To Dance With the Devil
Blood Singer - 6
by
Cat Adams
First, and always, we dedicate this book to our families, particularly Cathy’s husband, Don, and Cie’s son, James. But during the writing of this book, Cie’s father, also James, died. So this book is especially dedicated to him, and to Cie’s mother, Mary Frances, for her love and care for the family in good times and bad, in sickness and in health. Cie says, “I love you both, always and forever, and am more grateful than I can say for the privilege of having been brought up by you.”
If you dance with the devil, you’re bound to get burned.
AUTHORS’ NOTE
Happy families make for happy writers but fairly boring characters (in our opinion). So we have saddled Celia with a formidable amount of family misery that (thankfully) neither of us had to endure. So in the interest of a better book, these happy writers will once again drag our poor character into the fray.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Every book is a major endeavor and involves the efforts of a group of talented people working behind the scenes to bring it from an idea in the author’s head to the product you see on the page or screen. We thank our team, including our agents, Lucienne Diver of The Knight Agency and Merrilee Heifetz of Writers House, our brilliant editor, Melissa Ann Singer, and the amazing staff at Tor/Forge. You guys rock, and make us look good in the process. We appreciate it.
1
I dressed carefully for the meeting. The setting was casual; since we were currently officeless, Dawna had agreed to meet Ms. Abigail Andrews, a potential client, for lunch at La Cocina. Unfortunately for me, my business partner had bailed on the meeting at the last possible moment, with what seemed to me to be a fairly flimsy excuse. This was just one of a whole number of things we were going to have to have a serious talk about in the very near future. I get that Dawna’s busy getting ready for her wedding. I understand that she’s distracted. But to not even have done the basic research on Ms. Andrews or filled out a client intake form was just sloppy. Dawna is better than that. She was better than that the first week she had started as my receptionist, years ago.
Graves Personal Protection was the company I’d formed shortly out of college. I am a bodyguard, and a good one. Until very recently I’d run a one-woman operation out of the top floor of an old Victorian mansion in downtown Santa Maria de Luna. Now that building was gone—long story—and I’d been forced to decide whether to expand the business or lose it altogether. I’d chosen to expand, but we were definitely experiencing growing pains.
Dawna Han Long and I have been friends practically since the moment we met, when she came to work for me. She’s smart, beautiful, hardworking, efficient, and one of the most ambitious people I’ve ever known. I’d thought that offering her a piece of the action and partnership in the business would make her even more committed to its success. Thus far, not so much. I reminded myself, yet again, that we’ve been through worse than this, more than once, and made it through just fine.
Still, no matter what I was feeling, I was about to take a business meeting. I needed to smile (but not show fang) and look pleasant, cordial, and ever so competent. With that in mind I’d decided to wear a purple silk shell over black jeans, with my standard black suit jacket. Black and purple are among the few colors that really look good with my paler-than-pale skin tone, gray eyes, and naturally blonde hair. I had to work very hard to find ways to look good—but not too good. Bodyguards are never, ever, supposed to outshine their clients. It’s a rule. Unwritten, but a rule nonetheless.
I was armed to the teeth. No, I did not think Ms. Andrews was going to attack me. But a few months ago some quasi-religious extremists had declared “war” on sirens, and while I’d helped take out the top of their hierarchy, there were still a few stray nut jobs on the loose with an axe to grind. So I don’t go anywhere unarmed—ever. Today I was wearing my Colt in an underarm holster and a new Derringer on my ankle, and carrying an assortment of spell disks. I also had on wrist sheaths that held a pair of very special knives. Made for me by a top mage, they are spelled heavily enough to be considered major magical artifacts. They’re worth more than my car, possibly more than my house. Five years in the making, they are my most prized possessions. Last, but not least, there is a garrote hidden in the collar of my jacket. I’ve never had occasion to use it, but it’s there nonetheless.
Most people think they should be able to tell if someone is a walking armory. Sometimes that’s true. Fortunately for me, my jackets are well tailored and have enough magical spells on them to make them hang perfectly, concealing everything. Still, I don’t look completely nonthreatening, and that’s just as well. After all, a touch of intimidation is part of the service.
La Cocina is a tiny family-run Mexican restaurant tucked up against the college campus. When I was an undergrad, my friends and I hung out there all the time, and we’d continued the pattern long after graduating. Barbara and Pablo, who run the place, feel like my aunt and uncle. When they found out that I’d been bitten by a vampire and partially turned, Pablo made it his mission to come up with something nutritious that I could actually digest—no easy task since solids were impossible for me. He more than succeeded, creating one of my favorite things ever. It’s called a Sunset Smoothie, and it’s made with cooked cow’s blood, spices, and melted cheese, all blended together and liquid enough that I can actually eat it.
I made my way to the back of the restaurant, where there was an area that was fairly quiet and private. Barbara came over as I took a seat with my back to the wall and a good view of the door and proceeded to wait for my potential client.
I didn’t have to wait long. She came a little early, a small, dark-haired, middle-aged woman with bright blue eyes. One side of her face was flawless. The other half didn’t quite match and bore faint scars that were slick and smooth. She’d had major reconstructive surgery at some point. Her medical team had done a great job, but it wasn’t perfect. My guess, the damage had been too severe. There’s only so much even the best doctors and mages can do.
I assumed her use of a motorized wheelchair could be attributed to whatever had led to the reconstruction. She steered the chair through the restaurant carefully but without hesitation, coming straight toward me. No real surprise that she knew what Celia Graves, bodyguard, looked like, considering how often I’ve been on the news in the past couple of years. She wore a traditional navy suit, her blouse a paler blue that exactly matched the color of her eyes.
I scooted a chair away from the table, making room for her. She slid smoothly into the space.
“Ms. Graves.”
“Ms. Andrews. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” I extended my hand. She shook it, her grip firm but not too
