Blood Song (Blood Singer #1)

Blood Song (Blood Singer #1) Page 14

Gibson’s jaw clenched, and I watched a slow flush creep up his neck. He kept it under control, but I could feel the rage beating off of him like heat from a furnace. “In less than two minutes, the bodies in the alley began to disintegrate, along with every other thing that had ever, at one time, been a living thing, up to and including the cotton of Watson’s shirt and the arm beneath it.”

Gibson’s eyes locked with mine and I couldn’t look away. His gaze compelled me to face him, face what he said next head-on. No hiding. No flinching. “It started at his fingertips and worked its way up, his arm disintegrating into powder-fine dust while he watched. It would have kept going if Conner hadn’t thought to run back to the car for the vampire kit and the axe—” His jaw clenched, and the words cut off, choked off by his rage. He worked to steady his harsh breathing. It took a couple of minutes, but I waited silently. There was nothing to say. Just the thought of it was horrifying. I felt my stomach roll with revulsion that had nothing to do with the smell of his illness. “The Internal Affairs officer threw up watching the dashboard cam video. They brought in a priest to bless him and doused the tape with holy water—in case watching it activated another spell.” Gibson paused again. “Watson and Conner are still alive. The doctors think they can magically alter their memories enough to let them out of the psych ward in a few weeks and send them home.”

Gibson’s eyes bored into me like lasers. “I want the bastards who did this. The priests can deal with the demons, but somebody human had to summon them—has to be working with them. I won’t do anything that will risk a slick lawyer getting them off. But I want them.”

I agreed wholeheartedly. The best part was, I must have been gone by then. Even if I recovered the rest of my memories, I wouldn’t have to remember seeing one cop cut off another’s arm with an axe. I even had an idea of how to get started on the right track. “Detective Gibson, my best friend is a level-nine clairvoyant. What say we pay her a visit?”

He shook his head. Alex must have suggested the same thing. “No dice. Vicki Cooper is an inpatient at a mental facility. Anything she got would be dismissed out of hand as being tainted.”

Shit. He was right. Which sucked, because she was the best and I trusted her implicitly.

“So what do you suggest?”

“Not what, Ms. Graves. Who.”

7

Dorothy simmons was a sweet-looking little old lady with fluffy white hair and a round face. She met us at the door of one of a collection of tiny red-brick duplexes that formed the government-subsidized housing for the elderly in our fair city. She was wearing a lavender velour track suit with a white tank top and the kind of heavy sensible white shoes you see advertised in magazines for nurses and other folks who spend most of their time on their feet. At her invitation we followed her inside, moving slowly as she shuffled along using one of those aluminum walkers with bright green tennis balls attached to the front feet for traction.

We’d come here because Mrs. Simmons didn’t have a history of mental instability. I was going to be paying her fifty dollars, because she was on a fixed income and needed the money. Seemed like a small enough price to pay if she could help me out.

At Gibson’s suggestion I’d hung back a bit, in the shadows cast by a trellis of pink climbing roses. He wanted to make sure my appearance didn’t startle her. After my experiences earlier, I didn’t blame him.

“Dottie, I have someone with me who was attacked last night. She’s a victim, and I swear to you she is not a danger to you.”

“Don’t be silly, Karl, I know you’d never put me at risk. Miss … come on in. There’s no need to be skulking around in the shadows.”

“Yes, ma’am. If you say so.” I tried to show my appreciation with a smile. I shouldn’t have. It flashed the fangs. She stepped back so abruptly she nearly fell, her face as white as a sheet, her blue eyes as wide as saucers.

“Dottie … Dot, it’s all right,” Gibson assured her. “Celia was ambushed last night. She was rescued before the process went too far, but we need your help to know exactly what went on in that alley. We need to catch the bat that did this to her.”

“Oh, my.” Dottie put her hand to her chest, her breath coming in short gasps. It took a couple of moments before she calmed enough to speak. “I’m so sorry, dear, but you did give me a turn.” She shook her head. “So silly. I know better. A vampire couldn’t be out this time of day. Still …” She shook her head again. “It is a shock. You poor thing. You’ll be facing a hard time, I bet, with people reacting before they think, just like I did. How are you feeling?”

I shrugged. “Physically, I’m recovering. Mentally, I don’t remember much and am still pretty much in denial.” I made my voice as soothing as I could. “I know it’s going to catch up with me eventually. But right now, I’ve got to find out what happened, before the bat that attacked me comes back to finish the job.”

Again her eyes went wide, as she realized what I meant. “Oh dear. We can’t have that. Absolutely not.” Dottie appeared flustered. “No, of course not. Come in, come in. Have a seat on the couch while I go get my supplies. I won’t be a minute.”

Well, didn’t I just feel like a heel, scaring the crap out of a nice little old lady. Not that I could help it. But still … I could only hope my gran didn’t react the same way next time she saw me. She’d already had one heart attack. A bad enough shock might actually kill her.

I fidgeted on the overstuffed sofa and looked around to waste some time. It was a nice apartment. A little excessive, what with all the knickknacks, floral patterns, and doilies, but nice. The entire place smelled of air freshener and there wasn’t a trace of dust on any of the ceramic and pewter statues, cups, and collector plates that filled the shelves attached to the wall: kittens and cats mostly, in all sorts of poses. Painted kittens romped around the base of the lamp sitting on the end table. But there wasn’t a real cat in sight or any evidence of one. Then again, this was government housing. They probably had a “no pets” clause. Pity. She seemed like she would be good with pets.

Dottie reappeared in short order. A tray was hooked to the front of her walker. Balanced on the tray was an elaborately etched crystal bowl with a silver rim and a plastic half-gallon jug of One Shot brand holy water. With every step she took, the bowl clanked against the metal walker leg and the jug rocked back and forth.

I started to rise to help her, but Gibson beat me to it. He grabbed the bowl with both hands, moving it gently to the top of the coffee table. Next he took the bottle of holy water, uncorked it, and began pouring it into the bowl as Dottie carefully lowered herself into a worn but fluffy recliner.

“Do you have anything that was with you when you were attacked?” she asked. “It can be anything small enough to fit in the bowl. Rings, car keys—” She left the sentence unfinished because I’d already started nodding. My clothes might be trashed. My keys hadn’t been with me. But there were little garnet studs in my ears. Since I woke up with them, I must have been wearing them last night. Best of all, they were set in silver, which should make them even better for the purpose.

I reached up to take them from my ears as she placed one frail hand on each side of the bowl and began muttering a soft chant that I recognized as a basic focusing exercise. I dropped the earrings into the center of the bowl without being told.

Concentric circles of water raced toward the edge of the bowl. When they hit the glass, flames erupted, racing around the silver rim. Smoke gathered above the water’s surface to form a black-and-white image of a sleazy bar. I watched myself from above, looking simultaneously bored and disgusted by the lewd scene just over my shoulder. There were too many nude, sweaty limbs and groping hands for my taste. I was keeping an eye on the prince—whom I recognized from the file in my car—and apparently I wasn’t liking it. There are some things it’s better not to remember. Then a pair of men rushed into the room and the situation took on an urgent feel. We raced out into a darkened alley. The image was so detailed that I could make out individual bricks and the long scaly tails of the rats feasting on a pile of garbage. I could actually hear their chittering and squeaks, along with the distant sounds of the city.

Vicki uses a mirror as her focus. It’s impressive. But this was just … cool. I watched, mesmerized, as shadows shifted, then solidified to reveal vampires lying in wait. I held my breath as a rectangle of white light appeared as the back door of the building opened. The miniature image of Bob Johnson stepped into the alley with me following a few steps behind him.

Bob was there? But he’s based out of New York now. What the hell? I shook my head, forcing myself to concentrate on what I was seeing. I watched myself look both ways down the alley.

One of the rats bolted, and I saw myself turn, my gun tracking its movement. The vampires struck.

As the fight played out in front of me in miniature, visceral flashes of memory hit me like punches to the gut—the smell of cordite mixed with the heavy scent of blood overwhelming the stench of the alley, the pounding of my heart as I dragged Bob toward the light and safety, only to have the escape route cut off behind us by the … thing pretending to be the crown prince.

Sweat beaded my forehead. Panting, I felt myself struggling as they ripped off my jacket to get at wrists and throat, felt arms like iron bands pinning me to the ground as sharp canines tore into my upper thigh. Though I knew I was sitting, safe and sound, on Dottie’s comfortable sofa, I couldn’t escape the sensations.

I heard myself screaming, a sound of hopelessness and rage, and though a part of me knew that Dottie had cut off the spell, I remained trapped in the memory. In my mind I saw a dark-haired vampire raise his head from my upper thigh, my blood smeared across his face, dripping from the silly little soul patch on his chin as he began chanting in a language I didn’t know. Magic rose in a wave. I couldn’t breathe, and I felt myself weakening as blood pumped from my wounds.