Dying Bites: The Bloodhound Files-1 (11 page)

“I’ll decide how much attention it gets. Tell me about the camp.”

“The strategy of purification was threefold. First, all dogs were executed. Second, lycanthropes of impure blood were rounded up and gassed. And third, unenhanced humans were arrested and imprisoned, accused of participating in some vast, ill-defined conspiracy. To ensure their loyalty, they were turned against their will.”

Eisfanger nods, his eyes sad. “A simple and brutal philosophy: a human bitten by a pire or a pureblood thrope would become one. No chance of so-called ‘mongrelization.’ “

“Mongrelization, hell,” Charlie growls. “It was never about that. It was getting near the end of the meal, and there were only so many pieces of pie left on the plate. The thropes grabbed as many as they could, and the pires did the same.”

I got it. Despite the treaties and agreements, in a world of predators human beings were still the prey of choice. And while the supernatural population kept increasing, the human one dropped. For thropes, that didn’t really matter—they could survive and prosper without humans around.

But vampires couldn’t. Once the last human bit the dust, that would be it for biting, period; no more new bloodsuckers, while the thrope population would keep on churning out litters. It was the kind of dilemma that persuaded people to follow madmen.

“So that’s it?” I say. “That’s why there are less than a million of us alive today?”

“No,” Tanaka says. “The war was fought on many fronts. The Emperor established camps in India and China, where there was still a relatively large population of humans
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left, and falsified reports as to how many were being turned into hemovores. When the Reich saw that defeat was inevitable, Hitler’s sorcerers released a plague spell in an attempt to eradicate the last of the human population worldwide. It was so virulent that even some lycanthropes were affected; the bodies of the victims had to be burned. When the spell had run its course, few humans were left alive.”

“Huh,” I say. “In my world, India and China fought on the side of the Allies.”

“Yeah?” says Charlie. “Who won?”

I think back to Charlie’s “Mineral-American” remark. “The Canadians, of course. I mean, they are the largest and most powerful country in the world.”

“Canada won World War Two?” Charlie says.

“Well, the Allies won, but they couldn’t have done it without the Great White North. My uncle was in the Royal Brigade of Mounted Beavers.”

“The parallels between our worlds are fascinating,” Eisfanger says. “What was your war fought over? Land? Resources?”

“Resources, definitely. Mainly maple syrup.”

Tanaka laughs, while Eisfanger just looks puzzled. Charlie gives me a look that might be the distant ancestor of a grin, and I meet his noneyes and smile back.

It’s close to five by the time the Shinsou pulls into the small station, where we disembark and off-load a vehicle from one of the cars. It’s a blocky, futuristic-looking SUV with enough halogens mounted on it to light a production of Phantom of the Opera and big, monster-truck tires and suspension. I have to climb a ladder to get in.

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Tanaka takes the wheel and we head off, down a narrow paved road that leads through a small skiing village and then into the mountains proper. We turn off the road onto a winding gravel trail cratered with potholes, scrubby pine crowding both sides. The overcast sky has darkened to twilight, the unseen sun crawling into bed behind the mountains.

The road ends at a large wire gate, set into a rusted wire fence that vanishes into treeshadow on either side. There’s no sign, just a sheet of paper in a transparent envelope attached to the fence with plastic ties and a shiny new chain padlocked to the frame. Tanaka gets out and opens it up, then drives us inside.

The camp isn’t far down the road. It’s a collection of dilapidated wooden buildings, most of them on stilts—to prevent tunnels, I suppose. Two long rows of cabins that must have been for housing, and a larger, two-story building beyond them. We park in front of it and get out.

“This is the processing center,” Tanaka says. “It’s been largely gutted. Prisoners were taken inside, bitten, then locked in cells for their first change. It was deemed inefficient to wait for the full moon, so transformation was induced by sorcery.”

The front doors are gone, ripped from their hinges long ago. There are no windows. Tanaka leads us up a short flight of steps and inside, moving carefully over rubble. The interior is dark, but we’ve all been given flashlights; the beams play over a large foyer, with two more doorless entryways in the far wall. Bright yellow triangular pylons mark off an area in the middle of the room, where I can see a large pool of dried blood. There’s an X-shaped void outlined by a yellowish discoloration in the exact center of the stain, with holes near each of the four ends.

“This is where the pole was bolted to the floor?” I ask.

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“Yes. We have it and the other physical evidence on the train, including the body of the victim—or rather, what’s left of it.” The yellowish stain must have been caused by the physical remains of the vic’s body, which had mostly liquefied by the time it was discovered.

I look around the room. “What’s that?” I ask, pointing. There’s a six-foot-high wheeled wooden barrier running parallel to the wall on my left. It looks a little like a mobile bar, except it’s too high and too narrow, no more than six inches wide.

Tanaka pulls on a pair of latex gloves and walks over to it. He grabs one end and pulls it aside, revealing a series of holes in the wall behind it. They’re all about the same size, maybe six inches in diameter, and are at different heights; most are about three feet off the floor, though some are lower.

“This is the processing queue,” he says. “Inductees were required to place their arm through the wall, up to the elbow. This partition was wheeled closely enough to press against their bodies, then locked in place to prevent them from withdrawing. A purebred lycanthrope on the other side would bite each forearm in quick succession.”

I tried to imagine what it must have been like. Marched in by guards like the ones outside the NSA offices, their animal musk overpowering. No words, just growls and snarls, long clawed fingers pointing where you were supposed to go. The vulnerability of shoving a limb into a dark hole, wondering if the next thing you were going to feel was fangs tearing it off. The hard wood of the barrier pressing against your back, your face pushed into the wall like a child being punished. The people on either side of you, some of them weeping, others stoic. Some of them praying as they said good-bye to their humanity forever.

I look down. Some of the holes are no more than two feet from the floor.

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“Yeah, this is a crime scene,” I murmur. “But I’m a little unclear on something. I thought you said the Japanese camps were used mainly for turning out hemovores?”

Tanaka nods. “That is true. But the Emperor still had to maintain appearances with his allies; this site was one of the few which also produced lycanthropes. German personnel were in fact stationed here as well.”

“Huh.” Once again, the killer was sending mixed signals; he’d picked a place that was significant in more than one way, to more than one species.

And maybe to more than just himself.

“Tanaka, when did Keiko Miyagi become a vampire?”

“I don’t know; we don’t keep official records of that. I can find out, of course.”

“Do that. I’m betting it was right here, in this very room. This is where she stopped being human and became something else. And I’m betting we’ll find the same kind of connection with the previous vics, too.”

I look up, see the spot where the block and pulley was attached, directly above the bloodstain. I can almost see her there: suspended, violated, literally dying by inches. Killed by her own weight the same way the tour guide was killed by his struggles.

But the scientist didn’t fit. A vampire killed by sled dogs with silvered teeth? The other two murders seemed almost as if the killer was denying responsibility, placing some of the blame for the deaths on the victims themselves—but what had the scientist done to contribute to his own demise?

I walk in a slow circle around the bloodstain. “Damon,” I say. “Can you use your abilities on this?”

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“Our own forensic animists have already investigated,” Tanaka tells me. “They found little of note.”

“I’d still like to have my guy give it a shot.” If there’s one thing I’ve learned working for the Bureau, it’s never trust the locals; there’s always a buried layer of nepotism, incompetence, or interdepartmental hostility that you’ll be completely unaware of, no matter how pleasant and cooperative your liaison may seem. Tanaka might genuinely be trying to help, but that second cousin of his immediate superior who’s sleeping with Tanaka’s ex-wife might decide to misplace an important file just when I need it. Eisfanger, on the other hand, I can yell at.

He’s already opened his case and taken out a few items—some small bones, a rattle, a number of stoppered vials. “I’m going to talk to the bloodstain,” he says. “Hemovore blood is powerful stuff. It may still have an echo of the victim’s persona in it.”

And then I pick it up, just a twinge from Tanaka’s general direction: he’s upset. I can’t quite make out if it’s nervousness, irritation, or both, but he doesn’t like what Damon’s about to do.

I walk back in Tanaka’s direction, pulling out my Urthbone at the same time. I take a long swallow while pretending to study what Damon’s doing.

Yeah. There we go. Tanaka’s not just annoyed; he’s worried.

“Before you proceed,” he says, “there’s something you should know—”

Eisfanger’s already drawn some runes on the floor with a dark liquid. He tosses the bones onto the bloodstain halfway through Tanaka’s warning.

And then everything goes crazy.

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FOUR

A whirlwind of screaming light rises from the stain like a special-effects-heavy commercial for a demonic kitchen cleanser. Eisfanger’s eyes roll up in his head and he pitches over backward, out cold.

Abruptly, there’s a wall in front of me. A tall, pin-striped wall, with a fedora on top of it. I guess a golem’s first priority is to protect his . . . whatever I am, but right now he’s just getting in my way.

“Aleph! Move your rocky—”

By the third word I’ve been picked up by the waist and set down ten feet away. Charlie may be made of sand, but he moves more like quicksilver.

“—ass,” I say.

There are faces in the whirlwind, distorted but still recognizable as men and women—

some Asian, some not. They all seem to be in pain, some howling, some weeping.

“Ghosts,” I breathe. “Are they dangerous?”

“No,” says Tanaka. “They are merely echoes, not true spirits.”

I step past my overprotective bodyguard and kneel by Eisfanger. He’s already propped up on his elbows, blinking woozily. “My,” he says. “My, my, my. Head. Hurts.”

“You all right?”

He blinks a few more times, then seems to focus. “Uh. Yes, yes, I am. Wasn’t prepared for a multiple, that’s all—overloaded my wards.”

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“Multiple. You’re saying there’s the blood of more than one victim here?”

Tanaka’s nervousness increases, but he says nothing.

“No,” Eisfanger says. “The forensics report was quite clear—only Miyagi’s blood was found here.”

“Then what?” Charlie asks. “Local spooks, hanging around since they were executed?”

Tanaka shakes his head. “This was not an extermination center—people were turned, not killed.”

“I’ve got an idea,” I say. “Why don’t we ask them?”

I help Eisfanger to his feet. “Just give me a moment,” he says. He bends down and rummages in his case, takes out a necklace made of bones, and drapes it around his neck. He dabs a few markings on his face from one of the vials and mutters something beneath his breath.

Then he thrusts his hand into the whirlwind.

His whole body goes rigid. Orange and red light flashes from his eyes like there’s a fire in his skull. His mouth opens and a voice speaks, but his lips don’t move. “Cold. Always cold,” the voice says. It sounds female.

Another voice follows the first, then another and another. Some are men, some women. They speak in Japanese, in French, in German, and in English. I can’t understand all of it, but from the words I can pick out, the gist seems pretty clear.

Cold. Empty. Life, draining away.

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Eisfanger pulls his hand out convulsively, staggers back a step and then catches himself. “Right,” he says, his own voice now all business. “One blood source, multiple spiritual essences. This little lady was more than just a waitress.”

“A feeder,” says Charlie.

“Yes. She’s been drinking human blood, from more than one person. Highly illegal, even in Japan.”

I turn to study Tanaka. He looks composed, but he feels anything but. “Amongst certain groups,” he says, “there is still a fascination with human blood. It commands a very high price, so high that many humans sell it willingly. While such businesses are still technically illegal, the law is seldom enforced.”