Death Blows: The Bloodhound Files-2 (29 page)

“A race?”

“Yes. To see if she can give birth before the baby kills her.”

I stare at him. “Gee, don’t feel you like you have to sugarcoat it or anything.”

“Some people need a cold dose of reality to help them focus.”

“You could have just slapped me.”

“I considered it. But you hate clichés, and I hate being shot.”

“Good point. Plus, this is a hospital. Guns are kind of noisy.”

“Are they? I thought it was just a personal statement on your part, like women who wear too much makeup.”

Funny, isn’t it, how quickly you latch on to the familiar when you feel like you’re losing control? I hadn’t realized just how comfortable my back-and-forth with Cassius had become until we both slip into it while our friend is near death. Maybe it’s just laughing at the shadows, gallows humor, but it feels like something else. Something more.

“She’ll be all right,” he says. “She’s strong. You know that.”

“Yeah. Yeah, of course she is.”

“Would you like to see Dr. Adams? I understand they brought him in a few minutes ago.”

I hesitate, and he says, “I’ll call you as soon as I hear anything.”

“Sure.”

He gives me directions to another floor, and I take the elevator down. I realize on the way what’s been bothering me—on a subliminal level—since I got here: It doesn’t smell like disinfectant. I guess sterile procedures just aren’t as important when you have a supernatural immune system.

I find Dr. Pete in a private room. I half expected him to be hooked up to an IV, oxygen tubes sticking out of his nose, wired to various beeping machines and monitors—but that’s overkill for a thrope. His arms and legs are immobilized by splints, though, and he’s still in half-were form. Guess he’ll heal faster that way.

He looks over when I come in. There’s a gauze patch over one of his eyes.

“Hey,” I say. “How are you doing?”

He nods, which isn’t terribly informative. I look down and see that all of his fingers are in splints, too.

“Looks like you won’t be talking for a while. That’s okay. I just wanted to let you know that Gretch is—well, she’s in labor. Cassius says she’ll be all right.”

His fingers twitch. His muzzle opens and closes, and I can see that most of his teeth have been shattered. He whines, which rises to a howl.

“Calm down,” I say. “I’ll keep you updated, I promise—”

A nurse rushes in, a silver-needled hypo in one hand. She ignores me completely and jabs it, smoothly and efficiently, into his neck. His howl immediately drops a few octaves, sputters, then dies down to a groggy snarl.

The nurse, a tall and imposing redheaded pire with arched eyebrows like something out of
Star Trek
, finally acknowledges my presence. “What do you think you’re doing?”

“I’m—I was just—”

“This patient is in seclusion for a reason. His bones have to set properly, and that can’t happen if he’s trying to hold up his end of a conversation.”

“But I—”

“He is in a great deal of pain. We couldn’t give him any painkillers until we’d x-rayed and splinted the bones, because that might cause him to lose consciousness and possibly revert. The shot I just gave him will help, but he’s not going to be very coherent for a while. So anything you have to say to him can wait.”

“Okay,” I say. I don’t have any desire to chew her out, or even argue. “I’ll go.” I turn around and leave.

Back to the maternity ward waiting room, where there are no pacing fathers, nobody handing out cigars. I realize that the process must be very different for pires; two immortals giving up some of their youth in order to create a new life would make every birth a powerful, singular event. Not that the arrival of a human baby isn’t—but imagine that you know this is the only child you’ll ever have. Imagine that after spending decades or centuries without aging, you suddenly find yourself getting older. And all this is a relatively new development; pires have only been able to give birth since the end of World War II. For some of them, it’s the most transformative thing to affect them since they gave up being human.

Which is why the waiting room is empty—all the parents are together, inside. Except for Gretchen, who’s alone.

I ask the nurse behind the counter for news. She’s a slender Indian woman with a red dot on her forehead, and she tells me—in an Australian accent, no less—that Cassius has gone in to be present during the birth.

“Is she doing all right? Can I go in?”

The nurse consults her monitor. “Well, we don’t normally allow more than the parents to be present. This is a special case, so we’ve made allowances for Mr. Cassius. But it’s a bit tricky right now—I’m afraid you’ll have to wait.”

Great. I slump into one of the chairs and sulk, which very rapidly yo-yos into fretting, then anger, then worrying. How can Cassius just abandon me like this? How could Dr. Pete get himself so badly hurt I can’t even yell at him? Why the hell are the walls painted that absurdly annoying shade of yellow?

I don’t bother telling my brain to shut up. At this point, it’s about the only company I have.

Finally, the doors push open. A doctor stands there, her gown bloody. She walks straight over to me.

“Are you Jace Valchek?”

I feel a little light-headed. “Yes.”

She smiles. “Both baby and mother are doing fine. Would you like to come in and see them?”

I blink. I nod. I follow her through the doors and down a hall.

And then I meet someone new.

I’m really not sure what to expect. Some part of my brain is conjuring up images of mad scientist laboratories, crackling Jacob’s ladders on the bedposts and hunch-backed interns named Igor. What I get is less medical than most hospital rooms, but still pretty normal. Gretch is in a hospital bed, the back cranked to let her sit up. There’s no window, but a tall floor lamp provides soft illumination. Cassius is seated in a comfortable chair beside a table with a vase full of flowers on it. He’s leaning forward, talking to Gretch, his voice low and intent; she looks tired but not exhausted, and all her attention seems focused on him. Which is a little odd, considering the small bundle she’s holding against her chest.

“—considering the situation in North Africa right now, I think Mahmoud could handle it. And the Libyans are in a holding pattern, so that’s not going critical anytime soon.”

“I suppose,” she says. “But have you taken into consideration—”

“A-
hem
,” I say. “Are you actually
debriefing
this woman?”

The looks on their faces are identical: kids caught with their hands in the cookie jar. “It’s nothing,”

Cassius says hurriedly, “just a few office details that needed clearing up—”

I come over and perch on the side of the bed. “For God’s sake, the woman just gave birth. And how about an introduction, huh?”

Gretch looks down at her new offspring, and
beams
. Her smile shines so bright, I’m half convinced she’s going to burst into self-induced flames at any second. “Jace, this is—well, she doesn’t have a name, yet. I just call her Love.”

“Hello, Love,” I say softly. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

The baby looks like—well, a baby. Hard to believe it’s a supernatural being, one without a pulse or the need to breathe, but there you go. I reach out to touch one of her tiny hands, and am pleasantly surprised to find she’s just as warm and soft as any other baby—but a lot more durable, I guess.

“You’re okay? She’s okay?” I ask.

“Yes. I understand Dr. Pete is as well, though somewhat worse for wear.”

“Yeah, I just went to see him. Pretty banged up, but he’ll recover.”

She looks up, and the old Gretchen—all business and not someone you want to cross—is back. “I took a chance with the tear gas. It was meant to slow them down and force them back while we retreated—

apparently I misjudged their commitment.”

“No battle plan survives engagement with the enemy,” Cassius says. “It could have worked.”

“But it didn’t,” I say. “Mainly because those wrappers wanted revenge too badly to give up. Revenge on Dr. Pete—and on me.”

Cassius leans back in his chair. “I’ve been checking on the thrope that’s after the doctor—and coming up with nothing. This ‘Tair’ has no background, no history. He showed up out of nowhere, insinuated himself with local crime elements, and has demonstrated a certain ruthless efficiency in his dealings ever since. I’ve been unable to discover anything else.”

I shake my head. If the head of the National Security Agency can’t dig up any facts on someone, I don’t know who can. “Look, I know you won’t discuss Dr. Pete’s past with me, but can you at least tell me if this vendetta Tair has against him is personal or business?”

“I wish I could.” Cassius sees the look on my face and adds, “I don’t mean that I won’t tell you, I mean I don’t know. While Dr. Pete definitely made some enemies when he disappeared, this Tair seems unusually focused on his target. My sources tell me that he essentially brokered a deal, offering to deliver Dr. Pete in return for employment. His actions indicate both ambition
and
hatred.”

Gretchen nods. “Not the type to give up, then. The loss of his men won’t stop him.”

“No, he’ll just get more,” I say. “And go after Dr. Pete again. Is the hospital secure?”

Cassius nods. “I’m having him moved as soon as he stabilizes anyway.”

“Good.” I stifle a yawn, then look at my watch. “Good Lord, it’s late. Or early. Whichever.” It’s more than that, of course—a post-stress-and-adrenaline crash that I’m all too familiar with. “I really need to lie down and get some sleep before I fall over.”

“I’ll walk you out,” Cassius says, rising from his chair. He gives Gretchen a look I can’t interpret: guarded, reluctant. “We’ll talk later, all right?”

“Very well.” The look she gives him back is almost the same.

We walk back down the hall and to an elevator. “I’ve made a decision, Jace,” he tells me as he presses the button. “I no longer feel that I—or any of the surviving Bravos—are secure, so I’m reassigning my duties as head of the NSA.”

It takes a second for me to get my head around what he’s just said. “You’re stepping down?”

“I’ve always surrounded myself by capable people. Washington will pick a successor if I’m eliminated, but in the interim I’ve left instructions for the various department heads to follow. The organization will continue to function while—”

“While what? While you just give up and wait to be assassinated?”

The doors open and he steps forward, me a step behind. “Not what I had in mind at all, actually.”

All the anger I had been directing at myself seems to have found a new target. “You can’t just quit!

There are people who
rely
on you—”

“I’m not quitting, Jace. I’m refocusing. Our target has proven able to get to almost anyone, and he’s become exponentially more dangerous with every artifact he’s acquired. If he tries a frontal attack—

say, on the NSA offices—the casualties will be brutal. I can’t allow that. I’m going underground until the threat is neutralized . . . and I fully expect you to be the one to do it.”

The sinking sensation in my gut is more than the elevator going down. “That doesn’t exactly make sense. The killer has no way of knowing you’ve left—”

“He’s had no trouble pinpointing any of the other Bravos.”

I realize what he’s really saying. “And you don’t think he’ll have any trouble locating you, even if you do go to ground. You’re setting yourself up as a target.”

He shrugs. “Not a very good one, though. He already has the armor—I doubt he’ll make a run at me.”

“But you’re going to give him the chance?”

“Yes.”

“That’s crazy.”

“You’re the expert.”

The elevator lets us out in the underground parking. There are thrope agents—big, hairy half-weres with elaborate compound bows and body armor—standing on either side of the door. They weren’t there when I arrived, but I’ll bet they’re now at every entrance and exit in the building.

“Okay, I’ll play along,” I say. “Where are you planning on painting the bull’s-eye you’ll be sitting in?”

“I thought I’d share yours.”

I realize we’re walking toward my car, not his, and stop. “Wait. You don’t want to endanger a building full of highly trained intelligence ops and killers, but have no problem with doing the same to me.”

He stops by the car. “More or less.”

I grin. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s said to me all day . . .”

I drive Cassius to my place. If he’s going to hang with me, he’s going to have to follow my agenda—

and since it’s just after dark, I have a were dog and a teenager to think about.

Both of whom are gone when I get there. There’s a note explaining that Xandra had something terribly important but vague to do, and took Galahad along. They’ll both be back by sunrise, unless they aren’t, but I shouldn’t worry.

“I hope he’s cute,” I mutter, tossing the note on the kitchen table.

“Excuse me?” Cassius asks. He’s seated himself in the living room on the couch, and his body language is very formal; I can almost see the desk in front of him.

“Nothing. Well, my reason for coming home just vanished, so I guess I’ll head back to the office. Which means you can’t come, right?”

“Is there a pressing reason you need to go? I can have any information you need sent here.”

I study him for a second before answering. “No, I guess not. If Eisfanger had anything new for me he’d call. And Charlie—” I hesitate.

“Yes, where
is
Charlie?”

“Having his annual . . . whatever you call it. Evaluation.”

“Ah. You don’t have to worry, Jace—it’s routine. Charlie shows no signs of going rogue.”

I get out some coffee beans and the grinder. “Easy for you to say. Just when I think I’m getting used to this world, I find out my partner can be put down like a rabid dog. I am
not
okay with that.”

“I know it’s hard to accept, but there are good reasons for the policy, Jace. Lems are driven by powerful predatory instincts—”

“And you’re not?”

“Hemovores are subject to bloodlust, it’s true. And no one can deny that thropes have their savage side. But both races are more than just the sum of their urges—”