Blood Song

I glanced into the mirror as I squeezed toothpaste onto the brush. Good news, I had a reflection; bad

news, I looked like crap. My skin was normal y pale, but not like this. There was an inch-long gash

healing on my right cheek and nasty green and purple bruising along my jaw, none of which I

remembered getting. They had to have come from this morning’s scuffle, but they looked days old. My

hair was a wreck, standing out in al directions, decorated with leaves and twigs. Jeez. No wonder

Dawna had stared.

My T-shirt had started out white but was now liberal y decorated with blood-and grass stains, and it

was real y too thin to wear in public. Only my plaid flannel boxers seemed to have survived the attack

unscathed.

But it was the weariness and strain around the eyes that was the most tel ing. It had been a hard

couple of days, and that was taking its tol . My body might be healing better than the average human

—not as wel as a vampire, but then, who did? But the healing, while welcome, couldn’t erase the signs

of exhaustion and pain that had nothing to do with physical damage. I had dark bags under my eyes

that looked like I’d been punched … repeatedly.

I looked down at the toothbrush, trying to escape my reflection, and was trying to master the

specialized technique of brushing fangs when I heard a commotion downstairs.

“Dawna? Dawna!!” Ron’s bass bel ow carried easily up the stairs. “Don’t worry. Our receptionist is

here somewhere.”

Of course. Of al the days for Ron to meet clients early. I stepped out of the bathroom, intending to

yel down that she’d be right back, but he was talking to someone, using a tone that was ever so

accommodating. I knew it must be a big client to earn that level of brownnosing. Mere mortals were

never treated so wel .

“You can have a seat in the lobby if you like. I can get you some coffee.”

“No, thank you.”

I recognized that voice. Hel , anyone who’d been to the movies in the past decade would recognize

that voice. It was Cassandra Meadows, star of stage and screen, “America’s Darling,” and … Vicki’s

mother.

I stepped back into the bathroom, looked up, and addressed my reflection. Well, fuck a duck. Spitting

out the toothpaste, I slid the brush into the little chrome holder mounted on the wal and grabbed rather

desperately for a comb.

It wasn’t that I expected to make myself look good. Only God does miracles. Hel , in Cassandra’s

company I’d look like a toad no matter what I did. But there’s a certain tension between most attractive

women. If I went out looking like this, I’d lose points and she’d use it to her advantage. I couldn’t do a

damned thing about the clothes. But my hair would be combed, my face clean, and my breath, by God,

would be minty fresh.

“Where are Ms. Graves’s offices?”

“She takes up most of the third floor. You can’t miss it.” I could hear the puzzlement in his voice, could

almost imagine him looking at the very beefy professional bodyguards she always had with her and

wondering why on earth she’d want to hire me.

She wouldn’t. Cassandra and Jason were an industry unto themselves. They earned salaries in the

multiple mil ions for every picture even before the points and incentives; their income rivaled the

economies of some smal countries. They hired a team of security experts—one of the best teams,

actual y. Mil er & Creede were top-notch. Most of their staff were former military or government

operatives. Al of them had magical or psychic ability of one sort or another, and Mil er & Creede

required ongoing certification and continuing education. To hire on with them you had to be the best. I’d

never applied. First, I wouldn’t have met the magical/psychic requirements. More important, I didn’t

have the right attitude. The staff at M&C work as a team. They are used to fol owing orders without

question, complaint, or comment. I wouldn’t last a week. Hel , I probably wouldn’t last a day.

I heard footsteps on the stairs. Two men in dress shoes fol owed by a woman in heels, then, much

more softly, a third man. I could smel gun oil and expensive perfume, feel the frisson of magical power

moving ahead of them, scanning for threats. Damn, they were good.

I’d combed out my hair and scrubbed my face by the time they reached the top of the stairs, so I was

as presentable as I could be when I stepped out to greet them in the hal .

“Hel o, Mrs. Cooper.” I watched eyes the violet of morning glories narrow slightly at my use of her

actual name rather than her stage moniker. “I’m surprised to see you here. You must have come

straight from the airport.”

That last was a guess, but a good one. Her royal purple silk suit had deep creases across the lap, as

if she’d been sitting in it for a long time, and even the perfectly applied makeup couldn’t completely hide

the evidence of tears. I was glad of that last. Vicki deserved more than a few tears.

Cassandra gasped at my appearance, flinching backward. One of a pair of large bodyguards

stepped between us, his hand automatical y going beneath his jacket.

Well, hel . I hadn’t said more than hello and already things were going badly. Of course, it could be

the pale skin, bruised eyes, and fangs. Nah.

“Celia?” Just my name, spoken in a tone that was more cautious than friendly. It occurred to me that

I’d surprised her by not reacting with outright hostility. She knew I didn’t like her, mainly because I

thought she’d treated her daughter shabbily. But Cassandra was Vicki’s mother, and her daughter had

loved her deeply. So I swal owed my resentment and forced myself to play nice and provide a basic

explanation. “I was attacked by a vampire the other night. I’m not a bat—but there have been some

changes. Go on into my office. Make yourself comfortable.” I gestured in the direction of the open

door.

As I expected, the two heavier guards went first, but only after they made sure Cassandra was out of

reach and protected by the third man. They were big—impressively so. They probably stood six four

and six six, with the kind of muscles that come from serious weight work, but without any of the musclebound stiffness you see in folks who neglect flexibility training. They wore expensive, wel -tailored suits

in navy, with crisply starched white shirts. The only bit of color on either of them was their ties. The first

wore one of knotted silk in pale yel ow; the second, a more traditional red. I watched them step

cautiously into the room, their eyes immediately seeking the source of the magic they’d felt downstairs,