Cat Adams - Blood Song

back during the seventh-inning stretch.”

Gibson laughed as he pul ed the car into one of the last few vacant spots. “You know him pretty wel .”

“We were together through most of col ege.” I didn’t quite manage to keep the wistfulness from my

voice.

“Sorry.”

“Don’t be. It’s things like today that made me so crazy. If he’d just pick up the damned phone . But

nope. He’s too hardheaded.”

“And I bet it’s things like today that made him crazy, too. Knowing that you’re going off into danger and

there’s nothing he can do about it.”

I managed not to flinch, but ouch. That was a little too close to the mark. I climbed out of the car so

that I wouldn’t have to answer. Not that Gibson didn’t notice. Stil , he didn’t press. I was glad. I didn’t

want to think about Bruno. I didn’t need the distraction.

We moved across the parking lot with the rest of the herd, making our way past the huge “A” with its

lit display. Peppered throughout the crowd were plenty of uniformed security and warrior priests of the

various militant religious orders in ful regalia and armament. Even from this distance the noise of the

crowd beat against my sensitive hearing. Competing scents vied for my attention. Unwashed bodies,

cologne, buttered popcorn, hot dogs, and beer were the most prevalent, but by no means the only,

smel s floating in the air.

The announcer was doing the usual pregame nonsense that most of the spectators were happy to

ignore. The first pitch was set for 8:00 EDT. It wouldn’t be too much longer before they announced the

starting lineups and played the national anthem.

Ivan was waiting right where he was supposed to be. He stood there, unmovable as a mountain,

dressed in jeans and a polo shirt under a Cubs jacket. The clothes were supposed to help him blend in

with the crowd but didn’t. For one thing, they were pressed. His jeans had a crease. And then there

was his posture. The regular fans were excited but relaxed. He wasn’t. He held himself in absolute

readiness, his eyes constantly moving, taking in everything. I wondered if I looked like that when I was

on duty, and figured yeah, I probably did.

I paused, letting Gibson take the lead. I took off my sunglasses, turned slightly, and, pretending to

clean them, took a good look at old Ivan in the mirrored surface. He passed test one. He wasn’t an

il usion.

Sliding the glasses back on, I reached my right hand into my pocket, pressing it against the little

sponge until I felt wetness on my palm. Test two was something Matty had suggested when I cal ed the

hospital. Spawn and demons can change form until they look just like the real thing. But that uses

demonic magic—which can be shorted out by the judicious use of holy items. If Ivan was a spawn this

little dab of water wouldn’t make him change back, but it would sting like hel (literal y) and give me a

glimpse of his true form.

I walked up to Ivan, my arm extended in the classic “shake hands” gesture. I could tel he hated it. But

there were witnesses, and refusing would be obvious. So he grimly shook my extended hand as quickly

as he could manage, discreetly drying his damp palm on the leg of his jeans when he thought I wasn’t

looking. “Fol ow me.”

He led us to the gates and into a line that was rapidly thinning as game time approached. One at a

time we passed through curse and then metal detectors, pausing briefly as the security agent admired

my little gadget. Then we were off, moving briskly through dim, wide hal s lined with vendors and shops.

Ivan was setting a quick pace, but we didn’t seem out of place. The announcer was reading off the

lineups. Almost everybody was hurrying, hoping not to miss the first pitch.

I stopped when I saw something … odd. In the corner of my vision I saw a pair of spectators heading

toward the elevators. The woman looked vaguely familiar, like I’d seen her before, and recently. The

drunken companion she was helping walk looked, to my eyes, like a petite blond woman. But the

reflection in my glasses was of a dark-haired young man, looking il and only semiconscious.

I did a double take and the woman noticed. She glared at me as she stabbed her finger against the

elevator button, and I recognized her from the expression. It was the guard … Lydia. The woman from

Birchwoods on Vicki’s birthday. And that … oh, crap, that was the younger prince, Kristoff, Rezza’s little

brother. I shouted a warning to Ivan and took off at a dead run.

The elevator dinged and Lydia shoved Kristoff in ahead of her, moving before the doors were even

completely open. I was close enough to see her jabbing at the button panel when the doors slid closed

in my face.

Shit, shit, shit!

Ivan and Gibson slid to a stop next to me as I watched the lights on the elevator winking to a stop at

every floor.

“She’s got Kristoff. The guy with your people is a fake.”

“We don’t know that. This one could be the fake. Or you could be lying to distract us.”

Paranoia, thy name is bodyguard. “ Fine, have your people spray him with holy water. If it’s him, he’l

be annoyed but fine.”

Ivan’s expression grew distracted and I knew he was talking mind to mind. A telepath then. No wonder

he hadn’t bothered to check out Gibson and me the way I had him. He could look in our minds and see

who we were.

Then he could also see that I was serious. And I hoped he’d understand what I was about to do.

I went dashing down the nearest stairs, taking them three at a time, dodging last-minute arrivals.

Gibson was at my heels. “I hope you know what you’re doing,” he gasped out.

I heard Ivan’s voice inside my head. They have unmasked and are detaining the impostor. We are

to pursue while our mage attempts a tracking spell. Sounded like a plan to me. But just in case they’d

taken precautions against things like tracking spel s and telepaths, I needed to think.

Kristoff wasn’t big, but he was practical y deadweight. Lydia—or whatever her name was—wouldn’t

want to lug him far, not alone. And they’d need a vehicle to transport him in. Probably a van or a

camper, so that he’d be out of sight in case he tried to raise a fuss. Not that he’d seemed coherent

enough to do so. But they’d want to be careful.

A catering truck? Nah. They’d be long gone by now, their work completed. As the soaring notes of the

national anthem began to play for the crowd and the television audience, a new thought occurred to

me. The press area. There’d be plenty of vans and trucks to choose from. It would be close to the

stadium, too. Unfortunately, I hadn’t had time to do any research. I had no idea where the news vans

would be. In the distance I heard the voice on the P.A. system order everyone to rise.

Good thought. I will find out.

It didn’t take Ivan long. Seconds later he was giving me directions. It wasn’t far. Just around the next

corner.

Gibson and I took the corner at a sprint. He looked like death, but he kept up, just a step or two to my

left. He gave a cry that was more a cough than a shout, and I saw them.

They were a third of the way across the crowded lot, heading toward a white van with the Channel 9

logo emblazoned on it in bold red letters. Erikson crouched inside the open doorway. He cal ed out a