Dying Bites: The Bloodhound Files-1 (30 page)

“Sorry, but partying with a pack of zerkers isn’t really my style. I’ll be in town, but my wild time is my own time.” The last remark is out of my mouth before I have time to think about it, but it feels right.

He smiles. “I can understand that. Maybe I’ll run into you out on the tundra—I like to spend at least one night on my own under the stars, too.”

“Maybe you will.” Good. If he’s spending his nights roaming around out in the wilderness, he won’t be searching for me in town.

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“Then I guess I’ll see you tomorrow,” he says. We’ve strolled back to where his bike is parked. “Thanks for the ice cream.”

He gets on, fires it up, and takes off. He nods at Charlie as he passes him, but doesn’t look back at me.

Charlie walks up and joins me. “How’d it go?”

“Hard to say.” I frown. “But the next three days are going to be interesting.”

The first night is incredibly boring.

I’d kind of expected a whole Wild West thing—you know, where the saloons are filled with bar brawls that spill out into the streets and result in drunken gunfights, with guys being shot off balconies and into horse troughs? Except there’d be blizzard bikes instead of horses, axes instead of guns, and all the yee-hawing would be replaced by growls, howls, and the occasional yip.

That doesn’t happen.

The first night the zerkers keep to themselves. From my room I can hear faint, bassheavy music and see the glow of a bonfire on the horizon, but that’s about it. Duvalier drops by and tells us they’ve bought up pretty much every drop of liquor in town, but he’s been assured they prefer their own company. He doesn’t know how long that’ll last and neither do I, but I tell him he can count on our assistance if he needs it. He nods, tosses me the keys to a half-ton truck parked outside, and says he’ll let me know.

Charlie and I stay indoors. I get on my laptop and spend the next few hours getting as much data from Gretchen and Eisfanger as they can give me, which isn’t much. We
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were right about the cause of death; the satellite broadcaster was exactly the same as the others and had been stolen from a container ship in Perth. I send Cassius an e-mail letting him know about the Bearbreaker situation and how I’m handling it; he congratulates me on getting a description and says he’ll have Gretchen try to find a match in our files.

Then I go to bed.

“Morning, Jace.”

“Mmnnuh.”

“You have a visitor.”

“Fwah. Go ’way. I have a gun.”

“He has coffee.”

I lift my head from the pillow and blink at Charlie blearily. “Then I’ll let him live. Whozit?”

“Prime suspect number one. I’ve got him cooling his heels downstairs.”

I’d expected Duvalier, but somehow I’m not surprised. “Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

I get up, throw on some comfortable clothes, run a brush through my hair and make sure I have my gun. Then I go downstairs, where Charlie and Bearbreaker are having an old-fashioned staring contest, with the newfangled twist of trying to look casual and vaguely amused at the same time. I think Bearbreaker might have been winning, but Charlie could probably take him in the long run.

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He offers me the coffee, which I politely decline. I may be a caffeine addict, but I’m not stupid. “Didn’t think you’d be awake yet,” I say, trying to sound alert.

He shrugs and drinks the coffee himself. “Haven’t been to bed yet.”

“Talk to your friend?”

“Not a lot of talking going on last night.”

For a second I think that’s some kind of sexual remark, then realize that with all the thropes wolfed out, none of them would be capable of talking—not vocally, anyway.

“You know what I mean,” I add quickly.

“Sure. And yeah, I did. Buy me breakfast and I’ll tell you what he said.”

“You pick the place.”

He grins. “I was hoping you’d say that. . . .”

Main Street is blocked off and lined with booths, filled with every person in town and probably quite a few from the surrounding area. There’s a number of pires wrapped up like mummies, but none of the thropes are in were form; I gather that during Moondays it’s tradition to only transform at night.

There’s a comforting kind of sameness to festivals, no matter where you are in the world. There are endless cultural variations, of course, but certain things seem like constants: there’s always food, performers, music, and games. The music and performance is currently being supplied by a small but funky bluegrass band twanging away on a small stage in front of the post office, the most popular game is a weird variant of volleyball played in an empty lot with a giant inflated sphere and no net, and
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the food seems to be, oddly enough, all vegetarian: candy apples, corn on the cob, lots of pastry and deep-fried starchy stuff.

As if reading my mind, Bearbreaker says, “Hope you got enough meat last night. I know the whole idea is to celebrate our human side during the day, but some months I just don’t eat at all until the sun goes down.”

“Yeah, I know what you mean,” I say, though I obviously don’t. From what Dr. Pete told me, I thought the whole idea of Moondays was for thropes to embrace their wolfiness; either I missed a few details or this is a regional variation. After all, Mardis Gras in New Orleans and Mardi Gras in Rio are two very different things.

Bearbreaker takes me to a booth selling something I’ve never seen before, some kind of mushroom dipped in batter and deep-fried. I’m a little wary, but I try a bite and discover it’s delicious—reminds me a little of prawn, somehow.

We take our food and wander down the street, Charlie keeping a discreet distance behind us. It’s both comforting and kind of embarrassing how he’s always present, like having your dad along as a chaperone.

“So I got a message from this Stoker guy.” Bearbreaker finishes his mushrooms and licks the grease off the ends of his fingers with a tongue like—well, a bear’s. “A message for you.”

He knows I’m here. It only verifies what I already suspected, but the statement still has an emotional impact. I don’t know where Stoker is—probably hundreds or even thousands of miles away—but there’s also the distinct possibility he’s looking at me right now through a pair of binoculars.

“Let me guess. I’m working for the wrong side.”

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“It was a little longer than that. I wrote it down.” He fishes a folded piece of paper out of the back pocket of his pants and hands it to me. It reads: Hello, Jace.

My condolences on being kidnapped from your home. I wouldn’t wish this world on anyone, least of all on someone who fights monsters. This place must be your worst nightmare; I know it’s mine.

They’re lying to you, Jace. They’re not the only ones that can send you home—I can, too. Human beings can do magic that vampires and werewolves find difficult or impossible, and that includes using your RDT to trigger a kind of slingshot effect; basically, eliminating the wards that are keeping you here and letting Mother Nature pull you back where you belong.

You don’t know how much I wish I could go with you.

I hope we get the chance to talk, face-to-face. I’m intensely curious to hear firsthand about a world where a human being can walk down a street without fear of being kidnapped and turned into a blood factory, or having their very humanity stolen by a bite or a scratch. It sounds like Heaven to me—but Heaven is not where I belong. I am a creature of Hell, sentenced there since birth, and I am sworn to fight the demons that rule it until my dying breath. I would be honored if you would join me in that fight, but it is not your battle and I do not expect you to make that kind of sacrifice for a world that is not yours.

We are not enemies. Can you blame me for fighting for the survival of my—of our—

species? If my methods seem brutal, remember that this is a war. I do what I have to, not out of sadism but necessity. It is not your fight, but I ask you out of simple humanity to not hinder me. By your inaction you will save countless human lives, and earn our eternal gratitude.

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And I promise I will get you home.

It’s signed Aristotle. Two seconds after I finish reading, it consumes itself in a quiet whoom of flame, making me blurt, “What the hell?”

“Sorry—warlock paper. Wasn’t my idea—guess he wanted to keep his offer private.”

“He dictated this to you?”

“Not in person. Rather not go into details.”

“Of course.” I study him, reevaluating. He must be one of Stoker’s most trusted lieutenants to be the go-between for something like this—or maybe he’s just a mercenary that’s being extremely well paid for his loyalty. “What’s your take on this, Bearbreaker?”

“Me? I’m just a soldier—kind of like your sandy shadow, behind us. I get paid for my skills, not my opinions.”

“Humor me.”

He doesn’t hesitate. “I think you should look out for your best interests. Works for me.”

“Despite his politeness, I don’t think your boss has my best interests at heart.”

“Who said he was my boss? Just a guy I’m passing along a message for.”

“Sure. This guy—you trust him?”

Bearbreaker stares at me for a moment, not saying a word. When he finally speaks, he looks away first. “In my business, bad instincts will kill you. Fast. My instincts say he’s a
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man of his word—otherwise I wouldn’t be here. But he’s got a real hate on for every pire and thrope alive, and I don’t think he’d hesitate for a second if he had the chance to wipe us all out.”

“If that’s true, why are you helping him?”

He turns back to me and grins. “Girl, I’m a zerker. I ride a bike in thirty-below weather bare-chested—you think I’m gonna let a little thing like a genocidal OR slow me down?

Hell, running into him is the most interesting thing to happen to me since that riot down in Mexico. I’m sticking around just to see what happens next . . . but I gotta say, I kind of see the man’s point.”

“How so?”

“I know what it’s like to be an outsider. To know the rest of the world doesn’t understand or give a damn about you, to know most people would be just as happy if you dropped dead tomorrow. I get that.” He shakes his massive head. “But like that Nietzsche guy said, whatever doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And this Stoker, he’s a tough customer—the world’s been trying to kill him for a long time, and it hasn’t done it yet. Me, I think the guy’s just trying for a little payback.”

“The world’s trying to kill him, so he’s going to kill it first?”

Bearbreaker shrugs. “Hey. Whatever works for you . . .”

And then he ditches me.

He excuses himself to duck into a nearby shop to use the john and never comes back. Charlie strolls over just as it’s beginning to sink in and says, “He stick you with the bill, too?”

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“Go check on him, will you?”

He does, and confirms my suspicions. “Back door,” he says. “Bet his bike’s gone, too.”

“No doubt.”

“What was that paper he handed you? The one that flash-fried?”

I hesitate. “Message from Stoker. Same thing the Irish decoy told me—I’m on the wrong side, I should be working for him instead of against him, yadda yadda.”

“Doesn’t give up easily, does he?”

“Neither do I.”

I contemplate taking the truck out to the zerker camp and arresting Bearbreaker—I can tie his bike to the murder scene; that’s enough to bring him in—but decide against it. First, I don’t have the manpower for that kind of operation, and second, putting pressure on Bearbreaker will just piss him off—he won’t roll over, and I’ll be severing the one link I have to Stoker. Better to keep the zerker in play and see what happens.

Charlie and I return to the inn and check in. Gretchen’s ID’d the vic as Elliot Dennison, an oil-rig worker from Anchorage. A number of previous arrests, mostly for public drunkenness and assault, similar to that of the Australian vic, Andrew Fieldstone. As far as the location goes, Gretchen hasn’t found any particular historical significance.

It’s frustrating. I can connect any two of the murders by type of victim or site, but they make no cohesive pattern when viewed overall. So far, two of the vics were thropes, two were pires. No consistency there. The one thing that does hold true is the methodology—killing a thrope with blood is a clear reference to vampirism.
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I’m still thinking about it when I go for dinner downstairs. Charlie’s up in his room, but there’s another woman eating in the small restaurant—one of the other guests, I assume.

I suppose I should say “dining” rather than eating; she’s obviously a pire, sipping blood from an oversize brandy snifter. Could be red wine, I suppose—but her pale skin and sharp incisors tell me otherwise. Besides, the Urthbone has given me a sensitivity to the emotions of thropes and humans, and she doesn’t broadcast at all—even when she looks up from the book she’s reading and smiles at me.