“We're about to trust you with our lives on a hunt that's already killed three of our operators. Speed won't bring them back. Rushing things won't wake up the men in the hospital. All speed will do is get more of my team killed, and that is not acceptable. You're a strong and controlled practitioner, but if you can barely move when you're in full gear, you're going to be an obstacle to overcome, not a help.”
I looked into Grimes's very serious face. He had a point. The vest was very new, and when I wasn't working with SWAT, I did my best not to wear it, but it wasn't because I couldn't move in it.
I sighed again, laid the vest with my other gear, and walked toward the weight area. The men were using the weights, but they were watching us, too. I went to the weight bench where tall, dark, and handsome Santa was bench-pressing. Mercy of the straight brown hair was spotting him, which meant the weight was heavy for the big man. Both Santa and Mercy had to weigh well over two hundred pounds, most of it muscle.
I watched Santa's arms bulge with the effort to push the bar up and back into its cradle. Mercy's hands hovered nearby, and at the end he had to guide the bar. That meant it was close to the other man's limit on this exercise.
“Can I jump in for a minute? The lieutenant wants to see if I'm going to slow you guys down.”
The two men exchanged a look, and then Santa sat up, smiling. “Tell us what weight you want, and we'll put it on.”
“What's on it now?”
“Two-sixty; I was doing reps.” He had to add that last so I wouldn't think it was the max weight he could bench. It was a guy thing; I got it.
I stared at the weights, thinking. I was about to do something that the guys would both like, a lot, and hate. I knew I could bench-press the weight; I'd done it at home. Thanks to vampire marks and several different kinds of lycanthropy floating around in my body, I could do things that were amazing even to me. I hadn't been this strong long enough for it to lose its novelty. But I'd never showed it off to human cops before. I debated, but it was the quickest way I could think of to make my point.
The other men had started gathering around. Mercy reached for the weights. “What weight do you want, Blake?”
I waved him away. “This will do.”
They exchanged a look, all of them. Some of them smiled. Santa stood and waved at the bench as if to say,
It's all yours.
I went to the back of the bench. Mercy moved out of my way. The others moved back and gave me room. I knew I could bench-press it, and that would impress them, but I knew something that would impress them more, and I was tired of having my credentials checked. I wanted to be done with the tests and be out hunting vampires before it got dark. What I needed was something fairly spectacular.
I put my hands on the bar and braced my legs wide enough to get a good stance. I knew I was strong enough to lift it, but my mass wasn't enough to counterbalance it, so I had to rely on other muscles to keep me steady and upright while my arms did the other work.
I got my grip on the bar, worked my stance.
Santa said, “That's two hundred and sixty pounds, Blake.”
“I heard you the first time, Santa.” I lifted the bar, tensing my stomach and leg muscles to hold me while I curled it. Making it a controlled, pretty curl was the hard part, but I did it. I curled it, then set it back down with a tiny clink.
My breath was coming a little hard, and my whole body felt pumped and full of blood; there was even a little roar in my ears, which meant I shouldn't try to curl that much weight again. So I wouldn't, but . . . There was absolute silence from the men, as if they'd forgotten to breathe.
I put my hands on my waist and fought to control my breathing; it would all be for nothing if I looked dizzy or unsteady now.
Someone said, “Oh my God.”
I looked at the lieutenant and the sergeants where they stood off the edge of the mat. “I can carry my own weight, Lieutenant.”
“Hell, you can carry me,” Mercy said.
Santa said, “How did you do that? There's not enough of you to lift that much weight.”
“Could you do it again?” Grimes asked.
“You mean reps?” I asked.
He nodded.
I grinned. “Maybe, but I wouldn't want to try.”
He gave an expression that was almost a smile, then shook his head. “Answer Santa's question, Anita.”
“You've heard the rumors. Hell, you checked up on me before I stepped off the plane.”
“You're right, I did. So you really are the human servant of your local Master of the City.”
“That won't make you this strong,” I said.
“I saw your medical records,” he said.
“And,” I said.
“You're a medical miracle.”
“So they tell me.”
“What?” Santa asked, looking from one to the other of us.
“So, you really are carrying five different kinds of lycanthropy, but you don't shift.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Wait,” Santa said, “that's not possible.”
“Actually,” Grimes said, “there have been three documented cases in the United States alone; you would be the fourth. Worldwide there have been thirty. People like you are what gave them the idea for the lycanthropy vaccines.”
Someone must have made a movement because Grimes said, “Yes, Arrio.”
“Is her lycanthropy contagious?”
“Anita,” he said.
“Shapeshifters are only contagious in animal form, and I don't have an animal form, so, no.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Not a hundred percent, no. I wouldn't drink my blood, and if you have a cut, you might not want me to bleed on you.”
“But you've got five different kinds in your blood, right?” Santa asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then if you bled on me, I wouldn't get just one, I'd get them all, or nothing, right?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Would it make me be able to do what you just did?”
“You can do what I just did.”
He shook his head, frowning. “Able to curl over twice my body weight, so, six-ninety, seven hundred pounds.”
“I've seen a shapeshifter about your size that could do it, but I'm not as strong as a real shapeshifter. If I were, I could do reps easy, and I can't.”
“So a shapeshifter your size would be even stronger?” Davey, the tall blond with the nice mouth, asked.
“Absolutely.” I looked back at the lieutenant. “That's what I mean about the vest and helmet. It just won't protect you from that level of strength.”
“It will protect you if you get hit in the chest or head.”
“Some.”
“You'll wear the full gear when you go out with us, Anita.”
“You're the boss.”
He smiled. “Reports say you aren't much for following orders.”
“I'm not.”
“But I'm the boss.”
“For these men, this unit, you are, and if I want to work with you, that makes you the boss.”
“You have a federal badge. You could try to be the boss.”
I laughed. “I've seen the way the men react to you. I could have a dozen federal badges, and that wouldn't make any of these guys see me as their boss.”
“It will let you take all your weapons into the main station if you want to rub their faces in it.”
“I'm trying to make friends here, not enemies.”
“Then you'll be the most polite fed we've met in a while.”
I shrugged. “I just want to start hunting these vampires before dark. Tell me what I have to do to make that happen, and I'll do it.”
“Collect your gear. We'll take you to Shaw.”
“Do I wear my gear or just carry it?”
“You asking my opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Carrying it is less aggressive, but they may also see it as a weakness.”
“If I asked you to just take me to the crime scene, would you?”
“No.”
I sighed. “Fine, take me to Shaw. Let him check under my hood, too.”
“Why does that sound dirty?” Santa asked.
“Because everything sounds dirty to you,” Mercy said.
Santa grinned. “Not everything.”
“Why are you called Santa?” I asked.
He aimed that grin at me. “Because I know who's been naughty and who's been nice.”
I gave him a look.
He did a Boy Scout salute. “Honest.”
“He's not lying,” Spider of the curly brown hair said.
I waved my hands, as if clearing the air. “Fine, whatever that means. Let's go.” I started walking toward Grimes, Rocco, Hooper, and my gear.
Mercy called out, loud enough so it would carry, “Tell us, Santa, is Blake naughty or nice?”
I felt something prickle along my back. It made me whirl around and glare at Santa. “I let Cannibal inside my shields; you don't get in.”
Santa had a look on his face, as if he were hearing things I couldn't hear. He blinked and looked at me, his eyes a little unfocused, as if he were having to draw himself back from far away. “I can't get past her shields.”
“Come on, Blake,” Mercy said, “don't you want to know if you're naughty or nice?”
“I'm naughty, Mercer, I've killed too many people to be nice.” I didn't wait to see their reaction. I just turned and went for my gear. I'd pack up, and they'd pass me to Sheriff Shaw. Maybe he'd just take Lieutenant Grimes's word that I was okay, but remembering the look on Shaw's face as we drove off, I doubted it. I appreciated everyone's professional caution, but if this kept up, it would be dark before I got to do my job, and I did not want to hunt Vittorio in the dark. He'd mailed me the head of the last vampire hunter who'd tried to kill him; I was betting he'd be happy to cut me up and mail me to someone, too.
9
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AN HOUR LATER I still hadn't seen the crime scene. Why? Because I was sitting at a small table in an interrogation room. You can watch all the
CSI
you want, but the Vegas interrogation room was just like all the others I'd seen. The glass and open space on television was so cameras could work and it would look nifty. In real life, it was like everyone else's room: small, dingy, painted a pale but always slightly odd color, as if somewhere there were a list of colors suitable for interrogation rooms but for nowhere else.
There are no weapons allowed in interrogation rooms, so I'd had to put everything in lockers. The fact that being completely unarmed made me nervous, regardless of the situation, said sad things about my state of mind. It wasn't that I thought Shaw or the rest would hurt me; I just liked being armed, especially in a city where I knew a vampire was gunning for me. Shaw had asked me to answer a few questions about the last time I'd hunted Vittorio. I hadn't really understood that he meant to treat me like a suspect. I'd thought I'd be talking to other cops and telling them what little I knew of Vittorio. Instead I was being interviewed, and not in a good, happy way.
Shaw leaned against the door, big arms crossed over his chest. He'd thrown his hat on the table a while back. He was giving me his hard look, and it was a good look, but I knew he wouldn't try to kill me. Lately, unless death or heartbreak was involved, you could look at me as hard as you wanted and I wouldn't fucking care.
“Tell me about the last time you dealt with this bloodsucker,” he said.
“I've told you, twice.”
“Naw, that's what's in the reports. I want to know what you left out.”
“I had our SWAT with us, Shaw, cross-check their reports with mine.”
“I've done that, but I don't mean the assault on the condo at the end. I want to know what you and your vampire boyfriend kept secret.”
I thought about it for a few moments, and fought the urge to rub my neck. “The only thing that probably didn't make it into a report was the fact that Vittorio could hide from other Masters of the City.”
“Can't all the powerful ones do that?”
“No, Masters of the City, especially, have the ability to pick up the energy of other powerful vamps that cross their territory. For someone as powerful as Vittorio was, to be able to hide from every vampire in St. Louis, including the Master of the City, is really unusual.”
“And I thought old Max was lying.”
“Your Master of the City didn't sense him either?”
“Says he didn't.” Again the doubt was clear in his voice.
“He's not lying,” I said.
“Or you're lying for him,” Shaw said.
“What the hell does that mean?”
“It means what I said.”
“I came here to help you.”
“You came here because a vampire serial killer painted your name on a wall with our men's blood. You're here because the bastard mailed you the head of our executioner. I need to know what you did to this guy to make him like you this much.”
“I hunted him, Shaw, and he got away. That's all.”
“Initially the police in St. Louis said they got him, but you said you missed him. How did you know he wasn't one of the dead vampires if you'd never seen him before?”
“Because nothing we killed in the condo was powerful enough to do everything he'd done. If Vittorio had been in that condo, more of us would have died.”
“You lost three men, too.”
“Trust me, if Vittorio had been there, it would have been a lot worse.”