Bloodshot Part 2

It wasn't fair, but life isn't fair-and as far as I know, neither is anyone's afterlife. I hope I'm wrong and there's a heaven or a h.e.l.l, and that in the long run, everyone gets what's coming. Then again, if we all get what's coming to us, there won't be anybody left to see the flash of light and the puff of smoke. So I guess I don't really want to know. Sometimes I think I don't want to live forever, or live however long a vampire can make it last, but then I wonder what happens next and I'm too chicken to die.

And then I see someone like Ian.

"Forever" loses a lot of its s.h.i.+ne when you can't see a d.a.m.n thing.

At half past one, Cal returned. He didn't come inside to interrupt; I saw him through the window, milling around in the cold. He stomped his feet and tugged an oversized scarf tighter around his neck, and I would've felt sorry for him if he hadn't been too hip to wear a coat.

I could hear him, too-or sense him, or feel him, or whatever. He was sending out a psychic inquiry, the details of which I couldn't discern. But I got the gist. He was asking if all was well and if it was time for him to escort his boss home. I don't know if it was a school night or what, but Ian took the hint and signaled for the check.

I let him get it. He'd done most of the drinking, anyway.

2.

Ian and I said our good-byes, and I said I'd give him a status update and a cost estimate within a few days. He agreed to this because-as he'd made clear-he was a man with reasonable expectations.

He knew better than to think I could fix his problem tonight. I'd need to pin down locations, study security systems, confirm specifics, and decide what equipment I might need to acquire. I own quite a selection of useful devices and helpful tools, but sometimes I have to order online just like everybody else.

There are faster ways to steal things, but none of those ways are very conducive to flying under any mortal radars.

Sloppy thieving leads to broken or damaged loot. Broken or damaged loot leads to a poor reputation; a poor reputation leads to fewer jobs; fewer jobs lead to lower rates; and lower rates lead to less money and eventual homelessness, starvation, et cetera.

Sure, I'm enlarging the problem to show detail, but you see how I think.

I could sit here and complain about it-the way I live in permanent consideration of how every slight slipup could set into motion a chain of events that will lead to my death, disrepute, and ruin-but I'll restrain myself. I can't really complain about it, since that obsessive instinct has kept me alive and fed for all these years.

It's all my father's fault, anyway. Isn't that how it goes? We get to blame the things we don't like on our parents?

My dad's been dead now for longer than he was alive, but he taught me how successful being crazy can make you. He was a detective, see. He worked with the Pinkerton agency in California, back when I was a kid, and he was one of the best d.a.m.n detectives you ever heard of. They still talk about him out there, and there are still pictures of him on the walls, in the boardrooms, and in the offices. I've always had it in the back of my head someplace that Dash Hammett based Sam Spade on my dad, Larry Pendle, but that's probably wishful thinking on my part.

I met Dash once or twice when I was little. He was a thin, handsome guy who was probably too smart for the room, but he didn't try to lord it over anybody. I don't remember much about him, except for him telling me once that my daddy was a great gumshoe, and I didn't know what a gumshoe was. I wound up with a weird and deeply incorrect idea of what my father did for a living.

Anyway, I liked Dash. And when I sneak myself one of his books, every now and again, before bedtime at sunrise, I hear my father's voice when I read along to Spade.

If it sounds like I'm digressing, that's probably fair; but it's not a pure digression, I a.s.sure you. I'm wending my way around to the fact that it was more than plain old money that made me take Ian's case.

It was the mystery.

He'd told me that he needed to know the how how, and that was fine. But I wanted to know the why why. I wanted an answer at least as badly as Ian did, and I wasn't even the victim of anything. It could be that's half of what motivated me: the thought that if I didn't understand it, I could fall prey to it, too.

But the other half of my motivation came from farther back in my brain, in the curious part that I inherited. It came from the spot in my skull that feels the burning need to unravel puzzles, finish crosswords, indulge in Internet games, and read all the mystery books I can get my grubby little paws on.

Like it or not, need it or not, and want it or not, I can't leave a good mystery alone.

And Ian's case was a mighty good mystery. There were so many questions lurking under the crust of that pie. How did Uncle Sam find out about us? What did the military want with Ian? Now that the army knows we're a fact, what do they intend to do about us?

I had other questions, too, but they had the kinds of answers I could probably pry out of Ian if I really felt the need. Among other things, I wondered how he'd gotten caught in the first place, and how he'd escaped. The longer I thought about it, the more I felt like I'd let him out of the wine bar too full of unshared information.

It might be useful to me, knowing how he was captured and what happened to him while he was in custody. Then again, it might not.

I stuffed the envelope into my bag and began the walk back home.

All of it was uphill, but that wasn't the worst thing in the world. And it was cold, but it wasn't wet outside. I was feeling pretty spry about the whole thing. I had an interesting case- Well, no I didn't. Not really. I'm not in the business of solving mysteries. I'm in the business of making making mysteries. But something must be hard-coded into my genes because I really loved the idea of solving mysteries. But something must be hard-coded into my genes because I really loved the idea of solving this this one. Or maybe I loved the idea of solving Ian Stott. one. Or maybe I loved the idea of solving Ian Stott.

It'd been a long time since I'd hung around any vampires (by my own choice), and I didn't miss them much. Even so, once in a while it's nice to sit down for a beverage with someone who doesn't require any explanations. I could've said things like, "Christ, the other night I came this close this close to snacking on a trust-fund gothling, just because I loved what she was wearing. That's wrong of me, isn't it?" And then my vampire friend could say, "Oh to snacking on a trust-fund gothling, just because I loved what she was wearing. That's wrong of me, isn't it?" And then my vampire friend could say, "Oh no no, sweetheart, I've been there!"

Granted, Ian couldn't have said any such thing. And this thought led directly into another, more personal one: How on earth did he feed? Did he operate by smell, or by hearing, or did the lovely and talented Cal bring him bags of O-negative on a platter? Come to think of it, Cal himself might make a friendly meat-sack. Did they even have that kind of relations.h.i.+p?

I know, I know. None of my business. But you can't blame a girl for wondering.

At the bottom of my bag, my cell phone buzzed and tootled. I paused in front of a darkened shop window and retrieved it, saw the number, and answered it fast.

Without any fanfare I demanded, "What?"

A thin, whispery voice on the other end said, "I think someone's trying to get inside." The voice sounded scared and girlish, because let's be fair-it came from a frightened little girl.

"Son of a b.i.t.c.h," I swore. "Listen, I'm out and about, and I don't have my car with me. I'll be there as soon as I can."

"What do I do do?"

"Where's your brother?"

"I don't know," she breathed. "He went out. What do I do?"

"Hide," I told her. "Stay put. I'm on my way."

I flipped the phone shut, threw it back into my bag, and started to run.

I suppose I should make a few things clear before I tell too much of this part. First of all, I wasn't running out to save some scared little girl. I'd be lying if I said I didn't like like the little girl in question; she's a perfectly nice little girl, so far as small people go. Her big brother is a bit of a d.i.c.k, but he's fourteen, so that's to be expected. the little girl in question; she's a perfectly nice little girl, so far as small people go. Her big brother is a bit of a d.i.c.k, but he's fourteen, so that's to be expected.

I admit, to the casual observer it might appear that I'm a touch fond of them. But what I said earlier, about no pet people? That goes for kids, too. No pet kids. They're not my ghouls. They're my security system.

See, I own this old building down on the fringes of Pioneer Square. I think it used to be a factory that manufactured rubber products a century or two ago, but I'm not sure and I don't really care. At present, this building's job is to store my stuff.

Okay, so most most of it's my stuff. of it's my stuff.

Or at least some some of it's my stuff, and the things that aren't my personal stuff are things that I personally have stolen, and that counts, right? Sometimes it takes a while for payment and paperwork to go through over some items. And every now and again a client will die or go to jail-leaving me holding the bag, or the diamonds, or the family heirloom, or the absurdly valuable painting, or whatever. of it's my stuff, and the things that aren't my personal stuff are things that I personally have stolen, and that counts, right? Sometimes it takes a while for payment and paperwork to go through over some items. And every now and again a client will die or go to jail-leaving me holding the bag, or the diamonds, or the family heirloom, or the absurdly valuable painting, or whatever.

Anyway, this old factory serves as my personal, private storage unit for all the in-transit or in-process items that I would prefer not to keep around the house. Sure, it's a bit of overkill. The place has four floors and eighteen-foot ceilings, and it occupies about a third of a city block in an old industrial neighborhood.

But n.o.body wants the old place, and as long as I don't try to fix it up too nice, no one will even wonder about it. It looks abandoned, and I like it that way.

h.e.l.l, it is is abandoned. Mostly. abandoned. Mostly.

Except for the kids.

And now one of them had called the number that she d.a.m.n well knew was only only for emergencies, and someone was trying to get inside. for emergencies, and someone was trying to get inside.

If it'd been the police, Pepper would've said so. She fears and loathes the police like only a child who's been minced through bad social service programs can. I've tried to explain to her that, at least hypothetically, the police are there to help-unless they're looking too closely at my building. She's tried to explain to me me how she only ever sees cops when things are really terrible, and they only make things louder and scarier or worse. I maintain that we both have a point, but there's only so much arguing you can do with a second-grader whose arm is covered in cigarette burn scars. how she only ever sees cops when things are really terrible, and they only make things louder and scarier or worse. I maintain that we both have a point, but there's only so much arguing you can do with a second-grader whose arm is covered in cigarette burn scars.

Her brother Domino is even worse. If I don't keep an eye on him, he'll deliberately antagonize the cops. One of these days that poor little a.s.shole is going to end up dead or in jail for life.

And then who'll look after his sister?

Not me.

No pet people. Even if they're cute and slightly fey, and smart and somewhat needy. Absolutely not. It's the cute ones you can't get rid of. Just ask anyone who's ever "kept an eye on" a stray puppy for a couple of days. You know what I'm talking about.

Also, forget everything I said before about not being a rooftop-to-rooftop kind of jogger, because I needed to get some real speed going-and I couldn't do it there on the street, in front of G.o.d and everybody. The best way to preserve my anonymity was to take to the higher path, and I don't mean Zen. I grabbed a fire escape and climbed that sucker like a scratching post.

Once I made it to the roof I was home free, for all practical values of the expression.

From my starting point I was maybe a mile from the factory building. For the millionth time I wished that everything you hear about vampires is true. I wished I could fly, or turn into a bat, or do any one of a hundred useful things that would move me faster through s.p.a.ce.

But I had to settle for the old-fas.h.i.+oned Run Like h.e.l.l.

Above the crowds, or at least the trickling late-night party-goers, I could go as fast as I'm capable-which, if I do say so myself, is pretty d.a.m.n fast. I can manage a really good clip if the cityscape is even enough.

In the old part of town, most of the roofs are more or less the same height, give or take a story or two.

I took the longest strides I could, and I made the farthest, stretching leaps that I dared manage. I pitied anyone who might've been indoors. All the grace in the world isn't church-mouse-quiet when it's flinging itself fifteen or twenty yards at a time. I'm not very heavy-though I'm not sure how much I weigh, but let's say 140 pounds. Still, drop something that weighs 140 pounds onto your roof from a great height and terrific speed, and you can bet it's going to make an impact.

It was even colder on the rooftops than it was down on the street, though that might've been my imagination, or the fact that I was moving much faster. Above me, the moon spun low across the sky and a few watery clouds hung from the stars like cobwebs. In my ears there was only the rush of the frigid air, and the pumping and thudding of my feet and my heart.

I slowed down a block away from my destination.

No sense in announcing myself.

I scanned the area with every jump, straining to see the streets and sidewalks that surrounded my building. They were empty as far as I could tell, but that didn't necessarily mean anything.

I might have a transient, or I might have something weirder and worse on my hands. I hauled myself to a stop on the edge of the roof next door. I stalked as far as I could around its perimeter, and I thought that the side door might be open a crack.

It shouldn't be.

I launched myself over the side and landed more carefully, almost silently, in the alley beside the door.

A bending on the frame and a crease in the metal showed where it'd been jimmied, and I was not rea.s.sured to note that the jimmying job appeared to have gone quite smoothly. Someone had popped it fast, and without a lot of struggle.

My stomach tightened with irritation and outright anger. Another pro?

The thought made me want to bite something until it stopped twitching. If I found another thief inside, he'd suffice.

(Yeah, or "she." I'm not trying to be a hideous s.e.xist with my presumption of a male p.r.o.noun. I'm a lady in a tramp's game, that's all, and no one's more aware of it than me.) I pushed my fingers lightly against the door, and it opened inward on hinges that gave only the faintest squeak. I didn't move. I waited for the squeaked alert to settle into the silence, and I listened around it.

Upstairs at least a floor-maybe even two floors-I heard footsteps that were far too dense to come from an eight-year-old girl or her teenage brother. Upstairs, a man was moving with the kind of careful precision that thinks it's being sneaky, but I heard it anyway. My ears are just like the rest of my sensory organs-exceptional, courtesy of supernatural enhancement-and Mr. Sneaky Feet did not fool me me.

I closed the door behind myself and didn't mind the creak so much since I was alone on that floor.

I figured I was alone, anyway. I extended my mind just a tad, listening with my piddly-but-occasionally-useful psychic senses for the heartbeat of something small, crouched, and concealed. No, Pepper wasn't down here. She was upstairs someplace. At the very fringe of my perception, I sensed her heart fluttering like a canary in a coal-mine cage.

She was terrified, and becoming more so with every pa.s.sing second. Wherever she was hiding, I hoped she was fully concealed.

I crossed the room lightly, dodging between the boxes and ducking past the crates stored on shelves overhead. I reached the stairwell door and gave it a swift but controlled yank, pulling it away from the frame and slipping through the opening. It shut itself behind me, tugged back into place by a set of fat iron coils that pa.s.sed for springs.

It didn't make enough noise to give me away, not to an intruder a full floor above.

Or so I thought-until he quit moving.

He froze and I froze, because I knew good and well that I'd been quiet even in my haste. So either he'd heard me, or he'd found something he wanted. But I didn't get the feeling, from the eager silence that smothered the whole building, that he was examining anything. I got the feeling that he was waiting to hear that sound again.

If he'd found Pepper, everyone within a mile would've known it. That child can scream like no mere mortal I've ever met. I tell her that she must be part banshee, and I'm only half teasing.

Wherever she was stashed, her presence had gone undetected.

Mine, on the other hand, might have been blown.

I waited for him to make the next move. He didn't. He was patient, the son of a b.i.t.c.h. I had to give him credit.

All right. That was fine. I had worn my comfy boots-chosen partly because they look good with everything, and partly because they have soft leather soles that don't make a peep when I walk in them. Yes, I am always always prepared for action. Trust me when I say it prepared for action. Trust me when I say it seriously seriously beats the alternative. beats the alternative.

My initial guess had been that this was another professional creeping in on my turf-trying to steal my rightfully ill-gotten gains. But a second possibility dawned on me. Could it be another vampire?

What were the odds? Prior to Ian Stott, I hadn't seen or spoken with another one of my kind in...I had to think about it...the better part of five years. And then two in one night? Surely not.

But I didn't believe he was holding still up there. I didn't believe he was that patient, or that stupid. It's one thing to hold your ground and wait out a threat-but this guy was out in the open on the floor above me. From his last foothold I'd guessed his location, and there was no way he was just camping there, waiting for me to come smack him around.

That's what I told myself. My ears argued. They couldn't hear a thing. Not a sc.r.a.ping boot or an accidentally brushed box. Nothing.

I wasn't armed with much.

When I left the condo, I'd been heading out to meet a potential client in a public place; there was no sense in dragging a big blade or a big gun along. And it's not like I live in fear of being mugged or anything.

However, I do do live in semi-nervousness (if not fear) of having my storage facility breached, so there was a stash of weaponry on the premises. I don't leave the stuff out in the open-not least of all because I don't want Pepper or Domino to get hold of it-but behind a pair of loose boards under the stairwell I keep some sharp things, some loud things, and some heavy things. live in semi-nervousness (if not fear) of having my storage facility breached, so there was a stash of weaponry on the premises. I don't leave the stuff out in the open-not least of all because I don't want Pepper or Domino to get hold of it-but behind a pair of loose boards under the stairwell I keep some sharp things, some loud things, and some heavy things.

"f.u.c.k it," I said under my breath. He knew I was there, and I knew he was there, and he was either sneaking up on me or sneaking away. I threw my quest for absolute silence out the window and made a headlong charge for my cache of deadly items. I didn't feel like I had time to make a cautious prying of the boards, so I punched my fist through the top one and grabbed whatever my hand found first.

The Glock subcompact. Noisy, but effective. I crammed it down the back of my waistband and made a little squeak. That thing was cold cold against my spine. But I'd rather not shoot if I don't have to; why call more attention to a tense situation? Let's not wake the neighbors. against my spine. But I'd rather not shoot if I don't have to; why call more attention to a tense situation? Let's not wake the neighbors.

I threw my purse into the hole. There was nothing useful inside it except the laptop, which wasn't much of a melee weapon.

I took another split second to fish around and pulled out a reverse-blade katana that I almost never use, but in which I place a great deal of faith. I love a good sword. In this day and age, it's so d.a.m.n unexpected unexpected.

There was more inside the cubbyhole, but I was in a hurry.