Blood Song (Blood Singer #1)

Blood Song (Blood Singer #1) Page 36

“I wouldn’t count on that.” Bruno’s voice came from the chair across from mine. “Those foreign guys aren’t the type to give up. They had to behave because of everyone else who was here. But that doesn’t mean they won’t try to catch you alone later.”

“I know that.” I didn’t hide my exasperation. “I’m not an idiot, you know.” I opened my eyes to glare at him. I was tired and irritable. But more worrisome, my gaze kept straying to pulse points … the base of his throat … his wrists. “What time is it?”

He told me and I flinched. Crap. I was way overdue for a feeding. Stretching out my arm, I punched the intercom button. “Dawna, could you bring me up one of those shakes?”

“On my way.”

I closed my eyes. If I didn’t look and didn’t move it should be easier to ignore the fact that I’d been wondering what Bruno would taste like.

“Are you okay?”

“Hell, no.” I admitted it freely. Fortunately, Dawna’s tap on the door saved me from having to elaborate. She came in and handed me a pair of cans filled with the dark chocolate nutrition that should get me through another four hours without incident. I hoped.

I flipped the tab and downed the first drink in one long chug. It hit my empty stomach hard, and I had to fight to keep it down where it belonged. I decided to sip the second can while I ignored the cramping that made me want to curl into a fetal position.

Dawna left, pulling the door closed behind her. When she was out of earshot, Bruno said, “I’m sorry, Celia. I know you can take care of yourself. I do. But this …” His voice trailed off. Apparently he was at a loss for words.

I set the drink can on top of my desk, dragged myself out of the chair and over to open the weapons safe. Staring at the contents of my safe, I debated what weaponry I wanted on hand. The chances were good I wouldn’t make it back here or to the house before dark, so I wanted to be prepared. Besides, I was feeling just a touch paranoid. Of course there was a growing list of people who were out to get me, so maybe “paranoid” wasn’t the right word. Let’s call it proactive.

“If I hadn’t stayed, would you have told me about the demon spawn? Or would you have just left me in the dark?” Bruno’s tone was perfectly conversational, but I knew better than to believe his questions were casual.

I didn’t look him in the eye as I spread the denim jacket out flat on the desktop and inspected it. It wasn’t the same brand as the one I usually wore, but the pockets were lined with cotton and tacked down the same way, creating a pair of nice little slots that were just the right size to hold one of the little One Shot squirt guns or a sharpened stake. I grabbed one of each from the safe. I considered a couple of the little ceramic disks that held “boomers,” a spell similar to the flash-bangs used by the military, or maybe one of the immobilization curses but decided against it. They are handy as hell in certain circumstances, but I didn’t really think I’d be needing them and there was only so much I could carry in this jacket. “I absolutely would have told you.” I glanced over and gave him a wry grin. “After your nap.”

He gave a snort that might have passed for laughter.

“You’re wearing yourself out. You’ve got power to burn, but it won’t do you any good if you’re too tired to use it properly.” I expected him to argue, but he didn’t. He just gave one of those guy grunts. Knowing I wasn’t going to get anywhere pursuing it, I changed the subject.

“How do you know Rizzoli anyway? He doesn’t seem to like you.” I grabbed the pair of wrist sheaths I’d bought for the knives. It was the work of a moment to strap them on. Bruno passed the knives to me one at a time, hilt first, without comment. I slid them into place, feeling the power hum through my fingers as I did. Damn, he’s good. Better than back in college, and he was no slouch then. But I was still worried about him. He’d pushed himself too hard, too long. He wasn’t just tired, it was more a bone-deep weariness. One little “catnap” wasn’t going to cut it. I shook my head, brushing the thought away with a gesture. There was no point fretting about it. I couldn’t make the man rest. And he did have a point. Hell, in his shoes I’d be doing the same damned thing.

“I came out this direction a few weeks ago to recruit his former partner.” He gave me an amused glance. “I don’t know if he’s more pissed that I recruited Manny or that I didn’t recruit him.”

I chuckled. Ah, wounded pride. That’d do it. And it also explained something I’d been wondering about—why Rizzoli and Erikson didn’t seem comfortable with each other. The partnership was too new.

I reached into the safe to retrieve a shoulder holster. It was a custom piece, tailored to fit me by the same man who’d tailored my lost, lamented suit jacket. Isaac Levy worked out of a tiny shop tucked between a dry cleaners and a men’s suit shop. The modest place belies the very nice income he takes home and spends on his wife and children. Gilda Levy was, in fact, so “gilded” that most of the time she practically clanked. Her rings—one on every finger—could put your eyes out from the glare. To say Gilda likes jewelry is like saying the Pope is Catholic. I’d had Isaac’s number programmed into my cell phone, so I hadn’t bothered to memorize it. I would have to stop by the shop or call soon. I wanted to replace that jacket as soon as possible and maybe get a second one, too—assuming the price wasn’t too high.

The holster wasn’t completely comfortable over the thin fabric of my new top, but then, they rarely are. You get used to it when you wear them often enough. I checked the Colt, making sure it was fully loaded with silver, clicked on the safety, and holstered it. I put some extra ammo into both jacket pockets.

“Got anything in there for me? I was flying, so I didn’t bring my own.”

I gave him an inquiring look. I knew Bruno knew how to shoot. But I’d never known him to carry a gun. Ever. “Do you have a concealed-carry permit?”

“It’s required for the job. Have to be recertified for accuracy every six months, too.” He gave me a wicked grin. “Bet I can clean your clock at the range.”

“In your dreams, DeLuca. In your dreams.”

17

The ads say: If you want it, you can find it … at PharMart. Thus far I’d found quite a bit of what I wanted: an Ace bandage for my knee, heavy-duty sunscreen, a gardening hat that, while silly looking, had a wide enough brim that I could lose the umbrella and not risk crisping. Oh, and one each of a big, conspicuous gold-tone cross with lots of rhinestones, a Star of David, and a Buddha necklace, all from One Shot’s special line of “Certified Blessed Holy Items for True Believers.” While I am not a true believer, the looks I was getting in broad daylight made me decide that I needed something distinctly unsubtle if I wanted to go out and about without people trying to stake me or spraying me down again with holy water. Subtle it wasn’t, but I was beginning to learn that most humans don’t think in terms of subtle when dealing with vampires. The fear comes more from that basal, animal part of the brain—fight or flight. The thing was, an actual vampire might go unnoticed, whereas I, who wasn’t completely turned, couldn’t. Must have missed out on some of the camouflaging magic or something.

I’d downed another pair of shakes, just for good measure, and set the alarm on my cell phone to ring in four hours. I’d had coffee earlier, but I wanted something cold to drink, so I picked up an extra-large Pepsi, sipping it cautiously at first. Do vampires get gas? Could I digest it? But to my delight I’d discovered that yes, I could drink soda. Hallelujah!

Bruno had called his brother Matty from the car while we were on the way to the store. Matteo had been delighted to have a lead on the demon but had been royally pissed that the lead was me. Which was why I was glad to have an excuse to be staying right where I was, for however long it took.

I had, inevitably, chosen the one checkout line in the store where a little old lady wanted to do an exchange without the receipt, wanted the manager to look and see if they had something in the back room that they were out of on the shelves, and was now proceeding to count out her payment in small change. Bruno had gone through the express lane with his purchase of incense and holy water. I could see him outside, arguing with his brother.

Father Matteo DeLuca is a Catholic priest of the Order of St. Michael. It’s a militant order. They actively seek out vampires, demons, and monsters and either slay them or send them back to their eternal damnation, whichever applies. While I was not technically either of the former, I got the definite impression that Father Matteo wouldn’t mind doing a little slayage right about now. Oh, don’t get me wrong. He wouldn’t do it. But he was human enough that the temptation was there. I had, after all, broken his baby brother’s heart. Never mind that he’d broken mine, too. So, while I waited in my own personal version of purgatory, Bruno was trying to explain away my now unearthly pallor and fancy new teeth.

Better him than me.

A bored clerk was setting the brand-new shipment of tabloids and magazines into the wire display racks near the checkouts. One proudly proclaimed that Abraham Lincoln not only had been a woman but also was actually the mother of the Bat Boy. Wow. That set me back on my heels long enough for the woman in front of me to finish counting her change—and discover she didn’t have enough, so was going to have to put a few things back. Was Elvis a father after death, thanks to alien abduction? Sheer perversity was almost enough to make me reach for the publication in question. I actually might have bought a copy for Bruno, but the cover of a less entertaining, much more mainstream magazine caught my eye.

Holy crap, it was the prince and the rest of the royal family posed in front of a row of beefy, heavily armed men who looked more like military than bodyguards, with the prince’s new fiancée.

I stood there blinking stupidly for at least a full minute, long enough that the cashier had to actually say something to get my attention. I grabbed the magazine, tossing it onto the stack of stuff I was buying. I’d read it in the car while Bruno and Matty reinforced the wards around PharMart. They refused to leave the night shift defenseless, particularly after I’d told Bruno about Edgar’s female companion and how she’d been able to bespell the kid last night—through the line of protection and with his cross glowing—without so much as breaking a sweat. In fact, that little tidbit, combined with her ability to fog my brain, made both men very nervous.