Blood Song

“You’re wearing yourself out. You’ve got power to burn, but it won’t do you any good if you’re too tired

to use it properly.” I expected him to argue, but he didn’t. He just gave one of those guy grunts. Knowing

I wasn’t going to get anywhere pursuing it, I changed the subject.

“How do you know Rizzoli anyway? He doesn’t seem to like you.” I grabbed the pair of wrist sheaths

I’d bought for the knives. It was the work of a moment to strap them on. Bruno passed the knives to me

one at a time, hilt first, without comment. I slid them into place, feeling the power hum through my

fingers as I did. Damn, he’s good. Better than back in college, and he was no slouch then. But I was

stil worried about him. He’d pushed himself too hard, too long. He wasn’t just tired, it was more a bonedeep weariness. One little “catnap” wasn’t going to cut it. I shook my head, brushing the thought away

with a gesture. There was no point fretting about it. I couldn’t make the man rest. And he did have a

point. Hel , in his shoes I’d be doing the same damned thing.

“I came out this direction a few weeks ago to recruit his former partner.” He gave me an amused

glance. “I don’t know if he’s more pissed that I recruited Manny or that I didn’t recruit him. ”

I chuckled. Ah, wounded pride. That’d do it. And it also explained something I’d been wondering about

—why Rizzoli and Erikson didn’t seem comfortable with each other. The partnership was too new.

I reached into the safe to retrieve a shoulder holster. It was a custom piece, tailored to fit me by the

same man who’d tailored my lost, lamented suit jacket. Isaac Levy worked out of a tiny shop tucked

between a dry cleaners and a men’s suit shop. The modest place belies the very nice income he takes

home and spends on his wife and children. Gilda Levy was, in fact, so “gilded” that most of the time she

practical y clanked. Her rings—one on every finger—could put your eyes out from the glare. To say

Gilda likes jewelry is like saying the Pope is Catholic. I’d had Isaac’s number programmed into my cel

phone, so I hadn’t bothered to memorize it. I would have to stop by the shop or cal soon. I wanted to

replace that jacket as soon as possible and maybe get a second one, too—assuming the price wasn’t

too high.

The holster wasn’t completely comfortable over the thin fabric of my new top, but then, they rarely

are. You get used to it when you wear them often enough. I checked the Colt, making sure it was ful y

loaded with silver, clicked on the safety, and holstered it. I put some extra ammo into both jacket

pockets.

“Got anything in there for me? I was flying, so I didn’t bring my own.”

I gave him an inquiring look. I knew Bruno knew how to shoot. But I’d never known him to carry a gun.

Ever. “Do you have a concealed-carry permit?”

“It’s required for the job. Have to be recertified for accuracy every six months, too.” He gave me a

wicked grin. “Bet I can clean your clock at the range.”

“In your dreams, DeLuca. In your dreams.”

17

The ads say: If you want it, you can find it … at PharMart. Thus far I’d found quite a bit of what I

wanted: an Ace bandage for my knee, heavy-duty sunscreen, a gardening hat that, while sil y looking,

had a wide enough brim that I could lose the umbrel a and not risk crisping. Oh, and one each of a big,

conspicuous gold-tone cross with lots of rhinestones, a Star of David, and a Buddha necklace, al from

One Shot’s special line of “Certified Blessed Holy Items for True Believers.” While I am not a true

believer, the looks I was getting in broad daylight made me decide that I needed something distinctly

unsubtle if I wanted to go out and about without people trying to stake me or spraying me down again

with holy water. Subtle it wasn’t, but I was beginning to learn that most humans don’t think in terms of

subtle when dealing with vampires. The fear comes more from that basal, animal part of the brain

—fight or flight. The thing was, an actual vampire might go unnoticed, whereas I, who wasn’t completely

turned, couldn’t. Must have missed out on some of the camouflaging magic or something.

I’d downed another pair of shakes, just for good measure, and set the alarm on my cel phone to ring

in four hours. I’d had coffee earlier, but I wanted something cold to drink, so I picked up an extra-large

Pepsi, sipping it cautiously at first. Do vampires get gas? Could I digest it? But to my delight I’d

discovered that yes, I could drink soda. Hallelujah!

Bruno had cal ed his brother Matty from the car while we were on the way to the store. Matteo had

been delighted to have a lead on the demon but had been royal y pissed that the lead was me. Which

was why I was glad to have an excuse to be staying right where I was, for however long it took.

I had, inevitably, chosen the one checkout line in the store where a little old lady wanted to do an

exchange without the receipt, wanted the manager to look and see if they had something in the back

room that they were out of on the shelves, and was now proceeding to count out her payment in smal

change. Bruno had gone through the express lane with his purchase of incense and holy water. I could

see him outside, arguing with his brother.

Father Matteo DeLuca is a Catholic priest of the Order of St. Michael. It’s a militant order. They

actively seek out vampires, demons, and monsters and either slay them or send them back to their

eternal damnation, whichever applies. While I was not technical y either of the former, I got the definite

impression that Father Matteo wouldn’t mind doing a little slayage right about now. Oh, don’t get me

wrong. He wouldn’t do it. But he was human enough that the temptation was there. I had, after al ,

broken his baby brother’s heart. Never mind that he’d broken mine, too. So, while I waited in my own

personal version of purgatory, Bruno was trying to explain away my now unearthly pal or and fancy new

teeth.

Better him than me.

A bored clerk was setting the brand-new shipment of tabloids and magazines into the wire display

racks near the checkouts. One proudly proclaimed that Abraham Lincoln not only had been a woman

but also was actual y the mother of the Bat Boy. Wow. That set me back on my heels long enough for

the woman in front of me to finish counting her change—and discover she didn’t have enough, so was

going to have to put a few things back. Was Elvis a father after death, thanks to alien abduction?

Sheer perversity was almost enough to make me reach for the publication in question. I actual y might

have bought a copy for Bruno, but the cover of a less entertaining, much more mainstream magazine

caught my eye.