Death Blows: The Bloodhound Files-2 (28 page)

Gretch walks like no pregnant woman I’ve ever seen. I don’t know if it’s the accelerated pregnancy, her vampire strength, or sheer determination, but she doesn’t waddle; she marches, her posture straight, her head high. You’d think she was smuggling a beach ball instead of a carrying a baby.

And she’s remained firmly between Dr. Pete and myself, ever since he arrived to pick us up in his car. I suspect it has more to do with all the maternal hormones surging through her body than her stated commitment to professional privacy, though I could be wrong. In any case, if she thinks hauling me out in public and keeping a swollen belly between me and the Doc will keep my mouth shut, she’s wrong—I’m just waiting for the right moment, that’s all.

I first stumbled on the Batmall a few weeks ago, when I was looking for a decent shoe store. A few hours later a security guard found me sprawled on an escalator, shoppers stepping over my prone body, moaning, “Natural light . . . natural light . . .”

Okay, it’s not that bad, but the place does cater to pires—it’s completely underground, laid out in a maze that you’d need echolocation to make sense of. I’m not sure how many levels it goes down, but at least five—and some of it’s over a hundred years old.

In 1889 the Great Seattle Fire leveled over thirty city blocks. The city decided to build
over
the ruins as a deterrent to flooding—which they’d also had a problem with—and effectively created a huge urban basement. Now, believe it or not, this is exactly the same thing that happened in my world—only there the place was basically sealed off and forgotten about.

Here, the sun-shy part of the population thought they could definitely do something with that much subterranean real estate. They expanded on it, dug even deeper, turned it into a huge shopping center. I think the reason the Pike Place Market here is so run-down is because it can’t compete with this place.

And now here we are, God knows how deep beneath the earth, Gretch keeping up a steady stream of innocuous small talk while Dr. Pete sucks nervously on a Red Julius and won’t meet my eyes.

Gretch spots another store, grabs both our arms, and marches us in. “This place looks like it has a nice selection. What do you think, Jace—bats or leeches?” She holds up a blood-red jumper with little cartoon versions of the latter on it. “I’m not crazy about the color, but I suppose it would hide stains . . . is that a good thing?” Suddenly she sounds a little anxious, and I realize I’m being arrogant in assuming the only reason she’s here is to provide a buffer between me and Dr. Pete.

“It’s a good thing,” I assure her. “And personally, I’d go with the bats.”

“I suppose . . .”

I manage to sneak behind her and grab Dr. Pete by the arm. “You and I,” I say, “have something to discuss.”

“I’m sorry, Jace, I just can’t—”

“You need to take Galahad back.”

“—uh, yes, of course. I’m sorry I dumped him on you, but—”

“No buts. I’m still not sure if you asked me out of genuine concern for him or because you thought it would slow me down, but it was rude and ill conceived either way.”

“You’re right.”

“I know. Oddly, it’s not giving me a great deal of satisfaction.”

He digs in his pocket and pulls out a plastic cassette case. “I know this doesn’t make up for anything, but here. I found this a while ago—I thought I’d give it to you when you needed a pick-me-up.”

I take it, but put it in my pocket without looking at it. “Thanks, I’ll pull it out the next time I’m feeling low. Right now, though, I’m feeling
angry
—which makes this feel more like a bribe than an apology.”

That shakes him a little. Why is it men think you have to accept an apology, just because one is offered?

“Okay,” he says. “You have every right to be angry. I’ll make arrangements for Galahad to come and stay at the safe house. Guess I should have done that in the first place.”

“Guess so.”

Gretchen has remained completely quiet during this, but now she pops between us like a referee at the end of a round and says, “There’s nothing here that appeals to me. Let’s move on, shall we?”

“Yeah,” I say. “That sounds like a good idea.”

I’m a fumer. I tend to fume. Not so much when I have an outlet—then I’m more of an exploder—but when I don’t, I fume. Right now, striding down a mall corridor while Gretchen tries to get my attention focused on baby booties, I’m giving out enough metaphysical vapor to power a paddle wheeler. Dr. Pete is studiously pretending nothing is wrong while slowly edging away from me, Gretch is trying to be chatty, and me—I’m just steaming away on my own private river and not paying much attention to what’s on the banks.

I guess that makes what happens next my fault.

We’ve just rounded a corner, and the corridor has narrowed considerably. No actual stores down this way, just tiled walls with a fire exit on one end and what seems to be the entrance to a loading dock. We’re all halfway down it before any of us even notices where we’re going.

When we stop and turn around, they’re waiting.

It’s the same group of wrappers that threatened me before. Guess their eyes have had time to heal—

though this time, they’re not taking chances.

“Nice sunglasses,” I say. “What, no white canes?”

Anorexic Elvis—the one who nailed me with the Blood Cross—seems to be the one in charge. “You messed up my hand, bitch,” he says. “I don’t know what kind of damn hardware you using, but you ain’t gettin’ a chance to use it again.”

There are five of them. Dr. Pete’s already in mid-transformation, but I have no idea how useful he’ll actually be in a fight. And Gretchen?

Honestly, if Gretch weren’t as big as a house, I think we could have taken them together. As it is, I’m not going to put her child in danger. “Gretch, run,” I say. “Get help—”

That’s as far as I get. Did I mention before how fast pires are?

The first one slams into Dr. Pete while he’s still sprouting fur. The second one nails me before my gun can clear its holster. The rest—

The rest are coughing their lungs out. There’s a little gray canister on the floor between them and us, and it’s spinning around and spitting a yellowish mist that’s filling up the corridor quickly. I may not have the nose of a thrope, but I know tear gas when I smell it. Tear gas cut with lots and lots of garlic. I should have known Gretch wouldn’t go out in public without being prepared . . .

I don’t have time to thank her, or even glance in her direction. I’m flat on my back with a pire on top of me, and I guess he’s more of a traditionalist than he looks because his fangs are going straight for my throat. He’s got a hand clamped on both of my wrists, and the only positive element in the situation is that I’ve managed to actually get the Ruger free. Well, not free, exactly—it’s pointed to the side, and there’s no way I’m breaking my opponent’s grip.

He stops with the tips of his teeth just barely denting my skin. I feel something cold and wet slide against my neck. “You about to learn about a brand-new world,” he rasps, then licks me again.

“And you’re about to learn a brand-new word,” I say. I squeeze the trigger twice; the Ruger roars and spits fire. Gunsmoke and chipped ceramic tile fill the air as I shoot the wall right next to us—and suddenly there’s a dissolving sack of wet, rotting flesh pinning me down instead of a vampire, as one of the bullets finds a vital organ.

“Ricochet,” I snarl, and shove what’s left of him off me.

Gretch’s gone—she must have sprinted for the fire doors at the far end after tossing the tear gas. She’s probably already on the phone for reinforcements, so all I have to do is hold these guys off until—

I can’t see Dr. Pete.

That’s because he’s buried under a pile of bodies, bodies that are moving so fast their arms and legs are just a blur. At least four of them have escaped the gas and piled on him, and the beating they’re delivering is like—I don’t know how to describe it. I see flashes of silver, too, and realize they’re using more than just their fists. Clubs, blades, I can’t tell—and then I’m firing at anyone I have a clear shot at.

Two go down and don’t move. The other two turn on me, and I have time to take one out with a heart shot before the other swats my gun out of my hand with an impact that leaves my whole hand numb. It’s Anorexic Elvis, and this time he intends to finish the job.

He doesn’t make it. Dr. Pete, now in half-were form, has reached out and snagged him by one ankle. Elvis tries to kick his way free, but Dr. Pete refuses to let go. It’s hard to believe he’s still conscious; his muzzle is covered in blood, half his fangs have been smashed out and one of his eyes is gone.

Elvis realizes a more direct approach is called for. He twists in Dr. Pete’s grip, drops to one knee on his victim’s chest, and starts to slam his fist into his face, again and again. I realize that the glint I saw is a pair of solid silver knuckles, a heavy chunk of metal that he’s hammering away at the Doc’s face with.

“Tair says hello, fool,” he growls. Dr. Pete’s grip finally loosens and falls away. Elvis turns back to me—but the Doc’s bought me enough time to recover the Ruger.

I don’t say anything clever. I just shoot him until I hear the click of an empty chamber.

I slump against the wall, shaky and dizzy from adrenaline. The cloud of tear gas moves lazily away from me, propelled by some invisible air vent breeze.
It’s over
, I tell myself.
It’s over
.

And then I hear the loud, echoing scream from the stairwell, and know I’m wrong.

SIXTEEN

I sprint for the fire door. I find Gretchen just inside it, sprawled on the concrete steps, unconscious. Her water’s broken, and it’s a lot redder than it should be. That could simply be because she’s a vampire, but I don’t know.

Phone. Must find phone
. I dig it out with shaky fingers, drop it, curse loudly, and nearly drop it again after picking it up. I force myself to calm down, take a few long, slow breaths, and dial 911. After I give them the relevant information, I call Cassius. Then I call Charlie, but he’s not picking up—

probably in the middle of being tested.

Then I reload my gun, and wait.

Cassius’s people get there first—somehow, I’m not surprised. A field medic checks both Dr. Pete and Gretchen coolly, tells me that the Doc is in serious condition but will make it. He hesitates when I ask about Gretch, then says, “We have to get her to the hospital ASAP.”

The paramedics show up a minute later, but Gretchen’s already gone—the field medic snapped together a collapsible stretcher, and then he and another agent loaded her on it and literally
ran
up the stairs. Let’s hear it for supernatural strength and stamina.

I just hope Gretch has her share.

The cops arrive after that. I show them my NSA badge, and when they start to get snippy I wave over a couple of large thrope agents to explain exactly how much trouble they’re going to be in if they don’t shut their traps, put away their notebooks, and go find a doughnut shop to have been in for the last half hour. I’d do it myself—it’s the kind of thing I normally live for—but I feel like I have exactly one, fraying nerve left. Me blowing a gasket is not going to help anyone.

I wind up carting away the shopping bags full of Gretch’s purchases. It seems really important I be able to tell Gretch I took care of it so she won’t worry.

I stuff them in the trunk of the car and get on the phone to Cassius. He’s already at the hospital, and gives me directions. Gretch has just arrived but he doesn’t know how she’s doing—all he knows is she’s going into labor.

No matter how fast I drive, everything seems slow. The little voice in the back of my head—the one that says the most inappropriate things at the worst times—has moved up to the front and gotten itself a bullhorn.

Wow, what a day. Your partner’s on his way to the trash compactor, the guy you have a crush on was
beaten half to death, and your best friend will probably die in childbirth right about . . . now
.

Shut up shut up shut up. I am not going to lose three of the only people on this godforsaken planet I
give a damn about—

Two out of three? Still pretty good—if by good you mean really, really terrible—

Not happening. Not one, not two, not any of them. Dr. Pete will be fine. Gretch will be fine. Charlie
will be fine
.

Dr. Pete, okay—though, sucky job protecting him, I gotta say. Dating you would be like going out with
a national disaster—

One soul-numbing criticism at a time, okay
?

You didn’t protect Gretch. You didn’t protect Charlie. You didn’t—

Shut up shut up SHUT UP
!

I realize I’m screaming it, pounding on the steering wheel, tears running down my face. I pull over before I have an accident, put on my four-way flashers and just shake for a minute.

I can handle being afraid. I can handle staring evil in the face from a few inches away. I can even handle the possibility of losing someone I care about. What I can’t handle is being hit with all three within twenty minutes, and knowing the last one might be my fault.

Two minutes later I’m back on the road. My breathing is steady. My hands do not shake. The voice in my head is still there, but the bullhorn has been switched off and I’m not listening anyway.

Mostly.

“She’s in surgery,” Cassius tells me.

We’re in the waiting area of the maternity ward. This hospital is very different from either of the places I was in before; it’s larger, newer, sleeker. It feels more like a place a Beverly Hills pire would go to have a little designer plastic surgery . . . if (a) an immortal being actually aged, and (b) the idea of performing surgery on a vampire wasn’t a ludicrous idea.

Except, of course, that’s exactly what Gretchen is going through.

“God
damn
it,” I spit. “I don’t know what any of the
rules
are anymore! I hate this world and I hate
you
for dragging me here!”

Cassius ignores my outburst. “Her advanced pregnancy is causing complications. The child is drawing life force from her faster than she can give it, and that’s putting a severe strain on her body. It’s basically a race at this point.”