Blood Song

closed the box and slid it into my front pocket. Pressing a smal green button on the remote, I said,

“Perimeter check,” as clearly as I could. The little vehicle zipped forward with astonishing speed. It

stopped just inside the driveway of the building and turned sharply right. I fol owed on foot, watching in

pleasure as, with a soft whirring noise, it traced the invisible magical barrier that surrounded the

building, protecting those inside from preternatural creatures. I fol owed it over wel -lit lawns, around to

the one-lane service road that ran along the back of the building. Abruptly the little car stopped, emitting

a sharp, high-pitched whistle. A light on the remote in my hand began flashing red.

I looked from the remote to the car and back again. “Wel , hel . This can’t be good.” I rummaged in my

pocket to withdraw the box, where there’d no doubt be the instruction manual that I should’ve read

ahead of time but hadn’t. Oops. It took a minute, but I final y managed to retrieve the instruction booklet

and flip to the appropriate page.

When encountering a perimeter break the unit will issue a warning in the form of a whistle.

No kidding. I never would’ve guessed. But that didn’t explain the light show.

The type of energy causing the break will be indicated by color on the transmitter unit. Green

indicates the presence of ghouls or other necromantic magics; amber, werewolves; blue, vampires.

A red flashing light indicates non-vampiric demonic energy. A continuous red light indicates a

current presence.

“A demon?” I stared at the remote in my hands in disbelief, my hand shaking the tiniest bit. Yes, the

demonic exists. So does the angelic. But it’s not like I run into either of them every day. In fact, unless a

person works for one of the militant religious orders, they probably wil go their entire life without

running into either the angelic or the demonic—other than vampires. Real demons are rare. Which is

good. Particularly if you don’t have the clearest conscience in the world. How bad a problem this was

depended on whether we were looking at a half-demon spawn, an imp, or a lesser or greater demon.

But even flipping desperately through the directions, I didn’t see any way of tel ing which it might be.

Crap. I mean, good news, the light was flashing. Bad news, it was red; I was dealing with a freaking

demon of one level or another , and the barrier was down.

I needed to fix this. Fast. I’m neither a mage nor a true believer. About the only thing I had on me right

now that would hurt anything demonic was the holy water in my One Shots. One Shot being both the

brand and a literal description. For a vampire, it would burn like acid, I hoped buying me enough time to

kil it with one of my other weapons. But this wasn’t a simple bat. It had taken something big and bad to

break through a standing magical barrier like this. If I wound up facing whatever it was, my little squirt

gun would probably just piss it off.

Think, girl … think. You need the barrier back up, at least long enough to call in a mage or a

warrior priest.

If there was enough residual magic left from before the break I might be able to get the barrier

partway back up if I could reseal the break. It wouldn’t be as strong, but it would be better than nothing.

Of course, if I sealed the barrier I might be sealing the demon in.

I debated the pros and cons for a few seconds, and decided it was better to get the barrier up. If I

sealed the demon in, we’d have it in a contained area when the priests arrived. If I sealed it out, more

the better.

I slid remote and manual into my jacket pocket and drew out one of my two little plastic squirt guns. I

real y didn’t want to use both. I might wind up needing one if the demon was stil around. Ever so

careful y, I drew out the refil ing plug and began dribbling holy water in a delicate line. As every drop hit

the ground, the little scanner moved forward, the headache-inducing whistle giving a little hiccup before

restarting. Stil , when the last drop fel and my little gun was dry, the gap snapped shut. I knew this

because the little silver car went silent and shot along the reraised barrier, around the corner, and out

of sight.

I jogged after it, across the asphalt and sprinkler-soaked grass, al the while keeping alert for anything

out of the ordinary. My head was throbbing from the combined effects of stress and that ear-piercing

whistle.

I would like to say I was surprised that no one came to a window or door to check out the racket.

Sadly, I wasn’t. Alarms mean trouble. People don’t like trouble. On the whole, most of them wil cower

behind charmed thresholds or inside power circles, hoping and praying that whatever’s out there wil

pass them by.

I came around the corner just a few feet from where I’d started, to find a blocky man dressed in the

kind of nice clothes that wouldn’t look out of place in the better clubs but would stil hide the same kind

of arsenal I was carrying. He stood on the perimeter, holding the probe in his hand, examining it with a

rapt expression on his face.

I came to a skidding halt in the wet grass. “Johnson?” I stared in disbelief. It was Bob. It real y was.

Seeing him standing there made me feel better. Because Bob Johnson is an experienced

professional. Hel , he’s the man who’d convinced me to go into the business when I first got out of

col ege. Everyone else had told me that a “vanil a” mortal with no magic or psychic abilities had no

business fighting the monsters. Bob said that no human was a match for the monsters, talent or no,

that the two things that were most important were brains and good equipment. I’m not stupid, and I’m

wil ing to pay for top-of-the-line weaponry.

I met Bob when Vicki’s grandfather hired him to work up the security for her estate. It had been the

old man’s “housewarming gift.” I’d watched Bob set everything up. He’d been patient enough to explain

the how and why of everything he did—let me fol ow him around for days. It was obvious he knew his

stuff. With an almost unlimited budget to play with, he’d done one hel of a job. I’d been impressed at the

time. I stil was.

His plain features lit up with a delighted smile. He brushed a hand over shaggy hair the color of warm

honey. “Celia Graves, as I live and breathe. Don’t tel me you’re here to guard the prince?”

I nodded my affirmative, and Bob’s grin widened. “Is this yours?” He held out his hand to me. The little

scanner looked almost impossibly tiny balanced in his huge palm.

“Yup. Just bought it this afternoon. Works like a champ.”