A Drop of Red (6 page)

“Hey, Cujo,” she said to her reclining dad after she’d prepped herself.

He opened one eye.

She cracked open the heavy door. “Stay frosty, just in case this lady gives me grief?”

Frank grunted, then got out of his chair. He’d be watching from the entrance, taking up Dawn’s back without intimidating the caller unless required.

Ready for a hunt—shit, she hoped this was finally the start of it—Dawn stepped outside.

The cold air instantly sucked up to her as she descended the few stairs that led to the pavement. Streetlamps gave weak assurance while a train slowly rumbled by on its raised track to the left of the brick structure where the team resided. Music from the vintner next door mumbled in the night as Dawn focused across the street.

There, in front of the iron gates of the Cross Bones Graveyard, stood a woman packed into a heavy red wool coat and scarf. A breeze toyed with her shoulder-length, ultra-curly black hair while she perused the ribbons, cards, and mementos tied to the cemetery gates.

They were gifts from locals and visitors who’d dropped by to respect the dead. A group had even been here on Halloween with their candles and sympathy, and Dawn had watched them out the window, her hand on the cold glass.

Now, she walked closer to the graveyard, which wasn’t actually much more than a cement slab beyond the gates. Still, in the quiet wind, she could hear the ribbons stirring, as if restless.

Hand on the dagger in her back pocket, she cleared her throat.

The woman turned around, and right before she smiled, Dawn saw that she had the plushest, deepest-pink lips ever. Blow-job lips, one of the stunt guys on a movie set might’ve called them. And even in the deepening night, the visitor’s dark eyes sparkled—but not with anything preternatural, necessarily.

Although you never could be sure.

She also wore a poppy in her hair, right above an ear, but Dawn thought that might be because of the approaching Remembrance Day, which was like Memorial Day in the U.S.

“Hello,” the informant said in slightly accented English.

Good God, she talked a little like Costin.

“Hi.” Dawn kept ahold of that dagger. “Are you the caller?”

“Yes.” The girl—on closer inspection, she couldn’t have been older than her early twenties—took her gloved hand out of her coat pocket to shake Dawn’s free hand. “I’m Natalia Petri.”

Dawn greeted her, then took a couple of steps back, keeping her distance as she introduced herself, too.

The other girl narrowed her eyes, as if inspecting Dawn and finding something . . . off. But then she was back to glancing at the graveyard again.

“They’re loud here.”

Was she talking about the music from the vintner’s?

As a shiver traveled Dawn’s skin, she thought that might not be it at all. . . .

“This place,” the girl said. “Do you know much about it?”

“A bit.” Dawn had read the plaque on the gate, and she’d even done research since Costin had been so drawn to the building across from these grounds. “When they built the Jubilee tube line at the end of the twentieth century, they found layers and layers of the dead here. It’s a community grave starting from medieval times, unconsecrated ground filled with prostitutes and then paupers before it was closed in the mid-eighteen hundreds. This whole area was a real piece of work until they tidied it up. You can read about it in any Dickens book. I guess there’s talk of turning the grounds into office buildings or something, but the people around here are up in arms about it.”

“As they should be.” Natalia sent the train tracks—the representative of progress, Dawn supposed—a harsh glance. “Why hurt the dead even more?”

“Why indeed.” Dawn reluctantly motioned toward headquarters. “Should we get out of the cold?”

The woman looked at the graveyard again, and for a moment, Dawn thought maybe she wasn’t going to go anywhere. But then Natalia furrowed her brow, like she was concentrating.

Listening.

Dawn waited until Natalia touched a glove to a photocopied picture of a skull tied to the gate, then backed away.

After walking across the street, which hardly suffered from traffic in Dawn’s experience, they entered the building, escorted by watchdog Frank.

Natalia’s eyes brightened even more as she surveyed the gloom and doom of the common area. She even flashed dimples as Frank introduced himself and vice versa.

“You . . .” she started to say to Frank before Costin’s speaker came to life.

“You made it safely, Ms. Petri,” he said.

The girl seemed confused at a man’s low voice coming from high in the room, seemingly from one of the angels’ mouths. But she still answered as if she were in a normal conversation. “Yes, Mr. Limpet, thank you.”

Okay, time to get down to it. “Natalia, when you called, you mentioned vampire victims?”

She nodded. “I—”

“A moment, please,” Costin interrupted again. “I’m sorry, Ms. Petri, but would you like any refreshments? Tea perhaps?”

Hey,
Dawn thought. When she’d first come to Limpet and Associates, there’d been no tea at all. Just an attitudinal Kiko and a good mind-diddling from Costin’s hypnotic sway; it’d been his way of feeling her out to see if he could trust her.

“No, I’m fine, Mr. Limpet,” Natalia said. “But I appreciate your offer.”

Frank led her to a chair, and she doffed her coat to reveal a not-so-fashionable tweed dress worn over thick tights and practical shoes. She looked like what most people in L.A. would call a “healthy girl,” but that didn’t mean she was overweight. Hollywood was just too full of women who ate a leaf of lettuce and called it a feast.

As Frank took position by the fireplace, arms crossed over his massive chest, Natalia sat, folding her coat on her lap, even after Frank offered to hang it up for her.

“As I was asking,” Dawn said, hoping Costin wouldn’t cut in again to offer anything like scones and clotted cream, “you had information about some bodies?”

“An unmarked place of the dead,” Natalia said, refreshingly forthcoming. Or maybe as forthcoming as a spy? “On Billiter Street, in the Square Mile. I was walking past what’s said to be an abandoned construction site on my way to a job interview this morning, and I heard them.”

“Do you hear dead people?” Dawn asked.

Natalia seemed relieved at the question. “Yes. It’s almost as if I can read their vocal imprints, which means it’s more like I’m overhearing whatever they care to say. However, I can’t have conversations with them.”

“And what did they say to you this morning?”

“Precious little. A female voice cried out, asking for help, as if she was summoning anyone who might hear her. ‘Here,’ she kept saying. ‘Over here.’ Then a male . . . He repeated the word ‘vampires’ over and over again. Other voices mingled, too, unclear, jumbled. But I did understand that the creatures who put the dead there had discarded them after feedings.”

Interesting story. But it didn’t mean Dawn accepted that Natalia was telling the truth, even if Costin already felt secure in their guest. Dawn wondered if Frank was even thinking of tapping into the girl’s mind to measure her up.

“Did the victims also tell you to contact us?” Dawn asked.

“No. The name ‘Jonah Limpet’ . . .” Natalia smiled like she was conjuring some kind of warm memory. “I saw the name in my mind—a detective, I thought—shortly after I left the site, and I knew I should contact him.”

Costin’s voice filtered through the air. “Natalia has precognitive talents, as well.”

Had his background check yielded that? Or had it come up during their nice little chat on the phone?

Dawn didn’t access his mind to seek an answer; they respected each other’s thoughts and didn’t abuse the privilege of entering. Besides, now wasn’t the time for personal issues.

Natalia was focusing on the angel speaker near the ceiling. “Why do I keep feeling . . . something . . . at the edges of my mind?”

“It is only me,” Costin said.

Dawn stiffened, because he was mentally gauging Natalia. With her permission, he would use his powers to go deeper into her—the most personal of all interviews.

He’d done the same exact thing with Dawn when she’d first come on board. . . .

She pushed back any jealousy. Natalia wasn’t the new Dawn.

“Forgive my curiosity, Ms. Petri,” Costin said, “but in our business, we wish to know up front if our contacts are valid. From the first, I did not sense anything deceptive about you, but this is only a superficial conclusion.”

“I have nothing to hide,” Natalia said. “My visions have never led me wrong before. I trust them more than
anything
.”

There were shadows in her gaze, and Dawn recognized them. Didn’t this girl trust anything else? Why?

“Then,” Costin said, “would you mind if I . . . ?”

“I do not mind.”

But as the psychic closed her eyes, Dawn found that
she
minded.

Natalia’s not the new Dawn,
she kept telling herself.
Repeat, repeat, repeat.

It didn’t take but a few minutes for the girl to open her eyes, no doubt because her permission had made the testing easy for Costin.

Grrrr.

Yet at least it didn’t seem like Natalia had enjoyed a Costin moment as much as Dawn had always . . . well,
enjoyed
them.

“And?” Dawn asked, trying not to sound peeved.

But Costin seemed to know that she wasn’t happy anyway. She could sense it—an apology via their Awareness.

“We need Ms. Petri,” he said. “And I would appreciate your discussing our situation with her before we visit Billiter Street tonight. Perhaps we might obtain readings from the graves or find a fortunate telltale clue.”

“Wait.” Dawn faced the angel’s head, her hands on her hips. The carving had chubby cheeks and a blank, innocent look about it. Faker. “You want us to tell her everything? I mean, I know you’ve been in her head, and all, but . . . seriously?”

You’re going to trust her when it took you forever and a day to trust
me
?
she finally thought to him.

She tried to use their Awareness to understand what he was thinking, but he had blocked her out.

Her.
His creator. His supposed intimate . . .

His tone was remorseful as he spoke. “Please give Ms. Petri every last detail. I am certain she will understand all of it. She comes to us with a great deal of paranormal experience.”

Then the intercom clicked off, leaving Dawn reeling with the return of The Voice—the stranger who had already begun the ritual of fully sequestering himself for the endgame of this particular hunt.

Even from her.

Not for long though—not if she had anything to say about it. After they took care of business tonight, she would talk to him, see if she was wrong, because things
had
changed between them since L.A., right?

In her seat, cuddly as could be with her coat in her lap, Natalia smiled again. “A job. I knew I would find one today, even if it wasn’t at my interview this morning.”

The abrupt, metallic sound of keys clanging to the wood floor made them all look toward the darkened hallway, where Kiko stood in his little leather jacket, cargo pants, and oversized boots, his eyes wide and reddened from his meds.

“Don’t mind me asking,” he said, “but who’s this quack, and why do we need her around when we’ve already got a psychic?”

FOUR

THE UNWELCOME

FRANK
was smart, because he excused himself right away and went to prepare coffee or tea or
anything
. Thankfully, he also asked Natalia to join him.

Which, proving to be a smart girl herself, Natalia did.

But Dawn? She had the pleasure of staying behind to calm Kiko down and fill him in on current events.

Simmering, he took it all in while perched in a chair on the opposite side of the fireplace from Natalia’s empty seat, his short legs hanging off the edge as he gripped the armrests. His cheeks were nipped by the weather, but he sure wasn’t as pink and jolly as his complexion hinted.

And why not, if he was being replaced with a shinier version who might’ve gotten a reading on the new Underground?

Dawn sat on the floor near his chair, knowing she’d have to handle this diplomatically—diplomacy being a quality she didn’t really have in spades. Kiko’s pride and ego revolved around his psychometric, telepathic, and precognitive talents, and Costin was even training him in hypnosis, but the pills weren’t helping with any of it. Not lately, since Kiko’s back had been acting up.

A back that had been broken by a vampire.

In frustration, he ruffled his blond hair. He’d shaved off the soul patch beneath his lower lip, and the lack of facial derring-do lent him a lost boyishness.

“Maybe I’m just being paranoid,” he said. “But the boss has used new teams for every hunt all these hundreds of years, so how can I even think of job security?”

“Not a bad point.”

At her bluntness, Kiko shifted in his chair. “You think this is his first step in weeding me out?”

“I don’t know. Costin always liked to work with new hunters because he feared too much knowledge would corrupt the team’s willingness to obey directives.”

“That is, if any team members were left standing at the end of the battle.”

“But, last time, we
were
left standing, and in way different circumstances than ever before. Costin’s a vampire now. He’s been trying to work around that, but I’m thinking it’s worth the risk to have a trusted crew around to help while he gets used to it.”

Even though Costin could still hypnotize, he didn’t seem to be able to use the extent of his master-slaying powers—something he used to access full force by going out of body during a final attack. Nowadays, ever since having been locked into his vampire body, he couldn’t even
get
outside, and there were times when Dawn wondered just how the hell he was going to destroy another master.