’t you?”

“Because”—she looked around her—“because of this office. Because looking at you right now, I find

that I can’t .” She sounded exasperated, frustrated. “My husband told me you weren’t using Vicki, that

you never had. He said that you were the one who saved her from the fire, that you visited her several

times a week at the hospital, that you cared. ”

Unexpected sorrow lanced through me. “Yeah. I do … did.”

A single glittering tear tracked down her perfect cheek. She sat up straighter in the chair and

uncrossed her legs. “I’m told that Vicki told you her wishes with regard to her funeral arrangements?”

I chuckled. I couldn’t help it. Yes, she’d told me—and Alex and Dawna, after we’d finished our second

pitcher of margaritas at the little Mexican restaurant not a block from here. Fortunately, I stil had the

cocktail napkin I’d made Vicki write it al down on. Just a little square of paper covered in tiny, smudged

handwriting. I’d filed it in the same folder with the receipt for my pre-paid arrangements because Vicki

had made me promise not to lose it.

“What’s funny?”

“Just remembering.” It had been a good night, one of the best, with good friends, good food, and bad

karaoke. I scooted the chair back from my desk and got up. It was the work of a moment to find the file.

I pul ed out the cocktail napkin.

Cassandra laughed, then gave a startled, guilty look as if it was too soon. She was grieving, and

nothing should be funny.

“I’l go downstairs and make you a copy.”

“You’re going to keep the original.” She stated it as a fact.

I nodded. She was right. It was sil y and sentimental, but I’d do it. Because every time I ran across

that little piece of paper it would remind me of that night and the fun we’d had. I wanted to be reminded.

Because in the press of day-to-day life it was too easy to get caught up in the bad things, let the smal

joys slip away.

“You’re sentimental. I wouldn’t have expected that.”

I shrugged, my hand on the doorknob. “You don’t know me.”

Her eyes seemed to dim, the last of the humor draining away, leaving sorrow in its wake. “No. I don’t.”

I wasn’t sure what to say to that. She could’ve gotten to know me at any time over the past several

years—if she’d cared enough to bother. She hadn’t. Any more than she’d bothered visiting her

daughter at Birchwoods. Saying that, however, would be cruel. I try not to be cruel—unless I’m real y,

seriously provoked. “You’l need to talk to her attorney about the funeral arrangements. He already has

a copy of this and is probably getting started. I think she made him the executor.” That was so

obviously a slap at both of her parents that al Cassandra could do was open her mouth in shock. I

used the excuse of someone coming in the front door to duck out the door before she could say

anything unfortunate.

I ran into Dawna in the hal . She was back from her errands. Her face was flushed with anger, her

eyes flashing. She had several shopping bags hooked over her wrist. “If I throttle that bastard, wil you

help me to hide the body?”

“Dawna!” Ron bel owed. I watched her eyes narrow, saw her take a deep breath as if to answer.

I took the packages from her hands. “I’l deal with him,” I interrupted before she could say something

she’d regret. Ron was being a jerk, but she needed the job. And if he pushed, he could probably get the

others to agree to fire her even if I fought it. “Can you make me a couple of copies of this?”

She took the cocktail napkin curiously, opening it ful y to make sure there was writing only on the one

side. “No problema.” She went down a few steps and stopped. Turning to look over her shoulder, she

grinned at me. “But if you kick his ass, I get to watch.”

I laughed and fol owed slowly behind her down as far as the second floor. My knee was stil twinging.

She peeled off toward the copy room. I continued down to the landing. Ron was taking a deep breath to

shout again when I came down those last few steps. I stopped one step up from him. It was close

enough to invade his personal space and high enough to put me at exactly eye level. I smiled and

started speaking to him, keeping my voice, soft, gentle, and al the more scary for it.

“Ronald, what time is it?”

He didn’t bother to look at me. That’s not unusual for him. I sometimes think he doesn’t actual y see

anybody else. Ron’s world revolves around Ron. He stepped back, intending to walk around me. I

stepped forward, taking back the space he’d just given himself. “I asked, ‘What time is it?’”

He puffed himself up, taking in as much air as his chest would al ow, trying to loom over me. He

expected me to back down. Nearly everyone does. He’s not a smal man, and he’s loud and obnoxious.

Most people don’t want to antagonize him. They seem to sense that he lives to dominate others. But

I’m not most people. I’d had a really rough couple of days. And I was wel and truly tired of Ron’s

bul shit.

“Eight fifteen. Why?” He spit the words at me like a curse, and started to lean around me, drawing in

another huge lungful of air, preparatory to screaming.

I stepped directly in front of him. “Dawna’s hours are nine to five. It’s not nine. She’s not on duty.”

He opened his mouth to argue, but I silenced him with a look and a gesture upward, reminding him

that we had important clients on site. “Bel owing like that does not make you look important, Ron. It

makes you look like an ass. Hogging the facilities and the secretary’s time does not make you more

important than the rest of the tenants, who pay just as much for the privilege as you do. It makes you a

selfish, obnoxious prick.” I hadn’t raised my voice once. In fact, my tone was gentle enough to be

conversational. But that didn’t fool him. Because I wasn’t backing down. My body language was

aggressive. And my skin had, yet again, started to glow. He flinched, taking a half step back. This time I

let him keep it.

“I have had two attempts made on my life in as many days. I am tired and out of patience. As a

personal favor to me, Dawna went on her own time to the store so that I would not have to meet with

potential clients looking like this. Unfortunately, the clients arrived early. But you wil not berate her for

not being here at your beck and cal . You wil not, in fact, berate her for anything.”

“Is that a threat?” he blustered, but I could smel the fear on him. Fortunately, I’d already eaten. My

stomach didn’t even rumble.

“Ronald.” I smiled, making sure to flash plenty of fang. “If I decide to threaten you, you’l know it. In the

meantime let’s just cal this a friendly sssuggestion. ” The lisp was back, but oddly, I didn’t mind. Not

even a little.

And that was when he final y took a good look at me. He backed away, his eyes huge at the sight of

the fangs. But despite his obvious fear, he continued to bluster. “How dare you!”

I was saved a response. The front door opened and Bubba stepped in with my mother at his heels.

Right behind them were Kevin Landingham and Bruno DeLuca.

For a ful ten seconds the world stopped. I swear. Right on its axis. I stood there, staring at Bruno, the