Dying Bites: The Bloodhound Files-1 (22 page)

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He’s already there by the time I show up an hour later, changed into a white gi outfit, his feet bare. He’s over by the sparring mats, limbering up—guess even thropes can strain a muscle.

“Didn’t know this would get physical,” I say, then mentally slap myself across the face. “I mean, I didn’t know you wanted to spar.”

“Would you like to change?”

“No,” I say. “In my experience, opponents in the field generally don’t make that kind of offer before attacking. If I can’t fight wearing this, I shouldn’t be fighting.”

“Of course.” He pads gracefully over to a low bench against the wall, where a long, thin case rests. He picks it up and brings it over, presenting it to me with a little bow. “A gift. Following our . . . conversation on the train, I thought these would be of some use to you.”

I’m almost afraid to open it, but I’m too curious not to. I undo the clasps and raise the lid.

Two eskrima sticks, made of polished ironwood and about thirty inches long. Unlike most batons, these have a sharpened silver tip at one end.

Now I remember the conversation he’s referring to. Before things got too intimate—or maybe it was somewhere in the middle—we got into a discussion of martial arts. I told him I practiced a Filipino fighting style often called Kali in the U.S., and that one of the most common weapons used in that style was twin fighting batons. He wasn’t familiar with it, and I made some kind of joke about it probably being suppressed by pires because it would lend itself handily to ramming wooden stakes into the chests of the undead.

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“The silver tip makes them effective against both thropes and pires,” Tanaka says.

“They have another unusual feature, as well.”

I lift one out of the padded box and study it. There’s a thin line of silver running straight down from the tip to around the halfway point, but only on one side; the other has a small, recessed stud.

“If you’ll allow me?” Tanaka says, holding out his hand.

I give him the baton. He holds it about halfway down the shaft, presses the stud with his thumb, and flicks his wrist. A foot-long blade snaps out and locks into place, turning the stick into a scythe. The cone-shaped tip swivels to the side.

“Silver over steel,” he says. “Sharp enough to decapitate a foe.” He hands it to me, careful not to touch the blade itself. “Note that the blades also have a strip of ironwood embedded in their center, making them effective as impaling weapons against pires, as well.”

Not many guys give me a giant switchblade on the second date, let alone a matching pair. And even if this isn’t technically a date, Tanaka’s obviously still interested; if traveling a few thousand miles to give me an expensive gift wasn’t a big enough clue, I can feel the desire radiating off him. It’s not as intense as it was last time, but my body is starting to remember things that are still kind of blurry in my mind. Sweaty, sticky things.

“Nice heft,” I say. “Lot heavier than rattan.” I try to keep my voice steady—right now, everything I say feels like a double entendre.

“I hope they are not too heavy.”

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“You kidding?” I set the case down and pick up the other baton. “That damn Ruger’s given me wrists of steel. These feel about perfect. . . .”

I’m already testing them out, seeing how easy it is to snap the blades in and out, spinning them around. Despite the blades, they’re perfectly balanced.

“Forgive me, but I have little faith in your own weapon,” Tanaka says. “It may be effective in your own world, but here it is not. It did little more than annoy Isamu—I thought these would prove more effective, especially in close quarters.”

“You’d be surprised to see just how effective my boom-stick is now,” I murmur, but I’m not really offended—a gun is just a tool, after all, and you should always use the right tool for the job. Here, stakes and silver were the Black & Decker of weaponry.

“Thank you,” I say. “These’ll be useful, I’m sure. At least I’ll get more than a blank stare when I pull them out. . . .”

“Would you care to test their effectiveness?”

I realize he’s talking about sparring. “That sounds a little dangerous.”

“Not at all.” He kneels beside the case and slides down a panel, revealing two more blades in a recessed nook. “These are for practice. Steel, no silver.”

“Practice blades in Kali are usually made from wood.”

“Wood, I find, does not hold much of an edge.”

“But if they’re still sharp, how can you call them—oh.” Steel may cut, but it won’t kill—

not a thrope, anyway. “Let me get this straight. You want me to spar with you, using these.”

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“Correct.”

“And if I, say, accidentally stick one in your eye, you won’t mind.”

“On the contrary—if it’s an accident I will be disappointed. I expect you to do your best to harm me, and to do it with purpose.”

I sigh. “I’m not making any promises. But I’ll try.”

He shows me how to swap out the blades, using a polishing cloth to prevent his fingers from coming in contact with the silver, and then we move to the mat.

“So, where are your weapons?” I ask.

“Right here,” he says, and transforms.

Okay, so sometimes I’m a little slow. I was so busy concentrating on ignoring the Urthbone-generated feelings in my gut that I missed the obvious—Tanaka wants me to see what it’s like to fight a thrope using these things, and like any good teacher he wants the experience to be as authentic as possible.

I don’t have the blades out yet, wanting to get used to the feel of the sticks themselves first, but I drop into a defensive pose automatically, both sticks at the ready.

He swings at me open-handed, trying to slap me in the side of the head, but doesn’t connect; I use an inside sweep to nail his wrist and break his motion, then backhand him across the skull. He shakes it off in a microsecond and swings with his other hand. I slam his forearm down with an abineko move, but momentum carries the strike past me. I know his backhand is going to come at me like a freight train and try to counter with a
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hard shot of my own to his upper arm, but it hardly slows him at all; the back of his fist catches my own shoulder and I go flying off to the side.

I get up carefully, the sticks in a defensive posture. He stalks forward and tries to grab one. I let him, then smash his carpal bone with the punya, the butt of the other stick. He doesn’t let go. I hit him again as he starts pulling the stick upward. He growls. The stick’s up to head height and I switch tactics, bashing him with the end of the stick hard enough to break bone. I hear something snap, but he still doesn’t let go—so I swing low at the kneecap.

He howls in pain and anger but doesn’t go down. Fine. I strike, pull through, strike again, whipping the eskrima back and forth until the leg buckles. He collapses, releasing my stick as he does.

I step back into a ready stance, my right hand forward. “How’s that?” I ask.

He pulls himself up and tests the leg. I know I turned the kneecap to pulp, but he seems to be able to put weight on it already. He comes at me again, jabbing and feinting but favoring the leg. I counter, bat his strikes away or block them.

Then he pivots and slashes with a foot, faster than anything else he’s done. His claws catch my slacks and tear them open.

Did he draw blood?

And I become abruptly, sickeningly aware of the situation I’ve put myself in. That this guy that seems a little too attached after a one-night stand can literally make me his bitch with a single scratch.

I snap both blades out. I might not be able to kill him using stainless steel, but I can sure as hell disarm him, in every sense of the word.

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There’s an attack method called siniwali, using both sticks in a continuous, weaving pattern of high strikes known as the Heaven Six. I use it now, pressing forward hard, turning the zone in front of me into a meat grinder.

He backs off, puts his hands up in surrender.

I stop, breathing hard, wondering if I can trust him. He transforms back into a man, and the look on his face is one of confusion.

“I don’t understand—,” he begins.

“Yeah, well, I do! Jesus, Tanaka! What were you going to do, claim it was an accident and apologize again?”

“You are angry because I have torn your clothing?”

He seems genuinely puzzled. He’s not stupid, so there’s something I’m not getting—

An explanation clears its throat in the back of my head. It taps my paranoia politely on the shoulder, then steps forward and whispers in my ear.

The wolf pheromone. I didn’t mention it to Tanaka.

“Crap. You think I’m already a thrope.”

“You . . . are not?”

“No. Artificial scent, supplied by Cassius. For undercover work, you know?”

“Ah.”

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There’s a moment of awkward silence.

“I was wondering why you did not transform,” he says. “I thought that as a new lycanthrope you were simply being . . . private.”

I sigh. “Thanks for the scythes, Tanaka. I’m sorry I tried to chop you into little pieces.”

“I’m sorry I gave you reason.”

He bows, then excuses himself to go and change into street clothes. Yeah, I really know how to show a guy a good time. . . .

“What do you mean, she’s been released?” I ask Gretchen.

“Not just her. The others arrested with her, as well.” Gretchen leans forward and puts her elbows on her desk. “Cassius’ orders. Don’t ask me to explain, because I don’t know why.”

“But . . . they were our only lead! They could have led us to the Impaler!”

Gretchen shakes her head. “No, they couldn’t have. They were planted in that pub to relay a message to you, and they have no more idea where Selkie or Stoker is than we do. Cassius may have released them in order to keep them under surveillance—but Aristotle’s too smart to fall for that.”

She’s right, but it still annoys the hell out of me. My suspects, my case—I should have at least gotten the chance to talk to them, and I tell Gretchen that.

“Perhaps that’s one of the reasons they were released,” she says quietly. “To prevent you from doing so.”

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“What? That makes no sense.”

“It would to Cassius. I think he’s afraid you might wind up identifying with them instead of your employers.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I mutter.

“Is it? You know what’s it’s like to be the underdog. To be isolated, alone, outnumbered. And of course, you’re human. Just like they are.”

“They’re terrorists,” I snap. “I’m nothing like them. And more to the point, I don’t want to stay here a second longer than I have to. Cassius knows that.”

“Yes, I suppose he does,” Gretchen says. “But you don’t survive in his occupation for as long as he has by not maximizing your chances.”

I groan and lean back in my chair. “So back to square one.”

“Not quite. Knowing the Impaler’s identity significantly grows our database. Given time, it’s sure to increase our chances of catching him.”

“Yeah? Feels like we just traded one set of rumors for another. We still have no idea where he is, what his plans are, or even what he looks like.”

“Patience, dear girl, patience.”

“Easy for you to say. You’re immortal.”

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Law enforcement, regardless of organization, department, or universe, consists of long periods of boredom punctuated by adrenaline-charged bursts of activity. Well, maybe not in the accounting department, but for the most part it’s a rule that holds true across the board. This case is no exception.

After that workout with Tanaka, I’m feeling restless, hyper, and on-edge. There’s no new information to go over, and I’ve studied what we already have until my eyes threaten to bleed. I finally give up and go home.

Where I feel even worse. It’s Friday, so the whole weekend stretches out before me. Back home—real home—I would have called Tanya, probably wound up going to a bar or something. Not really an option here—Gretchen will be at work until late, and I’m not in the mood to trade barbs with Charlie. What I’m really in the mood for is . . .

No. And no bar, either. Maneuvering myself into position to drunk-dial Tanaka is not the smart option.

I channel-surf for a while, watch a few minutes of a buddy-cop drama called Toothe and Fanng about a pire and a thrope as a pair of mismatched detectives. About as mediocre as you’d expect, though they do drive a cool car. Find a sitcom about a family of golems that’s funny but blatantly racist; no wonder Charlie seems pissed off all the time.

I finally settle on a football game. Not usually a sports fan, but you haven’t seen any sport until you’ve seen it played by seven-foot-tall werewolves who can run at 60 miles an hour and jump a dozen feet straight up. No pads or helmets, either.

The sheer novelty holds my attention for a while, but I’ve had my fill before too long. There’s a lot of blood; thropes heal so fast that little things like getting your face half ripped off are only inconveniences. One guy even disembowels another, which is apparently not only frowned upon but also a ten-yard penalty.