Blood Song

“You should probably get out of here, Celia. If the cops see you …”

David was right. They’d see a monster and act accordingly. Later, they’d be very sorry about the

mistake. But I’d stil be dead or incarcerated.

“Right.”

“I’l turn off the power until they get the gas fixed.” He moved with smooth assurance toward the

breaker box, shotgun at his side.

“Cal my office when we get the al clear,” I cal ed out as I limped through the French doors as quickly

as I could. The smel of gas was intense. I didn’t dare stay more than a minute or two. Even so, I took a

second to stash the Crock-Pot back in the fridge before grabbing my keys, phone, weapons, and wal et

and rushing to the car.

14

I went to the office. It was the wee hours of the morning. Normal y one of the bail bondsmen would be

in, but there were no cars in the lot. Stil , the place was wel lit, the careful y placed security lights

ensuring that there were no deep shadows where monsters or bad guys could hide.

I pul ed into my usual parking place and cut the engine. My leg hurt. It was healing. I could feel that.

But it hurt, dammit, and using the manual transmission hadn’t helped.

I didn’t like the fact that I’d had to avoid the police. It made sense. But I didn’t like it. Then again, there

weren’t too many things about my current situation that I did like. Maybe the healing. If it weren’t for the

vampire healing abilities I’d be looking at surgery on the knee. But even that was weird. Some things

were healing practical y instantly. Other injuries, ones that real y didn’t seem any worse, were taking

longer.

I hobbled over to the front door, let myself in, and punched the buttons to reset the alarm while trying

to remember whether I’d left the faxes and paperwork in the copy room or taken them up to my office.

Upstairs.

Oh, hell. That was going to hurt. A lot.

It did. And it was slow going. I had to stop every third step or so to rest my knee. I was on the fifth

stair when the grandfather clock struck four. I wasn’t even at the top when it hit four fifteen.

I was swearing pretty steadily under my breath by the time I reached the third floor. I walked past the

locked offices of Freedom Bail Bonds and the empty office that we al used to store spare junk and let

myself into my space. Most of the places I needed to reach wouldn’t open until nine or ten. My gran

gets up about seven, and I real y needed to talk to her, to reassure us both. That gave me a couple of

hours to eat and go through the research.

At which time I realized that al I had in my office micro-fridge was a soda. There would be food

downstairs—if nothing else one of those wretched diet shakes Dawna favored. But they were

downstairs. Just the thought of it was daunting. I was so freaking exhausted.

I was having my own personal pity party when I heard someone opening the downstairs door.

“Graves, it’s me,” Bubba’s voice cal ed out. “Don’t shoot.” There was a swift series of beeps as he

keyed in the alarm code. Heavy footfal s started up the stairs.

I yel ed out through the closed door, “Bubba, do me a favor?”

“What?” He sounded grouchy. Not good. My bet was he’d had to hunt down a jumper. As a bail

bondsman, Bubba worked very hard to make sure his clients showed up for their hearings. When they

don’t, he hunted them down. He’s good at it. He might be a “good ole boy,” but he’s smart and tough.

But tracking and hauling in a bail jumper is a lot of work, a lot of bother, and it always, always, makes

him irritable.

I raised my voice to just short of a shout. “Go into the kitchen and see if Dawna has any of those

Ensure things or maybe a diet shake?”

“Do it yourself,” he grumbled.

“Can’t. I’ve screwed up my knee and I need to have something nutritious to drink.”

“Wel , hel .” He gave a gusty sigh. “Give me a minute.”

He stomped back downstairs and I heard him banging around in the kitchen, muttering under his

breath the whole time.

Eventual y he started climbing up again. He cal ed out, “Got it. Hope you like banana.”

I loathe banana in al its many forms. But beggers/choosers and al that.

“Thanks, Bubba. Leave it outside the door.”

He snorted. “Whatever.”

I waited until I heard his footsteps go down the hal to his own office before I levered myself out of the

office chair and limped over to the door. My knee wasn’t happy about it. Healing abilities aside, three

flights of stairs had been a mistake. Opening the door, I found a four-pack of twelve-ounce cans.

Bending awkwardly from the waist, I picked it up, using the holes in the cardboard carrier.

“Dawna told us what happened, but I didn’t real y believe it.”

I looked up, meeting Bubba’s gaze. He was standing in the doorway of his office, staring at me. His

eyes were wider than they should’ve been, with whites showing al around the blue of his pupils. He

didn’t look afraid, precisely, but more startled. “You look like …”

“A bat. I look like a freakin’ vampire.”

“Yeah. But you’re stil you?” He made it a question.

“I’m stil me,” I answered him, “and I intend to stay that way.”

“Attagirl! You decide you need help hunting, you let me know.”

“Thanks, Bubba.”

He nodded, then shut his office door as I opened the first shake and chugged it down fast enough

that I managed not to gag on the taste. I heard the snick of the dead bolt sliding into place, smel ed gun

oil. I could just imagine him pul ing the .38 from his drawer and setting it on the desktop in easy reach.

Just in case. I couldn’t blame him. I’d have done the same thing.

I fel asleep studying … again. I woke up to the sounds of phones ringing and the smel of brewing

coffee. The swel ing in my knee had gone down some, but my neck and back were stiff from sleeping in

an unnatural position and my mouth tasted like something had crawled in it and died.

The grandfather clock struck eight. I sat up, blinked a couple of times, and tried to stretch out some of

the kinks. As I ambled down the hal to use the facilities I noticed that Bubba was gone. Not only was

his door closed and locked, but there was no smel of gun oil, and I couldn’t smel him or hear anyone

moving around in his office.

“Celia?” Dawna cal ed up the stairs. “You up? Want any coffee?”

“Coffee would be wonderful!” I hol ered back. “Oh, and I drank a couple of your shakes.”

“Yeah, Bubba told me. Hang on a minute, I’l be right up.”

I washed my hands and went back to the office. It was time to try cal ing my gran again. If I