Cat Adams - Blood Song

half-over. Thus far there had been no signs of assassins, demons, or real y much of anything. Good.

Even better, I’d managed to stay professional. That had been harder than I’d thought. The prince was

impeccably bred, ridiculously wealthy scum. I hadn’t quite been reduced to counting the minutes til I

could be away from him, but I was coming close.

We were settled in at our fourth “strip club.” I’d thought we’d reached the bottom of the barrel hours

ago. I’d been overly optimistic. Apparently things can always get worse. Even the dim lighting couldn’t

disguise that the place was filthy. The “dancers” had a desperation about them, the kind of fear you

could almost smel in the air. Their bodies were scrawny, except for one or two who’d invested in the

kind of plastic surgery that made Dol y Parton’s figure seem positively understated. None of them could

afford even the cheapest beauty charms to enhance their looks magical y, so al they had to work with

was their own assets, and most of them had been living hard for too long. They looked rough.

The theme of this place had something to do with “pussycats.” I was able to deduce this not only

because of the sign out front but also because the dancers wore cat ear headbands. The headbands

were nearly their entire costumes, along with G-strings and jewelry. The G-strings were a formality so

that liquor could be served. Pay enough for one of the private rooms and they could disappear just like

magic. Il egal as hel , of course, but I suppose that was the point. The prince was slumming, and he

seemed to be working at finding the skankiest spots in the area. Doing a damned fine job of it, too.

Honestly, were I him, I’d be worried about catching something antibiotic-resistant. Of course he was

too far gone to think of that sort of thing. He’d been imbibing various substances to excess since

before I came on shift and was blasted out of his frigging mind. Woe to his people if he wound up their

king.

I’d thought hiring me had been for publicity. But we hadn’t gone anywhere he was likely to meet

paparazzi. So maybe I actual y had been hired on the strength of my reputation. Whatever. If the

opportunity came up to work for him again, I’d be saying no.

Bob was the only other guard who showed me any kind of respect. The other two just ignored me. I

could live with that, so long as they did their jobs. Unfortunately, only one was. So, three of us stood

alert for danger, ignoring what was going on behind us. Bob was to my right. Beyond him was the

biggest, blackest man I’d ever seen, with skin like polished ebony. He was built like a refrigerator—an

oversized, industrial-style refrigerator. Huge and square as he was, you would’ve expected him to be

slow. Instead, he could move with the sudden grace of a hunting cat. I’d seen it when one of the

bouncers made a wrong move. Blinding speed and utter ruthlessness.

I didn’t know his name. We’d finish tonight’s job and I’d never see him again. Wouldn’t break my

heart, either.

The fourth “guard” was practical y useless. At the prince’s demand he was taking pictures with an

expensive digital camera. He was young, and green enough that he’d acceded to the prince’s wishes.

Stupid. If anything went wrong, he’d be shit out of luck. The rest of us insisted on actual y doing our job.

At least as wel as we could under the circumstances.

An attorney once told me that my business contract had more restrictive clauses than some major

motion picture deals. I told him I’d learned from past experience.

If His Royal Highness died of a self-induced overdose, I wasn’t liable. If he caught AIDS, herpes, or

anything else, I wasn’t liable. I protected him from violence. Period. End of story. My own morals would

probably require me to haul his ass to the hospital if his stupidity made it necessary, but I didn’t expect

it to happen. He could function even after some pretty unique drug cocktails, so he must have years of

self-abuse under his belt.

I heard something behind the door to the main room. Almost in a single movement the three of us

turned to face the possible threat. Bob shifted his weight, his hand hovering near the butt of his

weapon.

The manager of the club stepped through the door with a bouncer at his heels. They came through at

warp speed, slamming the door behind them with a level of control ed panic that made my neck hairs

rise. The manager was a smal man but tough looking. He had tiny, shrewd eyes and a sharp nose. But

by far the most notable thing about him was his scars. A group of them ran from a mangled left ear

down to and across his neck. It looked as if someone had tried to slit his throat with a beer bottle or

claws.

He slid home the bolts and turned to face us. He didn’t look alarmed or afraid, more pissed. At his

nod the bouncer crossed the room to a second door and started to use keys on a number of locks. I

assumed the door led outside.

“The cops are out front.” The manager sounded disgusted. “It’s a raid. You’ve got to get out of here.”

A couple of the girls shrieked and I saw the flash of naked flesh in my peripheral vision as they

scurried out from the pile of bodies to start dragging on the nearest discarded undies.

“I have diplomatic immunity.” The prince’s words were slurred, but there was no mistaking his

condescending tone.

It occurred to me that the purpose of having a double had been to give the prince discretion

—discretion that would be ruined if he got caught, immunity or no, but maybe he was just too

stoned/drunk to care.

The manager was unimpressed. “Wel , I don’t, asshole. And I don’t need the kind of media attention

that wil come with you being caught here,” he snarled, “so get the fuck out.” He pointed at the door.

The bouncer opened it on cue. A dim beam of yel ow light overhead revealed a narrow, filthy al ey. A

strong wind blew through the door, hard and cold. The stench it brought with it was horrific, even at this

distance.

His Highness shrugged and seemed bored, as though this was a frequent occurrence. “Oh, very

wel .” I saw him pul ing together his clothing with uncoordinated movements. His eyes were unfocused,

but his speech wasn’t too bad. “You, and you—” He waved in the general direction of Bob and me.

“Take the lead. We’l fol ow.”

Someone had to take point. I would’ve done it, but Bob moved into place ahead of me. He brushed

past the bouncer, deliberately giving the larger man a little shove on the way. The bouncer growled but

didn’t start anything. Probably a smart move, as Bob had pul ed and worked the slide on his nine and

was holding it with the kind of confidence that didn’t bode wel for anyone who posed a threat.

I moved two steps behind Bob. I’d pul ed my gun as wel , a 1911 Colt. There are other 1911s, but

they’re clones. The Colt is the classic design that was military issue in WW I and is hard to improve on.

Other people have argued with me about modifying the barrel, but I like it just the way it is. It’s my

favorite gun, and completely reliable. It fits my hand wel and has plenty of stopping power. If I shoot

something, I want it to stay down long enough for me to stake or behead it. With that in mind, I keep my

gun loaded with silver-plated bul ets.

There were three steps leading down from the back door. To the immediate left was a Dumpster. Up