Blood Song (Blood Singer #1)

Blood Song (Blood Singer #1) Page 17

“Is there a problem?”

“The safe doesn’t recognize me.” I kept my voice pleasant, but I was swearing inwardly. This was bad. Really bad.

“How long before the wards wind down?” He said it as though he figured it would be a matter of hours. Little did he know.

“Probably a decade or so.”

He stared at me with wide eyes. It probably took a full minute before he gathered his wits enough to say, “Isn’t that a bit excessive?”

I turned, my eyes locking with his for a long moment. “There’s no point in having a safe if it doesn’t keep things safe.”

He shook his head, obviously both annoyed and amused.

Glad he could find something funny about it. I didn’t. Most of my weapons, and all of my computer files, were locked behind those wards. It had never occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to get to them. Crap.

I turned back to the desk and picked up the phone with my right hand as I thumbed through my old-fashioned Rolodex with my left.

I found the number quickly enough and was pleased when the tech support rep picked up on the third ring—without routing me through an annoying voice-mail system.

“Moore Lock and Safe, Justin here.”

I blinked a couple times in surprise. Justin is the owner, and the man who most often comes by to refresh the warding. I couldn’t imagine what was going on that he’d be stuck manning the phones.

“Justin, it’s Celia. We have a problem.” I settled into my desk chair as I explained to him what the safe was … or, more accurately, wasn’t doing.

“Any chance you’re preggers?” he asked. “That kind of a heavy-duty biological change can play havoc with the system.”

I stared at the phone for a long moment in silence. I couldn’t be. No. Not possible. But the question itself was unexpected. It would never have occurred to me that sort of thing could be a problem. I mean, yeah, you’re carrying a baby, but you’re still you.

I’d been quiet too long. He let out a soft chuckle that managed to mix wry amusement with sympathy. “Sorry or congratulations, whichever applies.”

“No, it’s not that.” I shook my head, even though he couldn’t see it. “I mean, I’m not. But I got attacked by a bat last night, and he tried to change me.”

The humor evaporated immediately, replaced by a flattering level of concern. “Oh, crap. Are you all right?”

“Apparently the safe doesn’t think so.” I tried to make it a joke, but I couldn’t quite pull it off. There was just the hint of a tremolo in my voice. I plowed on anyway, hoping he wouldn’t notice. “Any ideas as to how we can fix this?” Gibson was probably listening, but he didn’t make a big deal out of it. He opened the door to the balcony and stepped out, then leaned against the railing and basked. Bright sunshine illuminated the harsh contours of his face.

“Well … um … wow,” he muttered under his breath while he thought and I drummed my fingers impatiently on the desktop. “Theoretically the same procedure should work. I mean, I’ve never tried it, but the principle is sound.” He sighed. “And let’s hope it does, because if not you are so screwed.”

“What do I do?”

“We need samples with your DNA from before you changed. Hair, fingernail clippings, something like that.”

“I can get some hair from my brush in the bathroom.”

“Good. Once you’ve got it, hit the reset button, do the voice recognition and the palm print, then say, ‘Pregnancy override.’ Two small drawers will open up beneath the palm reader. Drop the hairs in the left one. The right one has a sharp point in it. Jab your finger on it until it draws blood.”

Ow.

“The drawers will close, and the machine will start cross-matching the DNA between the two samples. It’ll take about twenty-four hours. When it finishes, if you’re cleared, you’ll get the green light and it will have reset to the ‘new you.’”

“And if it doesn’t?”

A long pause. “Call me back.”

“Right.”

He hung up without saying good-bye—probably to go find and study the tech manuals. I went down the hall to the bathroom I share with the guys from the bail-bonding company and retrieved my hairbrush. I followed Justin’s directions carefully, with Gibson in fascinated attendance.

“Think it’ll work?” he asked.

I sighed and steeled myself before stabbing myself on the finger prick. “Ow. It’s never a good thing when the tech guys start saying things like ‘theoretically’ and ‘in principle.’”

Gibson winced, but whether it was in sympathy or frustration at the fact that all my records were just out of reach I couldn’t be sure.

“Even if it does, it’s going to be twenty-four hours before I can give you any more information.”

He put both hands on the back of the guest chair, leaning his weight on them. “You don’t have anything that’s not in the safe? Written notes? Message slips?”

I shook my head. “Not really. Everything’s on the computer …” I wound up leaving the sentence dangling as my mind wandered. “Except … I remember the name and address of the place where I reported for duty. I can take you there.”

He shook his head. “No way, Graves. This situation is a political nightmare, a freaking diplomatic ‘incident’ just waiting to happen. You’re going to give me the name and address of the building and anything else you can remember about how you were hired, and then you’re going to stay the hell away from that part of it. It’s going to be hard enough finding out whether the prince you were guarding was the real deal or a body double and what happened. The State Department is going to have a fit, and they’re going to want in. They’re also going to want you out of it except as a witness.”

“But—,” I started to protest.

“I’ll keep you advised. But stay away from it. Trust me, you’ll have enough on your plate, dealing with the vampire end of things.” He was probably right. That didn’t mean I had to like it. I scowled at him but gave him the information without further argument.

Gibson reached into his pocket, withdrew a notebook and a silver Cross pen, and scribbled down the address of the hotel.

“I’ll head right over. In the meantime, thank you for your cooperation. If you think of anything else before I get back”—he reached into the breast pocket of his suit for a business card—“give me a call. Otherwise, I’ll meet you back here, this time tomorrow.”

Crap. He was going to leave me stuck here without my car. I mean, yeah, he was in the middle of an important investigation and it was only a couple of blocks, but I had that whole sunlight allergy thing to consider. “Right.”

He stopped so abruptly I wondered if he’d heard my thought. “Do you need me to take you back to your car?”

I could tell from the way he said it, he was hoping I’d say no. He was just that anxious to get on with the investigation.

“I can give her a lift.” Dawna appeared in the hall, carrying a tray with coffee and creamers.

“Thanks.” He took a Styrofoam cup from the tray and took a long pull. “I appreciate that.” He took one more drink, then set the cup on the tray and started down the stairs.

“No problema.” She gave him a smile that could’ve lit the entire West Coast.

She watched him for a full minute, until he disappeared from sight. When the door slammed, her face took on a calculating look I knew from long experience. She’d set her sights on the detective.

“Don’t.”

“But—”

“Seriously, Dawna. Bad idea.”

She stuck her lip out in a pretty pout and huffed a bit, flinging her long black ponytail over her shoulder. “Damn. There you go, spoiling everything. Is he yours? Is that the problem?”

“No.” I admitted. “He’s sick. There’s something wrong with him. I can smell it.”

“You can smell it? Seriously?”

“Yeah.”

“Ewwww. That is just … gross.” She shook her head. “What do I smell like?”

I didn’t even have to think about it. “Chanel Number Five, high-quality leather, and chicken salad on rye.”

She blinked. “Well, all right then.” Then, giving a gusty sigh, “Shame, though. He seemed nice. A little old. But nice.”

I didn’t answer. I’d grabbed a cup of coffee from the tray and was taking a long pull of liquid nirvana. Caffeine, nectar of the gods. I didn’t gulp it down, it was too hot for that, but I savored each sip, letting the scent fill my nostrils and chase away the stench of illness.

“Thanks for that. Give me a few minutes more to myself, okay? I’ve got to make a couple calls.” I’d start with my gran, which would be tough enough. But as soon as I’d finished with that I was going to have to call Bob’s wife and break the news.

Gran still wasn’t answering the phone. That was ominous all on its own. She’s healthy as a horse, but she’s not young. Of course it was much more likely that she was avoiding my calls. She does it every time my mother talks her into something they both know I’m not going to approve of—little things, like letting my mother, who has had her license revoked and is an uninsurable drunk, take the car.

Don’t think about it. You don’t know that’s what’s happening. She could be busy at the church.

I tried calling Kevin. I really did. But he didn’t pick up. I left him a voice mail saying I was hanging in there and not to worry and thanking him, Emma, and Amy for saving my life.

My own voice mail was still presently unavailable, which was getting annoying. If I didn’t have access in the next hour or so, I was going to be calling the main line and complaining to my carrier.

I hesitated before dialing the next number.