Death Blows: The Bloodhound Files-2 (13 page)

“Sorry I couldn’t be of more help.”

“You did your best. Tell anyone you saw me naked and I’ll decapitate you with a rusty chain saw. Bye.”

He has the grace to simply swallow as opposed to saying anything as I leave.

As if I don’t have enough to think about, tonight’s my date with Cassius.

I go home and try to figure out what to wear. Nothing seems appropriate—I haven’t bought a lot of clothes while I’ve been here, and everything I have is designed for either work or comfort. I decide I’ll take Cassius up on his offer of a dress and go shopping.

I pick something that’s elegant but not too sexy, that shows a little leg but won’t give him a heart attack. Well, that’s not possible, but I don’t want him to get the wrong idea.

Of course, I don’t know what the right idea is, either. Cassius and I shared a moment while I was hunting Stoker, and I still haven’t quite figured out what it means. I’m usually aware of when a man is interested, but it’s a lot harder to do when that man is also a professional spook and who-knows-howold vampire.

I decide not to get my hair done; instead I go home and dither about makeup, and finally refine the whole effect down to moderately attractive divorced-but-not-desperate soccer mom on a blind date. With a babysitter who has to be home by eleven.

Eleven AM, in this case. Cassius picks me up an hour after midnight, in a long black limo driven by someone behind smoked glass. No one gets out of the car to open the door for me, which is fine—but I realize I’m going to be doing this all night, evaluating every little signal or nonsignal for potential significance.

I slide into the backseat and give him a cool, appraising look. No tux, just a slightly sharper version of the suit he usually wears at the office. He smiles at me, but again, it’s just a slightly less formal smile than I get first thing every day. “Hello, Jace. Thank you for coming.”

“A free meal’s a free meal.” That sounds a little snarky, so I back off and give him a grudging smile.

“Plus a free dress. Hope you like it.”

He gives me a quick glance, more evaluating than admiring. “It’s fine.”

Fine. Well, that’s what I was going for, so I guess I can’t complain.

The charity event turns out to be a five-hundred-dollar-a-plate fund-raiser at the Space Needle, for a cause I endorse—or would, if I’d known it existed. “The Foundation for the Preservation of Human Art?” I say. “I thought it was the artists that were endangered.”

“They are. But it’s more convincing to point at a human-created masterpiece as evidence that human beings are worth saving. Easier to get people to cough up donations, too.”

It’s statements like this that make me realize why I find Cassius so intriguing. Cynical at first glance, but with a core of stubborn idealism beneath it. I think it’s why he does what he does.

He’s staring out the window as we drive, his mind apparently on something other than me. I find myself staring at him, at those blond curls, the fine line of his jaw, those blue eyes behind long lashes .

. . how can something so ruthless be wrapped in such a pretty package?

He catches me looking. I smile, refusing to be embarrassed. He smiles back, a little warily.

“So,” I say. “Why’d you invite me?”

Subtle as a battering ram, but I don’t have the patience for the kind of games an immortal can get up to; I’ll probably be applying for Social Security by the time he asks for a second date.

“The only other humans you’ve met since you’ve been here are criminals. I thought it might be nice to introduce you to some others.”

“Ah. Some others of my own kind. How thoughtful.” It’s hard to keep the bitterness out of my voice, and I’m not even sure why it’s there.

“I thought you’d be pleased.”

“I am. It’s just . . . never mind.” I shake my head, irritated at my own irritation. “It’s fine, really. Thank you.”

We ride the rest of the way in silence.

I’ve never been to the Space Needle in my own world, but I’ve seen pictures; it’s always reminded me of a flying saucer landing on a water tower. This one features a revolving restaurant called the Eye of the Needle, a swanky place reserved for the evening by the foundation. We ride up in the elevator with two other couples, everyone dressed better than we are. I feel a little like someone’s going to ask me to start serving drinks.

The restaurant itself is softly lit, white linen tablecloths and flickering candles. Flat-screen TVs hang on the curving inside walls, slowly cycling through images of famous paintings, sculptures, and architecture: van Gogh’s
Sunflowers
, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the Taj Mahal. Mozart plays softly in the background. On my world the place would have the ambience of an upscale but anonymous restaurant; here, it feels like I’ve wandered into a memorial service. Everyone’s dressed in black, mostly tuxes and evening gowns, though I spot a few more conservative suits and dresses. Pires and thropes are milling about, sipping alcoholized blood from wineglasses and eating canapés made from raw meat.

There’s a lectern set up, so I suppose there’ll be speeches. I hate speeches—but I find myself wondering what exactly the speakers are going to say. Do they have a catchy slogan? A mascot? Will they raffle off someone’s wooden leg?

Shut up, brain.

“Would you like a drink?” Cassius asks.

“Scotch, rocks. Unmagicked, if possible.”

“I’m sure it is.”

I glance around the room after he leaves, then get closer to the windows for the view. The skyscrapers of downtown Seattle glitter to the north, while the lights of ships drift atop Elliott Bay to the west. If the sun were up, I’d be able to see the Cascades, and even the snowy bulk of Mount Rainier in the distance—but it isn’t and I can’t. The entire room is revolving, so slowly as to be almost subliminal; if I stare out at a fixed point, it’s enough to produce a tiny surge of vertigo.

I go for a stroll, figuring Cassius will find me—the room’s just a big loop, after all. I stop now and then to admire something shiny in the distance. I’m looking out at an alternating grid of yellow and white that must be a suburb when someone taps me on the shoulder.

“Long lineup at the—oh.” It’s not Cassius, it’s a woman in a stunning cocktail dress that looks like it’s made of rubies and held together by willpower. Her hair is so black I have a hard time seeing individual strands, her skin as pale as a bulimic on a Ferris wheel. You could use her stiletto heels to rotisserie a suckling pig, or maybe kill it in the first place.

“Hello, dear,” she says, grinning at me with bloodstained teeth. “Are you
exhibiting
here tonight?”

“What? Uh, no.”

“Oh, don’t be shy,” she purrs. She gestures with a wineglass, sloshing a little blood over the rim. “I
love
human artists. Your work is so—
poignant
. So suffused with loss and longing and fear of death.”

“You seem a little suffused yourself,” I say. “Excuse me.”

She reaches out and grabs my arm, her grip gentle but very firm—like an adult restraining an unruly child. “No, you don’t
understand
,” she says. “Human art—it
touches
me, it really does. Your lives are so
ephemeral
, but you compensate by, by packing it full of as many experiences as you
can
. That’s so
sad
. I mean, it’s brave and inspiring and intense, but it always seems to have this haunted,
doomed
quality—”

Much like this conversation. I didn’t bring along my gun or my scythes, which is probably fortunate—

right now I’d blow my own brains out to escape. Or, more likely, hers.

“—I’d be interested,
very
interested in anything you’re producing. Whatever the medium—I don’t care. I just think that investing,
supporting
human art is important.”

“I see,” I say. “May I have my arm back now?”

She glances at her own hand as if she’s forgotten it was there, then lets me go. “Oh! I’m sorry—a little too much of the Baboon Beaujolais, you know?”

“That’s perfectly all right. Look—” I lower my voice to a whisper. “—I
am
working on something—

very new, very edgy—but I’m sort of incognito, okay? I don’t want to be pestered by every collector here.”

“Oh, of course, of
course
.”

“I have some people I have to meet, but I’ll drop by your table and give you a little sample before I leave, all right? If you promise not to tell anyone else.”

Now she looks rapturous. “Yes, yes, I promise!”

I nod carefully at her. She nods back, then saunters away, trying to look casual.

“Well,” says Cassius as he walks up. “I see you’re making friends.”

“Oh, absolutely. The only thing that would thrill my new friend more than buying up my art at discount prices would be for me to drop dead once the check cleared.”

“Your art?”

“Sure. Can’t you tell I’m one of those angsty creative types? Everyone else can.” I grab my drink out of his hand and take a healthy swallow. Not bad for a blend.

“Let’s find our seats, shall we?”

The tables are set for four apiece; we’re sharing with another couple, a man and woman in their sixties. They introduce themselves as Brian and Sherry Toban, and shake my hand; I realize that they’re both human, though it’s hard to say exactly what gives them away. Brian’s glasses, maybe, or Sherry’s pierced ears.

“A pleasure to meet you,” Brian says. He’s a tall, bulky man, with iron-gray hair. “New to Seattle?”

“How’d you know?”

“I haven’t met you before. I try to keep track of all our people.”

Makes sense. I don’t know how many human beings actually live in Seattle, but it’s not hard to believe they all know one another. “I’m something of a workaholic. I don’t have much time for socializing.”

“Which is why,” Cassius says, “I dragged her out tonight.”

“Good for you, David,” Sherry says. She’s a small, bird-like woman with bright eyes. “We’re glad you’re here, Jace. It’s always interesting to see what David’s up to these days.” Her voice is a little too precise, with the careful enunciation of someone who’s been drinking and is trying to compensate.

“Same as always,” Cassius says.

“Not
quite
the same,” Sherry says, and giggles.

“I’m off to the bar,” Brian announces. “Anyone for another?” I realize he’s more than a little drunk, too.

“What the hell,” I say. “Scotch, rocks.”

“Yes it does,” Brian says, and lurches off with all the ponderous grace of a battleship.

Brian, it turns out,
is
an artist. A few of his pieces are even here, hanging beside the elevator. He introduces me to a few more of “the Clan,” as he puts it, other humans in the local community. I meet an Asian couple who look very uncomfortable and barely speak English, an overweight man in his fifties who tries to pick me up, and a nervous-looking woman who chain-smokes the entire time we’re talking. Brian never stops drinking, but he never seems to get any drunker; I realize he must be a functioning alcoholic, that his intake is as carefully regulated and habitual as a diabetic using insulin.

I find it hard to blame him. I’m only a tourist; he has to live here.

It’s one of the strangest dates I’ve ever been on. With Brian and Sherry there, we can’t talk shop, though there’s no shortage of conversation; Brian is one of those affable guys with a million stories, and all you really have to do to hold up your side of the dialogue is smile and occasionally nod.

Sherry isn’t quite as good at holding her liquor. From the thinly veiled glances and the remarks she keeps dropping, it seems she and Cassius were an item once. Cassius treats her more like a favorite aunt than an ex-lover, flirting with her in that toothless way attractive men use to flatter older women. It’s affectionate and playful and makes me feel a little sick to my stomach.

I excuse myself and retreat to the bathroom. Running into an old flame on a date is never fun, but when she’s old enough to be your mother . . . which is when she strolls in right behind me. From the sly look on her face, I can tell it’s time for a little girl talk.

“So, Jace,” she says, checking her makeup in the mirror. “Your first trip on the Night Train?”

“Excuse me?”

“Dating a pire. You’re at that age—I was wondering if you’re serious about David or just a ticktocker.”

“A what?”

She carefully reapplies her lipstick. “You haven’t heard the term before? Someone who’s thinking about quitting daylight. Locking in their current age before they get any more wrinkles. Or is it just a sex thing?”

“It’s—I don’t what kind of thing it is. I don’t know if it’s a thing at all.”

“Ah. Well, it can be hard to tell with David. He plays his cards pretty close to his vest. I’m sure he’s interested in you, though—you’re his type.”

“You’re the second person to tell me that. What exactly is his type? Tall? Brunette? Or just breathing?”

She smiles at me. “He likes them scrappy, Jace. Underdogs that refuse to admit they’re any such thing. That was me, once.” She shakes her head, a little unsteady on her feet. “I could have done it, you know. Switched teams. But Brian changed my mind.” She leans back against the tiled wall. “There’s value to a life with an expiration date. Not that we know when it’s coming, of course—just that it’s on the way. Pires don’t have that. They all have that teenage conviction that they’ll never, ever die—and sometimes they’re even right.” She laughs, but it’s not a happy sound. “But nobody lasts forever. Statistics catch up with everyone, that’s what Brian says. Immortality is just a guarantee you’ll die in some bizarre accident with a stupid look on your face.”

“Cass—David seems to have avoided that.”

“When the sun burns out, David will be the one hosting the Daylight Failing Times party. He’s harder to kill than a rumor.”

I probably shouldn’t ask, but I can’t resist. “So, you and David. What happened?”

Her smile fades. “Time, I suppose. Time and life and all those things that happen to us poor human beings. They didn’t happen to him, not the same way—and I guess I just couldn’t forgive him for that.”

She pushes herself off the wall, pushing the past away at the same time and replacing it with a brisk smile. I see the kind of willpower that takes, and think I understand exactly what Cassius saw in this small, fierce woman.