Bloodstone (12 page)

Before I could ask what she meant, her eyes closed. And that was it. She was dead to the world until sunset.

 

 

UPSTAIRS, AXEL SAT WAITING IN A BOOTH, RAPPING OUT A complicated rhythm on the tabletop. He stopped when he saw me.

“I don’t know why she’s not healing faster,” I said. “I wonder if the blade of the sword that injured her was poisoned. I’m going to get it checked.”

Axel nodded his approval.

“Can I use your phone?”

I don’t carry a cell phone. When I change form, the energy blast of the shift is tough on electronic gadgets. After I obliterated three cell phones in a single month, I gave up. Axel nodded again and resumed tapping.

I went behind the bar and dialed the work number of Daniel Costello, a human detective who worked for Boston PD’s homicide division. Daniel wasn’t just a cop; he was a friend. Once I’d thought maybe we’d be more than friends. His curly blond hair and blue eyes, his easygoing manner and warm smile, had sent a flush of pleasure through me whenever we were together. But my world, filled with demons and monsters, had proved too weird for him—not to mention too threatening to his job under a paranormal-hating police commissioner. Now I was back with Kane, and Daniel was dating Lynne Hong, a television reporter. And this wasn’t a social call. As I listened to the phone ring, I wondered why I still knew his number by heart.

Daniel wasn’t in yet, but I left a message for him to call me, asking to set up a meeting for later this morning if possible. I was hoping he could have one of his forensics guys check the Old One’s sword for poison. I couldn’t get the antidote if I didn’t know what the poison was. And I wanted to tell him my theory about the Morfran, how the South End Reaper could be possessed by that hunger-driven spirit. I wasn’t sure what he could
do
with that information, but it seemed like something he should know.

After I hung up, I sat with Axel. “I know you must want to get to bed, but can you wait up a little longer? I want to go home and get a healing salve my aunt gave me, so I can use some on Juliet.”

Axel quit tapping on the table and opened his hand. It held a key.

“That’s to the front door?”

“Back.” Even better. There’d be less of a chance someone might see me in the alley. Waltzing into Creature Comforts in the middle of the day would be sure to cause comment if anyone noticed.

Axel handed me the key, and I felt like I was getting the key to the city from the mayor himself. No, this was better. This key actually opened something important.

We went back into the storeroom, and Axel showed me how to open the secret guest room door. It was tricky; you had to twist the false keg’s cap just the right distance and with just the right amount of pressure, or nothing happened. When I’d managed to open the door three times in a row, Axel grunted. I think it signaled approval. At any rate, he went down the hall and disappeared through the NO ENTRY door into his place.

I let myself out the back door. Juliet wasn’t getting any better, but for the moment, she was safe.

SOMEONE HAD LEFT A PILE OF LAUNDRY ON THE SIDEWALK in front of my building. Or that’s what it looked like until the pile stood up, put gloved hands on hips, and addressed me in an annoyed voice.

“Where have you been?”

“Oh, is that you, Tina?” Tina was the zombie who’d been my demon-fighting apprentice—until she ditched the whole idea for a chance at becoming a pop singer. “For a second I almost thought you were my mom.”

“Ha. Ha.” The laundry followed me inside. I nodded to Clyde, the zombie doorman, and headed for the elevators. Now that she was out of reach of the morning sunlight that could permanently damage a zombie’s skin, Tina began discarding layers, dropping them on the floor as she went. She pulled off a wide-brimmed hat, taking a moment to fluff up her hair; unwound a long, multicolored scarf; and yanked off bright pink gloves. They formed a trail behind her like she was in a zombie version of
Hansel and Gretel
, making sure she could find her way home.

“Young lady!” called Clyde. “Pick up those clothes. The lobby is not a cloakroom!” Clyde’s awfully prim and proper for a zombie.

“It’s only for a minute. I have to get home—it’s already past curfew there.” Tina lived in a group home for underage zombies. She lowered her huge, round, pink-tinted sunglasses to make sure I could see her scowl. “I need to talk to Vicky for a minute.”

When she didn’t move to pick up her clothes, Clyde came out from behind his desk. He gathered the hat, the scarf, the gloves, and a jacket Tina had dropped in the meantime. He thrust the bundle into her arms, punctuating the action with a loud
hmmph!
Then he returned to his station.

Tina scurried toward me—although
scurry
probably isn’t the right word to describe the stiff-legged way zombies walk—clutching her bundle of clothes. A glove dropped to the floor. She didn’t notice. I retrieved it and put it on top of the pile.

“Okay, Tina, what do you want?” I might as well hear whatever she had to say here and now. If she followed me up to my apartment, I’d never get her to leave, curfew or no curfew. And I had things to do.

“You’re
never
around anymore. How am I supposed to talk to you? You don’t even have a cell phone.”

“You know why I can’t carry a cell phone.”

“Well, then you should give me the phone number of what’s-his-name, that werewolf dude. That’s where you are all the time, with him. Right?”

“I see Kane sometimes, yes. And no, you can’t have his phone number.”

“So I’m supposed to sit around and wait until you decide to come home?”

I squinted at her. “Are you sure you’re not my mother?”

“That’s even less funny than it was the first time.” She dropped her jacket and other gear at her feet and spun around to shout to Clyde, “Don’t worry! I’ll pick it up in a minute.” She turned back to me. “Okay, so here’s the deal: I want to be your apprentice again.”

Oh, no. Not that. Anything but that. “I thought you were writing your memoirs.”

“I am. But I need, you know, more stuff to happen.”

“So saving Boston from a Harpy attack and almost becoming a pop star aren’t enough?” Tina’s short-lived singing career had ended with her first concert, when attacking Morfran sent the crowd running through the streets in a screaming panic.

“Almost, almost, almost. See, that’s the problem. I fought off some Harpies, yeah, but you defeated Hellion that commanded them. That’s what really saved Boston. And there’s as many ‘almost’ pop stars out there as there are MySpace pages. Who wants to read about somebody who
almost
did something big? You have to help me do something for real.”

“Tina, fighting demons isn’t something you can do halfway. It’s not about gathering material for your memoirs. It takes hard work and serious commitment—”

“Yeah, yeah, I know. You said all that before. How it’ll take a long time and how I have to be all single-minded and stuff. I get it.” She bounced on the balls of her feet. “So when’s our next job?”

“You really think I’m going to say yes, just like that? A month ago, you decided demon-fighting was your ‘backup’ career. What’ll your new career be next month—fashion designer? Actress? Reality TV star? I can’t pour my time and effort into your training if you’re only going to give fifty percent.”

Tina’s expression grew thoughtful. “Reality TV,” she breathed. “That would be awesome.”

I pressed the button for the elevator. “Go home, Tina.”

She stuck out her bottom lip. “Why are you so mean?”

“You think I’m mean? You should meet my aunt, the woman who trained me. Mab accepts no excuses, no weakness, no ‘maybe, maybe not.’ You wouldn’t last ten minutes with her. That’s the problem—I was way too soft on you.” I’d taken on Tina as an apprentice because I felt sorry for the kid—zombified, abandoned by her parents, and most likely doomed to a life of manual labor. Zombies’ strength was the only thing norms valued about them. But feeling sorry for someone didn’t make her a good apprentice. Tina had stolen my most valuable weapon, tried to fight demons without proper training, and then quit with two seconds’ notice. She just wasn’t serious.

Her chin jutted out. “So get tough. I can take it.”

“Why, so you can write about how ‘mean’ I am in your memoirs? No, Tina. You had a chance to be my apprentice, and you quit.”

“But—”

“
No.
You made the decision, not me.” The elevator door opened, and I got in. The doors closed on Tina’s angry face. Well, that was her problem. I didn’t have time to fool around with a half-assed apprentice. And more than once, she’d proved that was exactly what she was.

So why did I feel a sting at the disappointment in her eyes?

 

 

MY VOICE MAIL HAD THREE MESSAGES: ONE FROM A POTENTIAL client who needed some nightmare-causing Drudes chased out of her dreamscape; the second from Gwen, who wanted to meet for lunch. “Please call back as soon as you get this,” she said. “There’s something I need to discuss with you.” I wondered if Maria had confided in Gwen about her dreams.

The third call was from Daniel. “I got your message,” he said. “If you come by the precinct, I can meet you at ten. If you can make it then, call back to confirm.”

I checked the kitchen clock. Ten would give me time to set up lunch with Gwen and return to Creature Comforts with some salve for Juliet. I called back to say I could meet him then, leaving yet another message.

I’d call the client later. The first phone contact with a new client often takes a while. It’s not just a matter of listing symptoms and setting up an appointment; most clients need a lot of reassurance that their demons can be vanquished. That in itself is a sign of a demon infestation—it’s in the demons’ interest, after all, to make their victims believe no help is possible. From her message, this woman sounded like a talker. She could wait until after lunch.

Next I called Gwen. “You want to come into Boston for lunch on a Sunday?” I asked. That was usually a family day in the Santini household.

“Nick is taking Maria and Zack to a community basketball tournament,” she said. “It’ll last all day. That leaves me with the baby, and I’ll call his sitter. You and I didn’t have much of a chance to talk last night.” I had a feeling Gwen wasn’t in the mood for a sociable chat, but we agreed to meet at a diner near South Station at noon.

I got a cotton ball from the bathroom and swiped it along the blade of the Old One’s sword. Brown Robe had sawed at Juliet’s leg with one edge of the sword; I was careful to take the sample from the other edge. The cops had a sample of Juliet’s DNA on file—as they did for every resident of Deadtown—and I didn’t want to hand the Goon Squad any leads in their search for her. I dropped the cotton ball in a plastic bag, sealed it, and put it in my purse.

Next, I went back into the bathroom and rummaged through the medicine cabinet until I found the jar of salve Mab had given me. I removed the lid and sniffed the contents. It had a deep, earthy scent, overlaid with lighter notes of herbs and some kind of flower—lilac, maybe? It smelled like health, like spring. This salve had helped me recover from a Morfran attack without a scar. The attack had been bad: dozens of demonic crows swooping at me, tearing at my flesh with their beaks and talons. Yet the salve had made me whole again. My skin tingled with the memory of its healing coolness. I hoped it would do the same for Juliet.

 

 

BACK AT CREATURE COMFORTS, I STOOD OVER JULIET’S bed. She lay still, no rise and fall of the chest to suggest she’d ever open her eyes again. She looked so vulnerable. I thought of all the horror movies that showed a vampire looming over some sleeping innocent, eager to do harm. But Juliet was the defenseless one here. Anyone who managed to find her—Goon Squad cop, Old One, even a Humans First fanatic—could do her harm.

The thought made me feel creepy, since I was the one standing over Juliet’s bed. But I was here to help her, and she’d given me permission to use the salve. Still, it felt wrong somehow to pull back the comforter and expose her leg as she slept, completely dead to the world. I did it, anyway.

I studied the wound, looking for any sign of healing, but I had to admit it looked worse. The leg was swollen and purple, still hot to the touch. If nothing else, the salve should cool it. I scooped some from the jar and spread it on the affected area as gently as I could.

Juliet didn’t move, didn’t even twitch.

I watched for a few minutes. The purple lightened a bit, grew a shade pinker. Or maybe I was imagining that in my hope of seeing some improvement. I spread on another layer of salve, then covered Juliet’s leg with the comforter. I placed the jar of the salve on the nightstand where she could reach it.

“Sleep well,” I said softly before I clicked off the light. “ ‘Sleep dwell upon thine eyes, peace in thy breast!’ ”

Damn, listen to that. I’d come up with a good Shakespeare quote—from
Romeo and Juliet
, no less—and Juliet wasn’t awake to hear it. Sometimes Juliet wanted to conduct whole conversations in Shakespearean. When she did, I could never cough up any apt lines. She wouldn’t believe me when I told her. But that didn’t matter. Shakespeare or not, the words expressed what I wanted to say.

 

 

WHEN I ARRIVED AT THE PRECINCT A FEW MINUTES BEFORE ten, Daniel was already waiting in the lobby. He looked restless, running his hands through his blond curls and checking his watch. Although we’d spoken on the phone a few times, I hadn’t seen him since the Paranormal Appreciation Day concert a month ago. I was shocked to see how haggard he looked: his mouth grim, his bloodshot eyes smudged with dark circles. The Reaper case must be running him ragged. Still, he smiled when he saw me. His expression brought back the old Daniel, the one whose smile always went straight to my core.