Dying Bites: The Bloodhound Files-1 (12 page)

“Of course not,” I say. “After all, the only people who suffer are us mere humans.”

He looks pained. “Excuse me, but such is not the case. Those who provide their blood are highly valued, treated well and paid most handsomely. They are not victims.”

“No,” I say coldly. “They’re whores. But at least they get a nice paycheck, right?”

“They—”

I cut off his reply. “Save it. If human blood is that valuable, there’s no way a waitress could afford it. She was probably dealing—you said she worked in a blood bar, right?

I’m guessing she offered the right customers something that wasn’t on the regular menu.”

I turn back to Eisfanger. “Can you pull any kind of details from these echoes? We need to find these bloodleggers and question them.”

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“Sorry,” Eisfanger says. “They’re not intelligent, just single-emotion patterns. All they project is what their source was feeling at the time of the transfer.”

“I see. Cold, emptiness, life draining away—does that sound like the people were treated well, Mr. Tanaka?”

He bows his head. “No. No, it does not. I will do my best to locate them.”

“No,” I say. “We will do our best. Eisfanger, I want you to go over every square inch of this place. Then we’re going back to the train, and we’re going to review all the physical evidence.”

“I’ve already looked at that, on the way up—”

“Then you’ll look at it again, with me peering over your shoulder. Tanaka, I want everything you have on the blood trade and who controls it locally.”

“Of course,” Tanaka says. His voice is soft, but I can feel the growl hidden inside it. Figures. Wolves or local law enforcement, they all react pretty much the same to newcomers in their territory. And I just peed all over Tanaka’s. . . .

“Nothing of note? Nothing of note?” I’m not quite yelling, but I’m getting warmed up.

“That is not what I said.” Tanaka still appears calm, but he’s not; I can feel his temper rising.

We’re back on the train. Charlie, Tanaka, and I are in the same car, Eisfanger’s back in the lab going over the original report. I intend to join him—but first I’m going to find out why Tanaka withheld evidence from me.

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“What I told you,” Tanaka says, “is we found little of note. I was about to inform your animist of our own findings, but he began the ritual without any warning—”

“Oh, so it’s his fault? He was just doing his job, Tanaka.”

“As am I.”

“Of course. Tell me, how many of your superiors like to indulge in a little human hemoglobin now and then? Hmm? A nicely aged ’45 from California, maybe—or do they prefer a more exotic vintage? A perky, blue-eyed blonde from somewhere Nordic, or an earthy, robust Australian—”

“I don’t care for your tone.”

“Too bad. There’s no mention of Miyagi being a feeder in your files, and there’s only one reason for that I can think of. Someone told you to hold back that information, and you wagged your tail like a good little doggy—”

It happens so fast I almost fall over backward. One second Tanaka and I are arguing toe-to-toe, and the next—well, his toes are suddenly a lot hairier. He goes from simmering five-foot-eight Japanese man to furious six-foot werewolf in the blink of an eye. It stops me in mid-rant.

But only for a moment.

I have to look up to meet his eyes—now a blazing yellow—but I refuse to take a step backward. “—and buried it like, like a goddamn bone you didn’t want me to find! Well, I did find it, it’s mine now, and you can go piss up a goddamn rope!”

Okay, I admit it—I sort of lose control. Not as bad as the time I broke an associate’s jaw, but I’m definitely seeing the world in shades of red. Considering what I’ve been through
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in the last twenty-four hours, I’m surprised it didn’t happen sooner . . . but it’s still a big mistake.

I’m about to discover just how big.

I should have known better. After all, I’ve dealt with homicidal animals before—I’m just not used to them being on the same side of the law that I am.

Tanaka’s got me by the throat and off the ground in one smooth motion. I have my gun out and jammed under his own chin a heartbeat later.

“Let me go or I’ll blow your brains all over the ceiling,” I manage to get out through clenched teeth. He ignores me, of course.

Damn. I hope thropes really do heal as quickly as Dr. Pete claims—

“Hold it.”

Something whizzes between us and shatters a train window. Tanaka yelps and puts his free hand up to his long, pointed ear—the object must have clipped him on the way past. Charlie Aleph has one arm cocked behind him like a pitcher about to let loose; he’s holding something shiny, round, and a little smaller than a golf ball between his thumb and two fingers, rolling it lazily back and forth.

“Next one goes between your eyes,” he says. “Drop her or I drop you.”

Tanaka’s rage is like molten metal flowing down his arm, through my throat and into the base of my brain. The wind howls through the broken window like a crazed beast. If he doesn’t let go in the next second I’m going to empty the clip into his skull.

He lets go. I hit the ground on rubbery legs and topple over backward, springing up again instantly. Tanaka has backed away, already changing back, though much slower.
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His immaculate black business suit has ripped at the shoulder seams, and several buttons have popped off his shirt.

“I apologize,” he says as soon as his mouth can form words again. He has to speak loudly to be heard over the rushing air. “I am not used to being challenged by . . . one such as you.”

“You mean a woman?” I say, trying to get my breath back.

“No. A human.”

“Get used to it,” Charlie says. He’s lowered his arm, but he’s still playing with the oversize ball bearing.

“If you will excuse me?” Tanaka mutters, his head bowed. His body is trembling. “I would like to . . . reorganize.”

“Go ahead,” I say. “Don’t forget to comb your hair.”

He retreats to the door at the far end of the car, his gait shaky, and goes through it. I nod at Charlie and say, “Thanks, but I had the situation under control.”

“Yeah? Thropes and pires tend to forget how easy humans die—they usually slash first and make up later. Figured you’d rather have your head than the apology, but hey—

you’re the boss.” He pushes back the sleeve on his right arm, revealing a leather tube strapped to his forearm. He pushes the ball bearing into the end of the tube, which is obviously spring-loaded.

“You really are a gun,” I say. “How many shots does that thing hold?”

“Twelve per side.”

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“Per side? So you’re double-barreled, too.”

“Pardon me?”

“Never mind. Solid silver?”

“Nah, too expensive. Silver sheath over an iron core.”

“How much stopping power?”

He pulls the sleeve back down, smooths the fabric carefully. “If I want something to stop,” he says, “it stops.”

“Can’t dispute that. Looked like you really shook him up, too.”

“Doubt that was my fault. Changing that quick takes a lot out of a thrope; I’ve seen some keel right over.”

Like adrenaline shakes in a human, but probably worse. “All right,” I say grudgingly.

“Good job, I guess. But next time, wait until I ask for your help, okay?”

“It’s your funeral.”

Charlie drops into a nearby seat, tilts his fedora over his eyes, and reverts to being an inanimate object. I sit down myself, thinking about what just happened and how it’s probably going to make my job harder.

But that’s not all I’m thinking about. During the confrontation, on some level I knew Tanaka wasn’t going to hurt me—because what I felt beneath his rage was something else entirely. Something just as dangerous, and just as intense.
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Something just as passionate . . .

“Please,” Tanaka says. He’s changed his clothes—into a suit that looks exactly the same—and seems much more composed. We’re talking on the upper deck of the train’s observation car, a streamlined Plexiglas dome that would let me appreciate the beauty of the landscape we’re speeding through if it weren’t heavily smoked and night hadn’t fallen. All I see is my own reflection and the impression of darkness streaming past.

“You’ve already apologized,” I say. “Forget about it.”

“You deserve an explanation.”

“You’re right, I do. Got one?”

“As I told you, my government finds the subject of the camps distasteful. The practice of ketsueki gouin—blood drinking—is an equally sensitive topic. I do not wish to impede your investigation; I was simply trying to spare my employers further embarrassment.”

“Sure. Because if our guy follows his pattern, this next killing is going to be on the Internet pretty soon, and Japan isn’t exactly Stone Age when it comes to technology. You know, I’m starting to think this is exactly what the killer wants.”

“What do you mean?”

“Let’s just say that there are political considerations in at least one of the other killings. I think this guy wants more than just attention—he wants outrage. Not sure how the Australian vic fits in yet, but I’ll bet the location turns out to be more important than the victim. He’s using the murders to focus public awareness on something he thinks is important.”

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“The plight of his race, perhaps.”

I glare at him. “You think? I mean, ‘his race’ is only on the verge of extinction. ‘His race’

is basically used as either raw material or gourmet meals for yours.”

“We are not solely to blame.”

“No, the bloodsuckers are just as guilty. Lucky for you, our boy believes in spreading the blame around. And in case you’ve forgotten, Tanaka, ‘his race’ is also ‘my race.’ “

“I have offended you again.” The regret and shame in his voice is real.

I sigh. “No, that’s okay. Look, this is difficult for both of us. I know what it’s like to have the brass leaning on you. But we both have the same objective in mind—to catch this guy, and stop the killing. Right?”

“Yes.” He pauses. “I will do my best to provide you with uncensored information. Will you trust me on this?”

I want to ask him if I have a choice—but instead I say, “Yes. But withhold something from me again and I’ll show you just how dangerous a ‘human being’ can be.”

“I understand.”

All things considered, he takes his reaming-out with good grace, which gives him high marks in my book; in my experience, men have a hard time apologizing, let alone admitting they were wrong—or maybe that’s just the ones I work with. Or sleep with.

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Or both. Which is a very small group under the heading “Roger” and the subheading

“Complete and Total Bastard.” There are additional sub-subheadings, but they’re not worth repeating unless I’m about to shoot something.

Roger. As in “affirmative,” if what you’re affirming is that you can give someone your heart and he can throw it in a wood-chipper while you watch. As in “the Jolly Roger,” the skull on the pirate flag with the big white grin, almost as big as the one on my ex’s face when he dumped me and stole my promotion. As in to give someone a good Rogering, as the British say—which he did to me, in more ways than one.

The memory of his body that suddenly surges into my mind is just as sharp as that of his betrayal. His skin, his smell, his taste . . . I shake my head and try to focus on what Tanaka’s saying.

“—the blood bar she was employed by. I will make enquiries, and determine which shateigashira is responsible for the blood trade in her area.”

“I’m sorry? I don’t know that word.”

“It refers to the leader of a criminal gang—or, more precisely, to a level of management in a much larger organization.”

“Which organization?” I ask, though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.

“The illegal blood trade is very profitable, and counts high-ranking officials among its participants. In Japan, there is only one organization that dares to involve itself in such matters.”

I’m really hoping the answer has something to do with the Sailor Moon Fan Club. No such luck.

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“The Yakuza,” Tanaka says.

The Sapporo station is as busy and crowded as the mountains were empty, Asian men and women dressed mostly in black. They hurry from one platform to the next, clutching briefcases and newspapers and manga, talking on cell phones or sipping from large paper cups with red plastic lids. I wonder what’s in them—the cups, not the commuters.

I guess it doesn’t matter. One will be in the other, soon enough.

Tanaka hustles Charlie and me out through the crowd and into another taxi, while Eisfanger stays with the train. If what Charlie told me is accurate, then almost all the people around me are pires, as indestructible and immortal as Cassius. I look for signs of ageless wisdom or invincibility in the faces around me, but all I see is a kind of cold, ruthless efficiency; no one seems to have a cold, or be half-asleep, or look drunk. It doesn’t mean anything, of course. It’s only a rushed first impression, a bunch of strangers on their way to work, seen through a foreigner’s eyes. I might get exactly the same feeling in the same train station on my own world.