Siren Song (Blood Singer #2)

Siren Song (Blood Singer #2) Page 9

Well, shit. Then I really didn’t know how to help. I started to touch him and then realized it would be the wrong thing to do. Too personal. “Look, Jeff, you need to talk to somebody. You really do. Post-traumatic stress can do terrible things to a person if they don’t get help. You know that better than anyone. I know it from firsthand experience. You’ve been tortured. Just because you don’t have scars doesn’t mean you don’t have scars.”

I watched him fight to pull himself back together, saw the pleasant mask slide into place. In a minute, two at the most, he looked like his old self. It was a good act. Anyone who hadn’t seen him break down would never guess there was anything wrong.

“You can have the day pass. I’ll take care of the paperwork. It’ll be ready for you in a half hour.” He stood, the usual signal that it was time to go. I rose but didn’t move toward the door.

“I meant what I said. You need to get help. I know you don’t want anyone here to know, but if you go somewhere else—”

“Word can still get around,” he said sourly. “People talk. Oh, they don’t use names. But it always gets around. It’s too juicy not to.”

“Not if you make them take binding oaths.” My voice was cold, hard.

His eyebrows rose high enough to disappear beneath his hair. Obviously, I’d surprised him. Maybe it was that I cared enough to suggest it. Or maybe it was the whole “binding oath” thing. Most people aren’t willing to take a true binding. It impinges too much on their free will. And it’s not an easy thing to do. Only a top-flight magical practitioner or a true-believer cleric can pull it off. But if you can get it done, they are completely reliable.

“I’ll think about it.” I hoped he would. But I wasn’t sure.

He gestured toward the door with one hand. I was being dismissed.

I felt bad, but I couldn’t think of anything more I could do for him. So I left.

6

It took me an hour to leave Birchwoods. Thanks to Jeff’s orders to the staff, I was able to get my keys, cell phone, and some of my personal belongings. I made a few calls, making arrangements, and decided to change into real clothes. I was almost deliriously happy not to be wearing gray. Stupid, I know, but still true.

Most important, I needed to eat—or, rather, drink. Oooooh, baby. I was overdue and it was starting to show. Thus far I’ve avoided actual uncooked blood, even animal. The longer I can keep it that way, the better, as far as I’m concerned. I mean, ewwww. And even if I eventually have to do the animal blood thing for nutritional reasons, that’s as far as it will go. I am never going to taste human blood. Period. End of story.

Of course nobody else seems to believe that. They tell me that once I taste human blood, I’ll turn into a full vampire. And everyone seems to believe that someday I’ll “succumb.” I refuse to. I am not a fucking bat and I have no intention of becoming one. Still, temptation is definitely something to be avoided.

On the plus side, the chef here has taught me that it’s possible to have shakes that actually taste like what they were in the solid stage. I asked him to put together some recipes. It’ll be worth the money. We’ve been experimenting with baby food in hopes that I can eventually work my way up to solids.

For the moment, I asked for a repeat of the waffle shake, with an additional protein component of some kind to get my day started on the right nutritional footing. They said it would take a few minutes to put together, so I took my time picking what I wanted to wear from among the extremely limited choices available to me at the moment. In the end I decided on my favorite pair of faded blue jeans and a polo in a shade of blue. My hair is naturally silver blond and while my eyes are gray rather than blue, the shirt was in one of the few colors that didn’t look odd with my new complexion I decided to bring along a long-sleeved denim jacket and hat for practical reasons. Slathering on heavy-duty sunscreen works for a while, but when it wears off I can wind up with second- and third-degree burns in no time. They don’t scar, but they’re painful as hell. So like it or loathe it, I cover as much skin as I can during daylight hours.

I wished I had my weapons. Any weapons. But I hadn’t brought any with me to the wake, so I didn’t have any at Birchwoods. Unless Bruno had hidden a couple in my car when he’d brought it over, I was going to have to do without.

I took a couple extra minutes to do my makeup. My friend Dawna did some extensive online shopping in the short period between my being bitten and her becoming disabled trying to find colors that don’t make me look like a clown. I ended up with a really minimalist palette that leans toward stark, cool colors. It’s made me understand the whole “vampires in black” thing. There just aren’t many colors that look good when you’re undead.

By the time the food arrived I looked presentable. I even had a cute little purse to go with the outfit. When I’m working, I just slip my wallet and phone into the pockets of my jacket, but I was feeling girly today. Seeing Ren looking so flawless had pricked my vanity a little, much as I hated to admit it.

I wolfed down the warm, buttery, maple-flavored slushy, suddenly sorry I hadn’t asked for two. It seemed hard to believe there was actually nutrition in it. Even better, the “meat protein” the chef had chosen was a maplewood beef sausage that went perfectly with my “waffle.” It tasted like real food and I’d have paid money for it in any restaurant, even before the attack.

I was ready to dive out the door when a nurse stopped by with a syringe and a tray of tubes. “What’s this for?”

“Your treating physician said we needed to test your blood to see if you were linked magically to anyone.”

We’d talked about that in therapy. I was confident my vampire sire was dead. King Dahlmar had taken care of that as an advance payment for helping him with his son and the demon. I was grateful enough to have my sire dead that I’d wrapped my body around the unconscious prince to protect him while a seriously ticked-off demon sliced and diced me. But there were still questions about other vamps and sirens and heaven only knows what. Yeah, I wanted to know who I was “linked” to. “Oh, right. Can you make it quick? I need to get going.”

“Do my best.”

It probably only felt like he drew as much as the bloodmobile would. Still, I managed not to complain. I am trying very hard to be a cooperative patient . . . with limited success. But I am trying. Several tubes later I was able to grab the Wadjeti and dive out the door.

As the gate to the facility swung closed behind the back bumper of my Miata I felt a surge of pure joy. Freedom! There’s nothing like it. I hate feeling trapped, and a gilded cage is still a cage. So while I might only be out for a mere twelve hours, I was going to make the most of it.

First stop—the university and a meeting with Warren Landingham. He was my favorite professor in college and had earned the affectionate nickname El Jefe. He’s one of the top experts in the world on all things paranormal. And if he doesn’t know the answers, he’s bound to know someone who does. I couldn’t wait to show him the Wadjeti and the curse mark and to find out what had been going on with my friends during my absence. As Kevin and Emma’s father, he generally stays pretty well in the loop in our little circle of friends.

I turned onto Ocean View, windows down so that I could feel the early-morning breeze blow through, hear the sounds and smell the scents of the ocean.

It was going to be a busy day. There were a lot of things I needed to do and one or two others I wanted to. Top of the latter list was attending the reading of Vicki’s Will. Jeff had actually suggested (strongly) I not go. If he’d had his normal presence of mind, he would have remembered that the reading was today. I felt a little bad about not reminding him. But only a little.

Vicki’s mother is fairly ruthless and a little unscrupulous. I worried that if I didn’t attend the reading, things could mysteriously . . . happen to the original Will. Yeah, it sucks to be that paranoid, but my own mom is no prize, so I have low expectations. Such were my none-too-pleasant musings when my cell phone rang. Swearing, I tried to keep my eyes on the road and the steering wheel steady with my left hand while I rummaged in my purse with my right.

I managed to get my hands on the phone without doing anything unfortunate and flicked it open, hitting the buttons to answer and put it on speaker. “Celia here.”

“Oh good, I caught you.”

I recognized Warren’s voice immediately. He wasn’t the first person I’d called about Ren’s little gift. I’d tried to ring Bruno the moment I was outside the facility’s cell phone–jamming range, but he didn’t answer. I really hoped to get his take on it. Even more important, I had a couple of questions about the death curse and the mark on my palm. Like why hadn’t anyone noticed it before this and, oh, I dunno, maybe, how the hell can we get rid of it? But with the time difference on the East Coast, he was probably already at work, doing something where he couldn’t take calls. I’d left a voice mail. Even if he didn’t get back to me today, I was pretty sure he’d be at my hearing tomorrow. Then I’d called Warren.

Now, I couldn’t help but smile. “What’s up?”

“I called a friend of mine over at UCLA. If you can put off your visit to the campus until four, I’ve arranged a videoconference call with her. She’s very interested to see your Wadjeti. If it’s as old and as powerful as you say, she’d like to arrange to come up and see it in person. She seemed astonished that you’d have such a thing.”

“Why?”

“Apparently, while there are a number of imitation, mass-manufactured sets that have hit the market in the past few years, there are only two complete ancient Wadjeti on hand. One is on display in the Smithsonian. The other’s in a museum in Cairo.”

Wow. All right then. Just to make sure we were actually talking about the same thing I said, “Well, Ren called it a Wadjeti. Basically it’s a carved box containing a bunch of thumb-sized scarabs of different colors with symbols carved onto the bottom of each.”