Blood Song

“I heard. But why didn’t you put it on stealth mode? What good is the deluxe model if you don’t use al

the bel s?”

“There’s a stealth mode?” Yow! I couldn’t help but grin— nearly identical to the one Bob had on his

face.

He snorted and rol ed his eyes but proceeded to flip the little car over and show me a switch I hadn’t

noticed before. “So what was with the alarm?”

I told him about the break in the perimeter. His expression sobered instantly. He handed me my car

without any fuss and said, “Show me.”

I showed him. He didn’t have a lot of magical talent—almost none real y. But that didn’t keep him from

squatting down and using what little he did have to test the area around my little “fix it” job.

He looked up at me, his expression serious. “This isn’t going to hold up for more than a few minutes.

We need to get upstairs, warn the client, and cal in the cavalry.”

“Agreed.”

I let him take lead. Neither of us had a weapon drawn, but our jackets were open, our hands loose, so

that we could react in a hurry if need be. We moved deliberately toward the side entrance, eyes

scanning the area for any sign of trouble.

Nothing. Not a damned thing. It should’ve reassured me. Instead, I felt the tension in my shoulders

tighten another notch. Why would a demon break a barrier and then just leave?

I turned to the side, providing cover as Bob took the wal et from his back pocket and pul ed out a key

card. I’d been provided a similar card when I’d been hired. From the corner of my eye I saw him slide

the card through the black security box. A series of smal lights flashed green. When the last one lit, I

heard the lock on the door click open.

We stepped inside and the door swung shut, locks and spel s closing behind us. I waited as he

repeated the process with the service elevator.

I blinked, trying hard not to stare as I caught sight of him in the polished stainless-steel door. His

whole body language had changed. He looked like hell. Oh, he was stil clean, and the clothes were

pressed. But there was this sense of defeat about him. You could almost smel it, like a cheap cologne.

It showed in the slight slump of his broad shoulders, the hesitation in his movements that had never

been there before. He was pale—but then he’d been living on the East Coast. Probably hadn’t had a lot

of beach time. Stil , there’s pale and there’s pale. I hesitated, trying to think what to say, and couldn’t

come up with a damned thing that wasn’t prying. So I reached forward to hit the intercom button.

“Celia Graves.” I pronounced each syl able of my name clearly as I held down the button to the

intercom speaker.

“Bob Johnson.”

The two of us turned to face the security camera, giving them a good look. I didn’t bother to glance up

at the monitor mounted near the ceiling in the corner.

“So,” he said, while we waited for someone to answer. “You’re looking good—real y good. The

business must be agreeing with you.”

It was my turn to snort. “Hardly, but thanks.” I unconsciously smoothed fingers against my ash-blond

hair. The hair is shoulder length at the moment, longer than I like to keep it. I’ve had enough business

that I haven’t had a chance to get it cut. If I hadn’t been wearing it pul ed back it’d be driving me crazy.

“No, real y. You’re closing in on beautiful tonight.”

That made me stare at him with an open mouth. I am not beautiful. Oh, sure, I have pretty good bone

structure, but my features are too harsh to be considered traditional y pretty. At five ten, I’m too tal for

my body type, and my skin goes beyond “creamy” to nearly goth pale. My last boyfriend described my

eyes as the gray of storm clouds with chips of ice. A fair enough description, and certainly more poetic

than I would have expected.

“I’d better not look beautiful. Seriously, Bob. That’s not good for business. Be honest. Is this outfit too

… much?” I looked down at my clothes and then looked up at his face. He final y understood what I was

talking about and my question made him look at me critical y. I was wearing mostly black, from the

comfortable flats on my feet to my jeans and blazer. The only contrast was the deep burgundy of my

blouse. Wel , that and the garnet earrings I was wearing that matched it. I’d put on makeup, but it was

minimal. I was, after al , here on business. I’d noticed that if I look too good, male clients get the wrong

impression—start treating it as a date—and the other bodyguards don’t take me seriously. Better to

keep things simple and avoid misunderstandings.

He’d just opened his mouth to reply when a voice came through the speaker above. “You’re early.”

The tone made it sound like we’d done a bad thing, but I heard the whir of machinery as the private

elevator descended toward us from the penthouse.

“We came early to check the perimeter for threats. There was a problem.” Bob did his best bored,

professional voice. “We’l need to report it to the authorities.”

I could’ve sworn I heard swearing in the instant before the intercom was cut off. It surprised me a

little. One of the first things I’d learned as a bodyguard was that you don’t let the protectee know you’re

upset. Concerned is okay. But you stay calm. Emotions just get in the way, so you bury them deep.

Don’t get me wrong, you stil feel them, but they’re under control and they don’t show.

Which meant somebody upstairs wasn’t a professional. Terrific. I just love working with amateurs.

(And if you believe that, there’s this bridge …)

I cast a meaningful look at Bob, and he rol ed his eyes. We stood in silence for a few seconds. In the

end he was the one who spoke first.

“The outfit is fine. Not overdone. Sorry. I understand how compliments can be a double-edged

sword.” He paused. “So, how’s Vicki?”

I shrugged off the compliment. He’d meant wel , but … wel , it does always worry me. “Stil in the

hospital. She seems to like it there.” She did. I’d have felt trapped, but she liked the safety of it. “How’s

Vanessa?”

He flinched, and I saw a flash of pain in his eyes before he was able to hide it. “We’re divorced.” He

closed his eyes for a second. When he opened them again, his face was a pleasant mask. “Back on

the market again.” He smiled, but I knew him wel enough to know he didn’t mean it. “She got everything

except the clothes on my back and my weapons. That’s the main reason I took this job. I didn’t real y

like the look of the guy they sent to talk to me, but I needed the money.”

“Speaking of weapons, what have you got on you?”

He held open his jacket to show me his main gun, a Glock Safe Action 9mm in a custom leather

holster. Loops in the lining of his jacket held a pair of throwing knives. I knew they had high silver

content, and could tel from the engraving that he’d sprung for the throwing accuracy spel s. But that