Blood Trade

Gordon and Eli both turned to me, Gordon getting in the first words. “I apologize. I assumed you had made an end run around me and the system I set up to protect my mother. And, had you not been here tonight, Mother would have likely gone out with the brainless duo anyway and might have . . .” He stopped as the realization hit him.

“No might. She would have died,” I stated. “You’re welcome. And if someone sends an anonymous report to the sheriff, that duo could end up in jail on multiple charges for drug possession. I hate to send them to the county lockup, but that might protect your mother.”

“And keep them from blowing up half the county,” Eli added.

“I’ll call Sylvia tomorrow,” Gordon said. “Thank you again. But please take this in the spirit I intend it. When this job is finished, you aren’t welcome back here.”

“Got it,” I said. Gordon shushed into the dark. I looked at Eli, who was again holding Turpin’s card like he’d won the lottery. “She’s pretty,” I said.

He gave me the usual quirky half smile instead of the bigger one he’d given her. “Yeah. And she likes guns. She was carrying three, an H and K nine mil under one arm, a small semi in her spine holster, and something on her ankle, under her pants.”

“A match made in heaven,” I said.

“Or on the shooting range. Hope she likes coffee.”

“She does. Black.” At his questioning look, I gave a hand shrug and said, “I smelled it on her. She’s been mainlining the crappy stuff they keep in cop shops for hours.” Eli grinned happily, real emotion on his dark-skinned face. The last time I’d seen that much mobility on his features, I’d just kicked his butt in the dojo. “I’ll hire some backup to keep watch so you can get some sleep.”

“No need. I’m good,” he said. But I was sure he only half heard me. He was thinking about Sylvia again, in a most erotic way. I shook my head and went back upstairs to my bed. I had about two hours before I had to get dressed for my next meeting with Big H, and I wasn’t feeling all fresh and daisyfied. I needed to be at my best when I made my next call to Leo and also when I set up the med clinic to treat the sick vamps.

I texted Clark about the legal paperwork and to ask about the unnamed she our Cajun fanghead had mentioned, stripped off my pants, and was climbing into bed when a knock sounded. I was marginally presentable and I covered my bare legs. “Come in.”

The Kid opened the door, the hallway dark behind him, his face and white T-shirt lit with the bluish light from the laptop he was cradling. He was wearing flannel SpongeBob SquarePants pajama bottoms, and I held in my grin. “I found something I think you need to see,” he said. He walked into my room uninvited, flipped on the switch at the door, which turned on the bedside light, and handed me the laptop. An Internet file was open. “If you tell my brother, I’ll be in trouble, but I drilled into Camilla Hopkins’ publisher’s Web site and found this on her editor’s PC.”

“Drilled?” I asked. He shrugged. “Hacked is soooo yesterday,” I said. He shrugged again, not making eye contact, and pointed to the laptop.

It was a book proposal created by Misha, and it was very different from the one I’d seen in her hotel room. Under the section title about research on vamp blood was a new listing of research papers, all papers written by human researchers on vampire blood for medical research.

I skimmed down until the word jumped out at me. Leukemia.

The Kid said, “Several docs are proposing that vamp blood might cure leukemia,” he said.

Recently, I’d met a Cajun preacher man who claimed that vamp blood had cured his cancer, though it had taken a long time and a lot of blood, a debt he was still paying off years later. I thought of Charly, her body thin and her hair already falling out. I wasn’t sure, but I thought hair didn’t fall out until later rounds of chemo. The stuff Charly was on was pure poison, and it had only a slight chance of curing her. But maybe mixed with vamp blood . . .

Because of her research, Misha had known vamps could maybe offer a cure. Misha was a single mother with a daughter who meant everything to her. Misha was desperate.

“I have a feeling that Misha’s not just planning to interview vamps for her book,” the Kid said, sounding worried. “She’s also trying to find a vamp who will give Charly blood.”

Which, if I’d had half a brain, I would have realized from the moment I saw the child. I am such a dweeb about humans. Asking a vamp for blood was offensive, and humans who were so importunate or stupid as to ask had been known to vanish without a trace. Mish hadn’t replied to my voice mail or text about her dead contact, Ryder. I frowned and checked my cell. Nothing.

“Another thing,” the Kid said, sounding uneasy. “It might be nothing.” I gave a little finger curl to continue. “Misha has a concealed-carry permit for the state. And I found a receipt on her bank card for a load of silver shot. So maybe if the vamp she was going to interview wasn’t willing—”

“She might be planning to shoot him, kidnap him—or her—and force him to feed Charly,” I said. “Crap.” I scrubbed my hand across my head, mussing my braid. “I’ll go see her after dawn. Talk her back down from this stupid plan.”

“That might be a good idea. Assuming we’re reading it right. But maybe we’re not. Bright side and all that.” The Kid picked up his laptop and backtracked through the room, turning off the lamp. “Get some sleep,” he murmured, and closed my door. Like that was gonna happen.

CHAPTER 8 Makes It Easier to Stomp ’Em to Death

But I did, somehow, get two hours of catnap before my phone alarm sounded just after four a.m. I dressed in jeans and weaponed up, the movements so automatic I seldom even thought about the process anymore, and slung the medical kit with Leo’s vamp-plague cure across my shoulders. I met Eli in the hallway, catching a whiff of aftershave and man.

“You think our captive is alive again?” he asked as we quietly descended to the main floor. “And sane?”

“We should check,” I said, yawning.

“He’ll be hungry.”

I chuckled. “Kinda counting on that.”

“Anyone ever tell you that you have a cruel streak?”

My step faltered, a slight hitch that I caught, hopefully before Eli noticed it.

“Not that I think that’s a bad thing,” he added. “Too many people are fu— freaking bleeding hearts without the guts to survive when the sh— uh, malodorous refuse hits the fan.”

Cruel? Me? Beast purred, happy, while I felt . . . what? Not much of anything. Not even guilt, which was odder than I wanted to admit. I lifted a shoulder and turned through the house to the kitchen, where I opened the fridge and lifted out a raw, chilled steak. Watery blood was pooled in the corner of the zip-lock plastic, and so I grabbed a roll of paper towels and some hand sanitizer on the way out back. Cruel. I didn’t have time to deal with the accusation, and filed it away in my hind brain for later consideration. Hopefully, I had a starved Naturaleza vamp to interrogate. I could deal with the truth later. I said, “Thank you for not cursing in front of me.”

“I can kill in front of you, but not curse?” He sounded amused.

I shrugged again. “We all have boundaries.”

Eli pulled his shotgun around front, from where it rested like a sling on his back, opened the door to the garage, turned on the light, and stepped through, the motion gallant, the big man willing to take the hit for the little lady. Gallant but kinda stupid. I could heal from most anything with my skinwalker metabolism. Eli was human. He couldn’t. Still, I appreciated the gesture.

Inside, the vamp shielded his eyes with an arm and moved through the small space where he was trapped, his body flowing weirdly, like one of those vamps in the woods. And the vision of what he looked like was suddenly there, blinking on my eyelids. He moved like one of those feathery centipedes, all long legs and bizarre body mechanics and aggression. He hissed. It was a primal sound, and Beast rose in my mind and stared out through my eyes.