Dying Bites: The Bloodhound Files-1 (20 page)

“Yeah. You planning on just strolling over with that thing in your hand?” The tether was in a black bag slung over my shoulder—a little awkward, and not exactly designed for a quick draw.

“That’s where you come in, big guy. You’re going to sit right here and strike up a conversation with the bartender. About fishing. Complete with show-and-tell, understand?”

“I got it.”

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“When the moment arrives, I’ll signal and you toss me the rig. I know your arm’s good, but how’s your patter?”

“I spend all day talking to you, don’t I?”

“Oh, so you’re just going to start a fight?”

“Not unless he insults my casting technique.”

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that.”

I grab my beer and stroll up to Selkie’s table. She’s a slender, pale-skinned redhead with her hair cut short, wearing a leather bomber jacket over a green T-shirt. Her brother’s a chunky man with the same complexion and hair, wearing a pair of glasses with heavy black frames. The two unknowns are a skinny guy with scraggly black hair and a bony face, and a shaved-skull bodybuilder in a sleeveless black T-shirt. They both check me out as I walk up, and their gaze is a little too professional for my liking; definitely bodyguards.

“Hi,” I say. “You guys like sex toys?”

It’s probably the second-weirdest thing I’ve ever said to start a conversation, but I figure it’s strange enough to at least get a response. And with three men at the table, my offer of a free demonstration should fog their radar long enough to get the tether in my hands. This maneuver would probably get me shot in my own world, but here I just might be able to pull it off—

“Are you saying I’m fucked, Officer?” Selkie asks. My stomach clenches like a fist.

“Have a seat,” the skinny man says. He’s got dark hollows under his eyes you could hide bodies in. “We’ve been waiting for you.”

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“I’ll stay on my feet, thanks. You know who I am?”

“That we do,” Selkie says. Her accent is lovely. “I came here for a reason, you see. To deliver a message.”

Messages from terrorists are often signed with high explosives. I realize I’m a little unclear on exactly how advanced that particular technology is on this world; no guns doesn’t necessarily equal no bombs. I have the sinking feeling I’m about to be educated.

“We know about you,” Selkie says. “That you’re from another world, one with no vampires or werewolves in it. Is it true?”

I swallow. “Yes.”

She leans forward, her green eyes intent on mine. “Good God in Heaven above. What I wouldn’t give to see a place like that.”

My head hurts. My stomach hurts. For the first time in my career, I find myself wondering if I’m doing the right thing. I have no idea what to say to this woman.

“But that’s neither here nor there,” she says. “There’s bigger things at stake than what either of us wants, isn’t there? And what you want is the Impaler.”

“You know where he is?”

“Have you been here long enough to get a sense of this place? I’m sure your masters have kept you on a tight enough leash, but even so, the truth is hard to hide.”

“I think I’ve got a pretty good idea what’s going on.”

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“Do you now? You know about the Purists, and the camps? You know about how pires procreate?”

“I know about the camps.”

She nods. “That’s more than we expected. Tell me, have you given any thought to the kind of human being that exists in this world?”

“I don’t know what—”

“There are no weaklings in the human flock. The wolves and the bloodsuckers, they do a damn fine job of weeding those out. But then, there aren’t a lot of fighters, either; they’re eliminated as being too dangerous. The fighters that do survive have to be tough enough to not be picked off and smart enough to stay off the monster’s radar.”

“And that’s you, right?”

She smiles and shakes her head. “Me? I’m not what you think. Just another sheep tired of standing in line at the slaughterhouse, that’s all. But the Impaler is different.”

Her eyes narrow. “He wants you to know who he is. He’s not some faceless killer, not some myth dreamed up by the Resistance. He’s the strongest, fiercest free man on the planet. His family’s been staking pires and killing thropes for more than a hundred years, and he’s not going to stop. His name is Aristotle—tell that to your bosses, and see what kind of reaction you get.”

“I’ll do that,” I say. “Mind if I get another beer, first?” I wave in the general direction of the bar.

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Charlie puts the tether right in my hand. I whirl and jab with it, not really expecting success; she was far too prepared, and any of her colleagues has enough time to get between me and her.

But they don’t. None of them move a muscle, including Selkie. She stays exactly where she is as the black tentacles whip around her and tighten. She looks more resigned than shocked.

And then she changes. Not into another form, just another face. An older woman with salt-and-pepper hair and an ugly scar under her right eye.

The men at the table have all placed their hands very carefully on the table, palms up. None of them make eye contact. It has the feeling of a routine they’ve been forced to perform many times before.

I feel like I’m going to throw up, again. I’ve been had.

The question is, how many times . . .

“Aristotle,” Cassius says carefully. “Are you sure?”

Charlie, Cassius, and I are in Gretchen’s office on the intel floor. Gretchen and Cassius exchange a glance that tells me this is not good news.

“He’s supposed to be dead,” she says quietly.

“He’s supposed to have been dead for fifteen years,” Cassius replies. “Thoughts?”

“I think it explains a great deal.”

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“Doesn’t mean it’s true.”

“Excuse me,” I interject. “Who the hell is Aristotle, and why should I care?”

Gretchen looks at Cassius. He nods.

“Aristotle,” Gretchen says, “is descended from a rather infamous historical figure, one I believe has a well-known counterpart in your own world. But regardless of his ancestry, Aristotle was one of the most ruthless and hunted humans of the last fifty years. No photograph or reliable description of him exists; the only thing we can say for certain about him is that he’s very, very smart. It’s thought he was one of the central planners of the FHR until he was assassinated by one of his own in an internal coup.”

“So is it possible? Could he be the Impaler?”

“It would make a certain amount of sense,” Cassius says. “Considering his family tree.”

“Enough with the hints. Who’s he related to?”

Cassius hesitates, then says, “Aristotle’s last name is Stoker.”

It takes me a second to process, then I burst out laughing. “Stoker? As in Bram Stoker, the guy that wrote Dracula? Oh, that’s great. That’s too good.”

“In a world without vampires he created his own,” Gretchen says. “And destroyed them. On this world, he wasn’t limited to his imagination.”

“Bram Stoker was known by another name here,” Cassius says. “The Whitechapel Vampire Killer. Or as he called himself in letters to the press—”

“Jack the Ripper,” Charlie growls.

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“Why not?” I say. “I’ll bet he and Dr. Frankenstein shared a dorm room in college, right?”

“Sure. Make jokes,” Roger says. “That’s what you always do when you know you’re screwing up.”

He’s standing right behind Gretchen. Nobody else reacts to his presence—in fact, they all seem to be frozen in place. “You’re on the wrong side, Jace,” Roger says reasonably. He always sounded reasonable, even when he was dumping me. “And you know it.”

Then something explodes behind my eyes, and the last thing I see is a brilliant flare of red.

SEVEN

When I open my eyes, I’m back in a hospital bed. There’s an IV in my arm and a bandage on my forehead.

“You gave us quite a scare,” Dr. Pete says. He’s sitting beside the bed on a chair, studying me intently. I wonder how long he’s been there, and if he gives this much attention to all his human patients.

Then I think about how many of us are left, and wonder if he has any other human patients.

“I’m fine,” I say, sitting up in bed and wincing. “I just—what happened again?”

“You had a severe dissociative episode, brought on by RDT. You haven’t been taking your Urthbone.”

There’s no point in lying to him. “I didn’t like the side effects.”

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“Oh? Maybe you’d prefer a cerebral hemorrhage? Or to go into convulsions and die?”

He sounds a little angry.

“Are those my choices? ’Cause all of them suck.”

“What other symptoms have you been having?” Yeah, that’s a definite growl in his voice.

“Headaches. Nausea. Hallucinations—though I’m not too sure about the last one. Kinda hard to tell in your world, you know?”

“Look, you can’t stop taking your medication. I know you hate depending on anything or anyone, but this isn’t up to you. Take it if you want to live.”

“Yeah?” I blurt. “And what if I don’t?”

Okay, that was unexpected. I realize how close I am to crying, and try to get myself under control. “You’ve already given me some of the damn stuff, haven’t you?” I say, sniffing back tears. “That’s why I’m so damn emotional.”

“Of course we did. When Charlie brought you in here you were bleeding from the ears and having trouble breathing. Or would you have preferred we just let you die?”

I don’t say anything.

“Suicidal ideation is part of RDT,” he says, his voice softer. “I told you, Jace—your body and this universe aren’t a match. They’re trying to reject each other.”

That provokes a bitter laugh. “Yeah, I know all about rejection. Got my own personal demon showing up to jeer me on, as a matter of fact.”

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“Don’t listen to it. I promise you, RDT does fade with time. I know you’re tough enough to hang on until it does.”

“You don’t know anything about me,” I say. “You don’t know about trying to crack the glass ceiling in the Bureau. You don’t know what it’s like to have your mother call you on your birthday and beg you, in tears, to quit your job. You don’t what it’s like to be yanked out of your world and into a nightmare. So stop pretending you do.”

He regards me calmly and waits. After a moment he says, “Feel better?”

“A little.”

“Maybe I don’t know everything about you, Jace, but I know you’re not shy about expressing yourself. I want you to promise to do that—tell someone about what you’re going through, don’t just lash out in frustration.”

“Who? I’m kind of a peer group of one.”

“Me, if you want. Call me anytime. We can go for coffee, talk about anything that’s bothering you. Just because I turn into a wolf under a full moon doesn’t mean I don’t know what it’s like to be human.”

“I’ll think about it.”

“Or you could try talking to your partner.”

“Charlie? You want me to have a heart-to-heart with a walking statue?”

“He’s more than that, and you know it. He’s also been standing guard outside your room ever since he brought you in.”

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“Sure he isn’t just asleep? It’s kind of hard to tell.”

“You can ask him yourself.” He walks over to the door and opens it. “She’s awake—you can come in.”

Charlie walks in, holding his fedora in both hands. It’s the first time I’ve seen him without it, and it makes him look oddly vulnerable. “Hey, lazybones. Done goofing off yet?”

“Sure. Let’s get back to work.” Even to my own ears, my voice sounds as flat as roadkill and about as enthusiastic. I find I don’t much care.

“Charlie?” Dr. Pete says. “Can I have a word with you?”

Charlie nods and follows him out into the hall. They’re only gone a few minutes, and I spend the time wondering what’ll happen if I don’t catch the Impaler. Will they fire me, just turf me out on the street? And how long will it be before Isamu or one of his men shows up in my bedroom one night and I just vanish? Not that they’ll kill me, of course .

. .

Maybe suicide is actually the smart option.

Charlie comes back in with a wheelchair instead of Dr. Pete.

“I don’t need that,” I say. “Besides, I can’t go anywhere. I’m having dinner.” I motion to the IV drip in my arm.

“We’ll get it to go,” he says. “The stand’s on wheels. Now climb aboard—I got something I want you to see.”

I can tell by the tone of his voice he isn’t asking. I sigh and give in.

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He takes me down the hall and to an elevator, then up to the fifth floor. The sign on the wall identifies it as Long Term Critical Care, which seems like a contradiction in terms to me; people in critical condition either get better or die.

“Why are we here, Charlie?”

“Consider it a field trip.”

He pushes me down the hall and up to the door of a private room. I can hear the steady, low thrum of a motor; it gets much louder when we go inside.

The noise is coming from the structure that dominates most of the room, a platform about three feet high and the size of a double bed. A corpse floats about eighteen inches above it, suspended in mid-air by the powerful air jets in the platform. The body is horrifically burned; in places, there are only clumps of charred flesh clinging to bare bone. Much of the skull is exposed, no lips or nose left. And the eyes—