Blood Hunt (3 page)

In the foreground, two reporters stood several feet from each other, each on a raised platform to bring them to the level where a cameraman could get the mansion in the shot, a trick of perspective, as they delivered their sound bytes. They were from competing networks. I wondered how their sound guys would do with cutting out their rival's background chatter.

I was nearly past when one, a woman in a red power suit with flowing chestnut hair, called out, “Wait!” and jumped down from her box.

I was startled enough to turn and ended up with a camera in my face. I put a hand up to block it, and then realized that walking away would work even better.

A hand landed on my arm, and I was tempted to remove it with prejudice…if only the camera weren't rolling. Anyway, I supposed that if I got really desperate I could just give her
and
her cameraman the gorgon glare to get away. Enough to freeze them in their tracks, of course, not turn them to stone.
That
could be accomplished too, but it required blood I was not ready to spill.

I halted but didn't turn, so the woman circled around in front of me, her four-inch heels putting her at about eye-level with me in my boots. “You're that girl,” she said, eyes wide.

“Girl might be a bit of a stretch,” I answered ungraciously.

I recognized her, I thought. A stringer from Channel 9. Not a tabloid journalist or a sensationalist—that I knew of—but an on-site reporter, someone they sent to various scenes so the anchors would have someone to talk to from the comfort of their desks.

She smiled, and it did good things for her. “Sorry, let me introduce myself. I'm Susie Tallios from News9. I…I recognize you from the trouble in New York last month.”

I snorted. “Trouble” was possibly the understatement of the year. Zombies, plague demons, godly cabals, none of which had been limited to the Big Apple… Trouble didn't cover the half of it. But then, neither had the news.

“Rumors of my involvement have been greatly exaggerated,” I said, meeting her gaze in a way I hoped projected sincerity.

“And now you're here,” she said.

I bit back a comment on her mastery of the obvious.

“Can we talk?” she asked.

I considered that. I was looking for information. It was just possible she had some. News was her business, after all.

“Maybe,” I responded. “If you'll turn off your camera.”

She looked to the cameraman as if she'd forgotten all about him, and made a hand gesture that looked something like cutting her own throat.

I glanced back to see him making a few gestures of his own. When he saw me looking, he sighed heavily and lowered the camera. “Fine. I'll get some crowd reaction. But don't be long. They might want you to interview some of the neighbors or…” he shrugged, “…you know how it goes.”

“I do,” she said. “I'll be right with you.”

I waited for the cameraman to go off before facing Suzie again. My precog hadn't kicked up at her presence, which meant she didn't present a danger. It didn't mean she was my friend.

I crossed my arms over my chest. “So, what do you want?” I asked.

She looked after the cameraman to make sure he was really gone. “Listen, I'm ambitious, okay?” I did
not
roll my eyes. I'd seen it coming. “I've done some checking. Whatever else you might be, you're a P.I. You work here in L.A. You've been connected with Apollo Demas and with the murder earlier this year of that talent agent Circe Holland, the details of which are still hazy at best. You were photographed fighting off a crazed mob in Central Park.” It was fascinating the spin the press and everyone else had put on the sudden profusion of plagues and other insanity. But then, magic and myth were out of the realm of most peoples' experience. Conspiracies, on the other hand, were almost an everyday affair. Plus, they had the advantage of selling papers. I'd seen speculation blaming everything from killer viruses escaping the CDC to radical groups like ISIS and Al Quaida.

She lowered her voice, looked surreptitiously left and right. “And now,” she near-whispered, “here you are, right on the scene where two people were murdered, their brains literally scrambled…”

“Wait, what?”

She had my full attention now. She grinned as if she knew it. “I'll tell you what I know if you'll give me something I can use.”

I eyed her. It wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to make a reporter friend. It didn't seem like I could avoid the news anyway. Might as well use it to my advantage. Wasn't that what Apollo wanted? Would making my own friend keep me off the red carpet?

“I'll have to hear what you have first,” I said.

She eyed me back. “You good for it?” she asked.

“Cross my heart and hope to die.”

She turned a little green at that for some reason. It looked like she might even have lifted a hand to cross herself but caught herself first. Interesting.

“Okay then.” She looked around again to be sure no one close enough to overhear. A few of the spectators had turned from watching the nothing they could see through the crowd of people between them and the fence to watching us, but unless anyone had super hearing…a deeply underestimated superpower in my book… “Look, the rest of that saying, ‘Cross my heart and hope to die' is ‘stick a needle in my eye', right?” She didn't wait for an answer. “Well, that's pretty close to what happened.”

“More,” I said.

Her eyes scrunched shut for a minute. Her lips twisted. These weren't just words for her. Whatever had happened had left an impression. “Okay, this is going to sound crazy, but…well, look, I caught an officer losing his lunch over the scene inside. He talked before he could think better of it. Really, I think he was just trying to vent the horror. He swore me to secrecy. I can't use this…yet…but… Those poor people inside had skewers stuffed up into their brains and…when I say scrambled, I meant liquefied. And the police didn't find the fluids all over the floor, which means…”

“They were carried away,” I said. “Or…”

“Or drunk,” she whispered, barely forcing out enough air to form the words.

“Or drained away down the toilet or the sink or any number of things.”

Our eyes met and held. We both knew I was grasping at straws.

“What else?” I asked, sensing there was more.

“Their chests were torn open.”

“Torn how?”

“I don't know. He just kept repeating, ‘So much blood'.”

My precog chose that moment to chime in, as if I might not recognize that a ripped-open chest and missing brain were somehow significant. Dangerous. Deadly.

The blood cemented it. If the killers were worried about bodily fluids, the site would have been clean. To soak up the gray matter somehow and leave the blood… No, there had to be a method to their madness.

I didn't know a hell of a lot when it came to ancient Egyptian practices, but I'd had a childhood fascination with mummification…hadn't everyone? The brain, strangely, wasn't one of the organs the priests had deemed important to preserve. It was actually ripped out in pieces through the nose and discarded so that the cranial cavity could be packed with cotton and resin and various preservatives. The important organs were saved separately—the lungs, liver, stomach and intestines—all except for the heart, which they considered the seat of intellect as well as emotion. That stayed with the body.

What did it mean that the killers had gone for both? Modern sensibilities coupled with ancient superstition? After all, Jessica said her brothers had come back different, but
they had come back
. That meant they still knew how to get to the airport, suffer through security, use cell phones and credit cards and all that jazz.

“Wow,” I said, knowing I'd been silent a little too long.

“Yeah, wow. Your turn now. What can you tell me?”

I debated. I couldn't give up my client or anything she'd told me, clearly in confidence, but I suspected that if it hadn't been already, a BOLO—be on the look-out—would be issued for the Roland boys at any moment. I'd only be jumping the gun by a little bit tipping her off. Anyway, it couldn't hurt for the world to be warned against them.

It was my turn to look left and right, to make sure we weren't being overheard. “I hear the sons are ‘sought for questioning'.”

She stared at me. “Really? Like the Menendez brothers all over again?”

Another sensational L.A. homicide—years ago brothers Lyle and Eric Menendez had murdered their wealthy parents. It had been a bloody, sensational crime, but not like this…
nothing
like this.

“Something like that,” I said. “But remember, the investigation has just begun.”

“I'll be cautious.”

“And I'll be anonymous. I don't even want to be a ‘source close to the investigation' or anything like that.”

“But—”

“No,” I said firmly. “We might be able to help each other, but only if we play by my rules.”

She blew out a hard sigh. It ruffled her perfect hair. “Yo, Simon,” she yelled, calling back her photographer. I aimed to be out of range before he got back.

“Bye,” I said, fair warning, just to be polite.

“Wait,” she called to my already-turned back. Reluctantly, I glanced over my shoulder to see her holding out a business card. I had no idea where she kept it in that skin tight suit, but as warm and slightly damp as this one was, I could guess. “Call me if you want to exchange any more information.”

I tucked the card into my pocket. It was, after all, what they were for. “You too. I suspect you know where to find me.”

And I was off before the camera could hit. I'd gotten what I came for—information. Or, at least, all I was likely to get without access to the crime scene. Susie must have been one of the first reporters to the site if she'd been there early enough to witness a cop tossing his cookies over the scene. If she had her ear to the ground, not unlikely given her ambition, she might be a useful contact. Seemed about time to have the press working for me rather than against.

Chapter Three

I walked a little way down the street, back toward my parked car, and stopped to consult the notes Jessica had given me. I decided to start at the top—calling the numbers I had for the brothers and their friends. I didn't really expect an answer, not from the brothers anyway.

I wasn't disappointed there. I
did
get an answer on my fourth call, but the voice that answered wasn't the one I'd expected. From the name Viktor Ramone, I understandably expected a male voice. What I got was a female, exotically accented.

“Yes?” the voice said. Clipped. Precise. A don't-fuck-with-me voice.

“I'm looking for Viktor,” I told her. At the mention of his name, my gut felt like something…or someone…had given me a sharp kick to the solar plexus. Something was wrong.

“I'm sorry, Viktor can't come to the phone right now.” That sounded ominous. “Who is this?”

“Who is
this
?” I countered, because
oh yeah
, I was a master of interrogation.

“I am Neith,” she said, like that answered everything. “You do
not
want to get in my way.”

“You know what? Maybe I do.” I hung up on her.

Immediately I dialed Jesus, who answered after two rings, as always. According to him, “One ring says we're too hungry and three that we're too busy.”

“
But two is just right
,” I said in a singsong voice the first time he'd shared his philosophy. My next coffee came laced with cayenne.

“Karacis Investigations,” he said in his uber-efficient voice.

“Jesus, it's me. I need you to do an internet search on Neith.”

“Neith who?”

“Just Neith. One name, like Cher or Madonna.”

“O-kay,” he said. “Do I get a please?”

“You get a paycheck.”

He huffed.

“Okay, please and thank you.”

“That's better.”

He was going to train me yet.

I hung up on him too—I'd never really gotten the hang of good-byes—and programmed Viktor's address into my GPS.

Probably it hadn't been the smartest move to let this Neith lady know I was coming. I could be setting myself up to walk into an ambush, but I couldn't help myself. I was ornery. If you told me to go one way, I was bound and determined to go another. She didn't sound like the type of woman to put up with that.

Well she didn't know who she was dealing with.

My GPS guided me to a house farther down the Hollywood Hills. Bungalow-type. One floor, low to the land, probably open floor plan inside. Quite a step down from the Roland mansion, but given the location—and as they said in Hollywood, it was
all
about location, location, location—it was still probably a few mil above my pay grade.

My precog hammered at me now with a knocking in my stomach like I'd just left an all-you-can-eat burrito bar.

“Shut it,” I growled, like it would listen.

Miraculously, it did.

I sat for a second outside the house doing recon. Like the Roland mansion, it had a wall—this one a low brick wall with rose bushes poking over the top. It also had a gate, though it only rose to chest height. Easy as pie to just reach over the top, lift the little bar and let myself in. I didn't even understand the point of a gate that wasn't secured, unless it was for curb appeal.

Because I was impetuous but not crazy and didn't want to deal with the scolding later should anything happen, I texted Jesus to let him know where I was. There was no telling what I'd find inside the house…or who…but since the voice on the other end of the phone had made it clear that Viktor was indisposed, there were better than even odds I was walking into a crime scene. Maybe even walking in on the perp. If I let someone split my head open, I'd be in no condition to weather one of Jesus's lectures. Or Armani's, for that matter.

Reluctantly, I added that if I didn't check in after twenty minutes that he should call Nick.

I didn't wait for his response before I was out of the car and headed for the house. I reached over the gate and let myself in. The walkway beyond was paved unevenly, probably years ago before the ground had settled or the latest quake had shifted the earth, but the path was short and I was at the door before I'd finished the thought. Then I listened. Inside, as far as I could tell, was silence. The fact that the front door was ajar was worrisome, but also made it easier to listen in.

My precog jumped and fluttered in my gut like…something that jumps and flutters. A flying grasshopper, maybe. But I couldn't hear a thing inside. It was deadly silent.

In case I was in for an ambush, I gave the door a good swift kick to knock it into anyone who might be hiding behind it, but all it did was bounce loudly against the wall, probably leaving a mark, before coming back at me. I stopped it with a hand.

As usual, my gun was elsewhere. Anything that couldn't be stopped by my gorgon glare was only going to be seriously pissed off by a bullet wound.

So I entered the house with nothing drawn but my nerves. The foyer was nothing special. It opened almost immediately into a large living room with the focal point a large wood-burning fireplace. Not a television? I wondered, but then I spotted it just above, a huge flatscreen hanging on the wall in place of a painting or fancy family photo above the mantel. The coffee table was entirely obscured by used cups, dishes, two pizza boxes, a round of empty beer bottles and a humungous work boot, which I realized after a second was still occupied. I traced it to the body around the other side of the coffee table, worried I'd find the rest bloody and brainless, but the man's chest rose and fell as I approached. He didn't so much as bat an eye or turn in his sleep. There seemed to be a coin resting in the center of his forehead. Or…I leaned in closer…a round metal disk, anyway. Not gold but maybe bronze, pressed with some kind of symbols but worn to the point where they were barely readable, at least to me.

I took out my phone, clicked on the camera and snapped a close-up. For now I left the disk in place and moved on from the body, needing to be sure I was in the clear before I took things any further. I could see the dining area beyond the living room. Just a simple dark wood table and chairs with a buffet behind it and a hutch off to the side holding an alpine designed set that looked more Yosemite than L.A.

That was as far as the open concept went. The kitchen was its own contained space with two entryways—one leading toward the dining room along one wall, the other leading to the living room/foyer on the other. I wouldn't be able to see in without exposing some part of myself in the doorway.

My precog didn't like that idea one bit, by which I knew that whatever waited for me, waited there. But in poker terms, I was all in.

I jumped into the doorway, glaring around to catch the eye of whoever waited for me. Before I could, my head was grabbed and wrenched around so that I was propelled toward the wall. Just as quickly, one of my arms was yanked and twisted up behind me. I bit my cheek and as blood flooded my mouth, I muttered the ancient Greek words I'd been given to recall my wings. They flared out with the force of a parachute opening, and my attacker howled in surprise as she was thrown back. I heard her impact with the kitchen cabinetry and whirled to meet her.

She recovered quickly. A booted foot was already headed my way. I blocked with an arm, countered with a kick of my own. She grabbed my foot in mid-air, lightning fast, and twisted so hard I had to spin with it or wrench my ankle. I used the momentum and my wings to whirl me all the way around, catching her upside the head with my other foot as I twirled.

She oophed and staggered to the side, and I landed hard on the ground as she let go of my foot a second too late for a smooth landing. My wings took the brunt, but I used them to kip back to my feet. She hadn't fallen, but stood facing me, her eyes burning. Not like Hades's with their natural hellfire. Not even with hatred. Bloodlust, I'd say. Or battlefire.

It was the woman I'd faced off with for the right of way at the Roland crime scene. She was stunning. Not in a beautiful way, but in that way that would have been called handsome back in the drawing room days. Or fierce. She wasn't tall. Maybe five foot eight. Her skin was mahogany, her brows arched in that perfectly manicured way some women came by naturally. Her hair was braided back tightly to her head into a dozen or so rows, so no grabbing possibilities there. She was outfitted in bounty-hunter black from head to toe, with some kind of padded vest, maybe Kevlar, over her chest with a shield and crossed arrows design in muted red, black and brown across the front. Very
Hunger Games
.

Since she was so determined to stare me down anyway, I seized the moment. “Freeze,” I told her, putting everything I had behind it.

I was stunned when she didn't, instead becoming a blur of motion, coming for me. I didn't have time for a sigh, though I certainly felt it. Instead, I countered, blocked, countered again, lashed out, was denied. We were a flurry of strike, counterstrike, each getting in our blows but never enough to disable the other. Finally, I was just a second too slow, and the next thing I knew I was pinned to the refrigerator, the handle digging into my chest and a knife to my throat.

“No fair,” I said before I could stop myself. Moving sound through my throat brought it into more direct contact with the knife, and I felt it bite into my skin. I wondered if it was enough to make me bleed and whether I could use that. My blood on the knife wouldn't do a thing to me, but if I could turn it on her…

If I turned it on her, she'd be stone and I'd never get any answers.

“Who are you?” she asked, backing the knife off just enough to let me answer.

“I'm Tori Karacis, a private investigator. I have ID.” I wasn't stupid enough to reach for it. Not without her permission or an opening where I could take the upper hand.

“Show me,” she said.

“I'm going for my wallet,” I said.

Slowly I did, reaching into the pocket of my jeans. When I had the wallet out, I flipped it open and cautiously turned to show her.

She studied my license with so little interest I wondered why she'd asked.

“I've heard of you,” she said, grudgingly, knife still at my throat. “Why are you here?”

“I'm working a case,” I answered, replacing my ID. “I'm trying to find the Roland brothers. You know, the boys whose parents were killed. I saw you at the crime scene.”

“It's too dangerous for you,” she said, pulling the knife away, but not sheathing it. “This is outside your expertise.”

I slid out from between her and the refrigerator, toward one of the entrances so that there was nothing new for her to pin me against. Not without effort anyway. I'd gotten used to being a badass. I'd faced down gods, goddesses, plague demons—hell, even sea monsters—and, okay, I'd had help, but… I guess I'd started to take for granted that there was nothing I couldn't handle.

Being bested by a mere mortal… But wait, Neith hadn't responded to the gorgon glare. The only beings I'd ever seen unaffected were the older gods. Surely she wasn't…

Oh crap.

My phone buzzed just then. And buzzed. I had a call coming in. Had it been twenty minutes yet? Surely not.

“Sorry, I've got to take this,” I said, but I waited to see if she was going to take advantage of my distraction. Instead she nodded regally, granting permission.

I didn't trust it, but I didn't want Jesus calling in the cavalry if I didn't respond, at least not yet. I pulled the phone from my hip holster and swiped to accept the call.

“Chica,” he said, without even a hello, “you ask me to research the strangest stuff. I'm assuming you're not talking about the video game character, but the Egyptian deity, yes?” He didn't wait for my answer. “In brief, Neith is a warrior goddess and a goddess of domestic arts, weaving especially, which doesn't all seem to fit together, but there it is. At least that's how it all started. Later she seems to have gotten confused with Isis and became a protectress of the dead. She's also known for being chaste.” He said that like it was a bad word, “which with the warrior goddess thing might be why she's seen as some kind of corollary to Athena. Her fetish is two crossed swords on an animal skin or shield.”

“Oh,” I said, eyeing the insignia my attacker wore on her vest, “
that
Neith.”

“I can send you all the research.”

“Yes, please.”

“You sound funny. Do I need to call Detective Armani?”

“No, everything's fine,” I said, hanging up once again.

Neith and I stood eyeing each other. If she'd “heard of me” before, she knew who I was, probably knew I had gorgon blood running through my veins. Maybe that was even the reason for the instant animosity. If she'd been Athena, she didn't have the best track record with the gorgons. Myth had it that she was responsible for making Medusa into the monster she was, and all for something that wasn't her fault—being defiled by Poseidon. I knew all about how stories could be distorted, but until I knew another angle on this one I couldn't squash the…dislike was too weak a word. Hatred was poison. The
very strong
feelings I had for her. Or rather,
against
.

“So, warrior goddess,” I said finally. I tried to keep my voice cool and even. I mostly even succeeded.

“So, P.I. to the Pantheon,” she said back.

“Tell me about the man dead asleep in the living room.” I wasn't asking. I was commanding. She liked that about as much as I would have had our positions been reversed.

We walked back into the living room, watching each other warily, and stood over the unconscious man as though we weren't tromping all over a crime scene. Come to think of it, I didn't have any evidence of a crime. If he'd been drugged or knocked out with blunt force trauma or any number of things, I could call this in. But if he was bespelled… I didn't think there was a police code for that.
Calling all cars, calling all cars—there's a 666 going on at the Ramone residence…