Bloodstone (10 page)

“What?” the female zombie and I asked at the same time.

“Go with her. This freak’s into knives and shit like that. I don’t want her charging out of the bedroom with a goddamn sword.” He shooed at her with both hands. “Go on. Make yourself useful for once.” He turned to Kane. “Can you believe it? Two chicks on the entire goddamn Goon Squad, and I draw one of ’em as my partner. See what I mean about my lousy goddamn luck?”

The zombie got up and followed me to the bedroom. We introduced ourselves on the way. Her name was Pamela McFarren—“But everyone calls me Pam”—and she’d been a corrections officer before the plague had turned her into a zombie. Like two thousand other Bostonians who’d woken up to find themselves zombified, she’d lost her job and her home when she was forced to relocate to Deadtown. “I didn’t mind,” she said, shrugging. “Moving out of the South Bay House of Correction and onto patrol was really a promotion.”

“Even with Norden as a partner?”

She barked out a laugh. “Hey, I worked in corrections. He’s a pussycat compared to some of the people I dealt with there.”

“Norden” and “pussycat.” Two words I never expected to hear in the same sentence, unless it was something like, “Norden ran over his neighbor’s pussycat and laughed about it.”

“Besides,” McFarren continued, “his previous partner died. I can cut the guy a little slack while he deals with that.”

“I knew his partner. Brian Sykes was a good man.” And one of the zombies who’d been torn to shreds by the Morfran.

“Yes,” McFarren agreed. “His death was a real loss to the force. I figure that’s why Norden’s kind of weird around zombies now. Twitchy, like. And mean.”

“Pam, he’s that way around everybody. Norden’s one of those guys who comes across as a major-league asshole. He’ll irritate the hell out of you and enjoy doing it. And then he says or does something that makes you think, ‘Yup, it’s true. He’s a major-league asshole.’”

McFarren laughed. Then she did me the courtesy of turning around so I could get dressed.

I found a pair of my jeans in a drawer and pulled them on under the towel. I unwrapped the towel and hung it on the back of the door. I left Kane’s shirt on. I liked the way it felt, big and slouchy and suffused with Kane’s scent: hints of pine in a deep, moonlit forest.

When we walked back into the living room, Norden, notebook in hand, was questioning Kane. My stomach clenched at the thought that he might tell Norden where Juliet was. Surely he wouldn’t betray her—not when I’d asked him to give her a chance. But he didn’t trust her; maybe he’d rather see her in custody.

I swallowed the lump of worry in my throat and listened.

“At that time,” Kane was saying, “I was in my office. I spoke with the security guard, when I signed in and again when I signed out. Several members of the night cleaning crew saw me, as well.”

“Where’s your office?”

“Near Government Center.” He gave the address, and Norden scribbled it down.

“How come you were there at midnight?”

“I needed some papers I’d left on my desk. I went in to pick them up and then did some work while I was there.” He looked up at the ceiling, as if calculating. “I passed through the checkpoints around . . . one thirty, I’d say, and then came straight home.”

“We can verify all this, you know.”

Kane looked Norden in the eye. “I’d think you were slacking if you didn’t.”

Norden turned to me, his trademark sneer in full force. “Oh, look. She found some pants. So where were you tonight, freak?”

“Me?” I kept my gaze on Norden’s face to resist the temptation of glancing at Kane for a clue about what he’d already said. “When we got back to Boston after dinner with my sister, I asked him to drop me off at the checkpoint. I felt like a drink.”

Norden’s head snapped toward Kane. “You didn’t say anything about being with the freak.”

“You asked me where I was between midnight and one thirty. I told you.” Kane’s voice sounded calm, that of a lawabiding citizen being reasonable. But there was an undercurrent of threat that would make any werewolf’s hackles rise. Not that Norden noticed. “And don’t call Ms. Vaughn names.” The threat deepened. “As an officer of the law, it’s your duty to be respectful to the citizens you protect.”

Norden’s wheezy laugh showed what he thought of that idea.

“It’s okay, Kane,” I said. “Just part of Norden’s unique charm.” But now I knew that Kane hadn’t mentioned me, or my visit to the holding facility, in his account of the evening.

They’d find out about the drive out to Needham anyway, when they checked for any permits we’d filed. But for now, Kane hadn’t said a word more than he had to.

“Okay,” Norden said to me, “so you went out in the Zone. Where?”

“A couple of places. The Wild Side. Conner’s.” Lying to Norden about visiting those places didn’t worry me in the least. Every bartender in the Zone was an expert at fobbing off cops who came around asking questions. It was a matter of principle. “There was a party at Creature Comforts, and I stayed there for a while. Then I came here.”

Norden’s pencil flew across the page. “So you don’t know where this Juliet Capulet is, either.”

I shook my head. He issued a disbelieving snort in response.

“Okay, how about associates? Your roommate have any, um, unusual associates?”

That made me laugh. “She’s an almost-seven-hundred-year-old vampire. I’d guess she’s probably picked up a few unusual associates in her time.”

“We’re specifically interested in unregistered paranormals,” McFarren said, in a tone that suggested she was trying to be helpful.

“I’m asking the questions,” Norden snapped. “You’re observing. Observing means you shut up and watch. Look it up in a dictionary.”

I knew what they were fishing for, seeing as I’d left the headless corpse of an Old One on the floor of Juliet’s cell. But I shrugged. I wanted to talk to Juliet and find out more about her association with the Old Ones before I gave any information to the police.

Norden didn’t have any more questions. He grumbled about how much he hated his job again already, then barked at McFarren that they had other places to go.

McFarren offered me her hand. “Thanks for your cooperation,” she said. We shook, even though she wouldn’t be thanking me if she knew how much information I’d held back. But it was nice of her to make an effort—and unusual for a Goon.

Norden snorted derisively, so I grabbed his hand to shake, too. It was cold. Icy cold, like grabbing a metal railing on a subzero January day. The shock of it hurt my fingers.

Norden flung my hand away and pulled on a pair of gloves. “What?” he said. “I got circulation problems since I got cut up. That okay with you, freak?”

“Whatever.” My fingers felt like they had frostbite. I clutched them with my other hand to warm them up.

“Come on, let’s go.” McFarren touched Norden’s arm.

He yanked away, grimacing. “Don’t touch me. Don’t
ever
touch me. Not if you know what’s good for you.” He wrenched open the door. “Goddamn walking corpse,” he muttered as he left.

McFarren was right. Norden
was
extra twitchy and mean around zombies, even by his own standards. We exchanged a look, then she followed Norden into the hall. When the door closed behind them, I turned to Kane. “Thanks for not giving Juliet away.”

“I did that for you, not her.” His face clouded. “Besides, I’m no friend of the Goon Squad.”

I sat down next to him on the sofa. He put an arm around me, ran his fingers lightly along my collarbone, inside the shirt collar. “You know,” I pointed out, “you say ‘previously deceased human’ instead of zombie. You say ‘paranormal American’ instead of monster. You even say ‘human’ instead of norm. But that’s the second time tonight I’ve heard you call the JHP the Goon Squad.”

“Well, they
are
goons. They patrol Deadtown to enforce laws that residents had no say in. Their purpose isn’t to protect and serve; it’s to intimidate and oppress.”

“McFarren seems okay.”

“Yeah. Maybe she’ll do the world a favor and tear Norden’s head off before the night is out.” Kane sighed, and there was real weariness in the sound. “It’s been one disaster after another tonight.”

“I don’t know.” I snuggled in closer. “I kind of enjoyed our shower.”

He leaned into me and inhaled deeply. “I like it when your hair smells like my shampoo.” He inhaled again. “See, that’s how we should’ve
started
the evening. We’d never have made it out of the apartment. No awkward dinner, no vampire jailbreak, no Goon Squad visit.”

“I’m glad I got Juliet out of there. I’m glad she’s safe.” If I hadn’t been there, the Old Ones would have grabbed her. I was certain of it.

“I’m glad she’s safe, too. And I honestly hope you’re right about her.” He squeezed my shoulder. “Come on, let’s get to bed. We’ve both got to be up early.”

True. Dawn was a few short hours away. And as soon as the sun cleared the horizon, I’d be knocking on Axel’s door.

A CLOSED SIGN HUNG CROOKEDLY IN CREATURE COMFORTS’ window, but the door was unlocked. I pulled it open and stepped into the half-gloom of the unlit room. The bar had been cleaned up since the werewolves left. The tables were in their usual places; the smell of ammonia blotted out any lingering traces of champagne and werewolf musk. I wondered if Kiana had made her friends help Axel tidy up.

“Axel?”

He came forward from the storeroom, wiping his hands on a towel.

“How’s Juliet?”

He flipped the towel onto his shoulder. “Stitched up her leg. Dunno if it helped.”

That didn’t sound good. Vampires shouldn’t need stitches. When a vampire gets injured, the edges of the wound creep back together and knit up invisibly, not even leaving a scar. Of course, that
should
have happened before we left the holding facility.

Axel gestured for me to follow him. We went down the back hallway, past the ancient payphone, past the restrooms—Axel had labeled them BOOS and GHOULS to amuse tourists—and past the door to Axel’s cellar apartment.

“Um, Axel?”

He stopped, turned around, and raised an eyebrow.

“Isn’t Juliet in your apartment?”

I couldn’t tell whether his grunt was negative or affirmative, but he kept walking toward the storeroom.

Had he actually set up a cot for her back there? It wasn’t secure enough, not with the Goons and the Old Ones looking for her. After I saw Juliet, I’d try to convince Axel to let her into his lair.

But as we entered the storeroom, there was no sign of a cot. No sign of Juliet at all. Axel went over to some beer kegs near the back of the room. He twisted a cap on one of them, and a hidden door slid open. Beyond the door was a staircase descending into the cellar. Axel started down it.

“Wait, this is the door to your place? What about that triplelocked steel door with the oversized NO ENTRY sign?”

“Front door.” He kept going. “This is the guest room.”

“Guest room? You’ve got a guest room?”

At that he stopped and turned around. “For guests,” he said, looking like he thought maybe he’d have to explain the concept to me.

Okay. So Axel was solitary, intimidating, and fierce about his privacy. That didn’t mean he couldn’t have company come to stay once in a while. I guessed.

As I descended the dark, narrow staircase, I couldn’t see anything beyond Axel’s broad back. So I was astonished to step into a room that looked like it belonged in an upscale hotel. A king-sized platform bed took up most of the far wall. To my left was a seating area, with a loveseat and two upholstered chairs. A desk, dresser, and bookcase filled out the furniture. To my right, a half-open door led into a marbletiled bathroom. The windowless room should have felt like a cave, but the light woods and bright colors, along with well-placed lighting, made it feel cozy, even welcoming.

Axel’s guest room. I shook my head. Yeah, it
was
a tough concept to grasp.

Juliet seemed tiny in the huge bed, propped up against a mountain range of pillows. She looked about the same as when I’d last seen her—pale and thin, with dark circles under her eyes. Again, not good. There should be more evidence she was getting better. But she was sitting up, and an empty bottle on the nightstand showed she’d eaten. That was something.

Axel muttered a few words about letting us talk. As he clomped up the stairs, I noticed those stairs were the only way in or out of the room. No connecting door to Axel’s place. It was the only thing about Axel’s guest room that didn’t surprise me.

I sat on the edge of the bed. “How’s your leg?”

Juliet winced. “Hurts like Hades.”

“Do you feel up to talking? I’ve got a million questions for you.” When Juliet closed her eyes, I added, “But I promise I won’t ask them all at once.”

A smile twitched her lips. “ ‘Ask me what question thou canst possible / And I will answer unpremeditated.’ ”

“Is that Shakespeare?” If it was, I’d take it as a sign that Juliet was feeling better. My roommate was the real Juliet Capulet, the one who’d actually lived in fourteenth-century Verona, and she had a serious Shakespeare obsession. She said she hated the guy because he’d twisted her story so much, but she’d gone on to memorize everything the Bard had ever written. She dropped Shakespeare quotes into conversations like other people add “um” and “you know.”

She nodded, still smiling. “Of course. Nobody else talks like that. So there’s one question answered.” She opened her eyes again. “But I don’t think that one was actually on your list. Let me guess. Question number one is: What are the Old Ones?”

“Sounds like a good place to start. My aunt told me a little about them.” I’d asked Mab about them after they’d spirited away Pryce’s comatose body. “She said they feed off you—off vampires, I mean—in the same way vampires feed from humans.”

“Yes and no. The Old Ones slaughter humans for their physical needs—you saw what they did to those guards. They’re so ancient and desiccated, though, they don’t require much blood to live. What really sustains them is power. And power is what they drain from vampires.”