Blood Song

I

suppose it’s only natural. He’s a criminal defense attorney. People lie to their attorneys al the time.

So I told him the rest of the information. Sadly, there was no way for Bruno not to overhear.

16

I have a reasonably large office. But it was fairly crowded with everybody crammed in there. Gibson

had taken a seat in the patio chair nearest the balcony doors. He was quiet, subdued, and acting very

much as if we hadn’t spent a good chunk of yesterday together. So either he had told them already or

he hadn’t and didn’t want to. Either way was fine with me.

The Feds were both alike and opposites. Their names were Erikson and Rizzoli. The former was very

Nordic and handsome in the same way as the models in those Tommy Hilfiger ads. Rizzoli was about

average height, built blocky, and as Italian as pasta, even more Italian looking than Bruno—something I

wouldn’t have believed possible if I hadn’t seen it for myself. Both agents were dressed in identical

conservative suits and carried themselves in a way that just screamed Fed. I don’t know what they do

at the federal training center, but the men and women who make it through the program al wind up with

a certain way of moving and dressing that is easy to spot once you’ve seen it.

The king’s retainers had long names that I couldn’t hope to pronounce. They were impeccably

dressed, their suits hand tailored, top-of-the-line, and up-to-the-minute in European fashion. I could

also feel a frisson of power that told me they’d been spel ed, probably with the same concealing magics

I’d had on my jacket. If I’d thought they’d answer I might even ask if theirs came with a garrote. But I

decided against it. They didn’t look like they’d have a sense of humor about that sort of thing. In fact,

despite the window dressing, they looked like they were just the sort of people to use that kind of

weapon. They were big and intimidating looking, with heavily eastern European features. Maybe the

plan had been to scare me into revealing al my secrets? Their English was almost perfect, except for

a bit of stilted formality and the occasional odd turn of phrase. In my head I labeled them Tweedledee

and Tweedledum. Dee was the senior; Dum, the more powerful.

They asked questions.

I answered.

The Feds asked questions.

I answered.

Then back to the retainers.

It grew tiresome. Then tedious. The time for breakfast passed. Then lunch. I knew I was supposed to

drink something, but I didn’t think it wise to ask for a break. So I crossed my fingers and concentrated

on answering the questions.

We’d al had coffee, but while the men apparently had cast-iron bladders, I didn’t. Maybe it was some

sort of non-pissing pissing contest. Whatever. Eventual y, I gave in and told everyone I needed a

bathroom break. I’d planned to drink a shake when I got in there, but the box was missing. Were they in

the refrigerator? It didn’t real y matter, because I didn’t think my audience would appreciate me taking

ten minutes to hobble downstairs to the kitchen to get one. When I came back, they were chatting

amiably and munching down on the cinnamon rol s. The smel started to drive me crazy, so I decided to

join them.

Bad mistake.

I took a bite. I chewed (which, by the way, is a seriously tricky proposition when you have fangs). And

I choked. Badly.

I couldn’t swal ow it.

I tried washing it down with coffee.

No luck.

A single smal bite, wel chewed, and it wouldn’t go down. It was stuck. Wel and truly stuck, right in the

middle of my neck. I coughed and hacked and even stuck a finger down my throat, hoping to push it

down.

I sat at my desk, turning slightly blue, my guests looking more and more alarmed. Even the rubber tree

was shaking.

Final y I just gave up and excused myself again, went into the bathroom, and stuck my finger ful y

down my throat until I threw up. Hauling out the toothbrush again, I brushed until my breath was minty

fresh. I stared at my reflection in the mirror and cried. I had fangs. I couldn’t eat solid food. It was real.

It was permanent. I wasn’t human anymore.

I didn’t cry long. Despite the past day or two, I’m not the weepy type. Besides, I had agents and an

attorney waiting for me. So I grabbed a washcloth from the built-in linen cabinet and scrubbed down my

face with cold water. Since I stil looked a little blotchy, I reached for the smal silk bag that held my

makeup and started putting it on. A few drops of Visine helped with the eyes but not the face.

I looked like a clown.

I’d always been pale, but my skin was now pure white and colors that had been subtle before were

just plain garish.

Swearing under my breath, I washed it al off. While I was at it I took down my hair and brushed it out. I

stared at my reflection. Better. I looked better. Not good. There was stil a hint of panic in my eyes. But

there wasn’t much I could do about that. Life goes on, whether you’re ready for it or not. Since I was as

ready as I was going to be, I stepped out into the hal . Taking a deep breath, I went back into the lion’s

den.

They’d been arguing, loudly, while I was gone. But there was instant silence as I stepped back into the

room.

“This is getting us nowhere. You are wasting our time.” The hint of an accent was slipping into Dee’s

voice, probably because he was angry. “We would see for ourselves what has happened.” His face

was stil flushed from arguing. “I believe you have already submitted to magical memory enhancement

and a visit to a psychic, have you not?” He glared at Gibson, who remained utterly impassive except

for a muscle that was twitching in his jaw from where he was clenching his teeth.

I felt my eyebrows crawling up my forehead. How the hel had they learned about my visit to Dottie? I

didn’t like that. And I really didn’t like the idea of these two terrorizing that nice little old lady. Judging

from Gibson’s expression, he didn’t care for it much, either.

“You will do it again. For us. Now.” It wasn’t a request. Al around the room people were bristling. My

attorney started to argue, but the Ruslander continued, speaking over him. “We would prefer my

companion assist you in this. But if not, perhaps your friend in the corner”—he waved in the direction

of Bruno the rubber tree—“can do more than just hide himself. Hmn?”

Well, shit. Wasn’t this just awkward. Everyone in the room turned to stare at the corner until, with a