Dying Bites: The Bloodhound Files-1 (43 page)

Dr. Pete is descended upon by his family, who fuss over him, bring him huge amounts of food, and engage in a running battle with the nurses as to how many candles they can light.

I get less attention, but one surprise visitor is Alexandra. She’s dressed in jeans and a leather jacket but isn’t wearing the corpsing fetish; she’s actually quite pretty when her face isn’t rotting. “Hey,” she says.

“Hey yourself.”

“I tried to send you some stuff, but it kept bouncing. Government firewall.”

“Oh. Sorry about that.”

“No prob. Thought I’d bring ’em by personally.” She fishes a flash drive out of her pocket and hands it to me. “Three albums’ worth—it’s all I’ve got. But I put some other stuff on there I thought you might like.”

I smile. “Thanks. I appreciate it.”

“Yeah.” She pauses. “You know, sometimes I kinda feel like I’m from another world. And it sucks.”

“Yeah. Not all the time, though. Helps to have friends.”

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She smiles back. “I guess. You think maybe we could, like, go for coffee or something when you get out of here? And talk about where you’re from? Unless that’s, you know, top secret or something.”

“I think I can get you clearance.” I nod. “Sure. That’d be great.”

“Okay, then. Bye.” And she practically runs away in that awkward, too self-aware way that teenagers have.

Cassius doesn’t come to visit me, but Gretchen does. She’s moving a little stiffly but otherwise seems fine. I ask her what the experience was like; she says it felt like being trapped in a meeting that never ended. Her tone is light, but I see something in her eyes that disturbs me: the faintest echo of the scream that chased Dr. Pete and me out of that tunnel, that insane, eternal howl . . .

Or maybe I’m imagining things.

As soon as they discharge me, Cassius asks to see me in his office.

I go in with my head held high. If he’s looking for an apology, he’s going to need a flashlight, a proctologist, and yoga lessons. I’m not proud of everything I did, but I don’t see any other path than the one I chose.

He’s sitting on the sofa when I come in, the same one I sat on when I was brought over the dimensional divide all of a month ago.

“Yes, sir?” I ask, stopping in front of him.

“Don’t sir me, Jace,” he says. “Not yet, anyway. Sit down.”

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I sit down next to him.

“Thank you,” he says.

“Not a problem. I mastered sitting a long time ago.”

“Not for that. I mean, thank you for risking your life to save a world that isn’t your own. One that hasn’t treated you very well, either.”

“I wouldn’t say that. The hospital food’s been top-notch.”

He winces. “We received a message for you, from Aristotle Stoker. The tech boys have cleared it; there’s nothing encoded. You should take a look.”

I nod. He pulls a tiny remote from his pocket, hits a button. The monitor on his desk, angled to face us, now shows Stoker’s face.

“Hello, Jace.” He looks grim. “I don’t know how I feel about your survival. Part of me wants you to die for killing Selkie. Another part thinks you’re still capable of replacing her.

“I have some bad news for you. It is possible to reverse the Ghatanothoa effect, but it’s only been done a handful of times and in every case the revived subject was found to be hopelessly insane. It was assumed this was the result of long years of paralysis, the mind slowly buckling under the sheer horror of total helplessness. As it turns out, this assumption was false.

“Your employers may not have told you this, but exposure to HPLC can cause mental deterioration—and not just in human beings. My research indicates Ghatanothoan paralysis results in some degree of latent mental instability in virtually all exposed subjects, regardless of how long they were immobilized. About ten percent show signs
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of advanced psychosis. And every single subject showed biochemical changes at the genetic level.”

He pauses. There’s an elevator in my stomach, and it’s going down.

“Maybe I didn’t accomplish what I set out to do—and maybe I did. Maybe I just wanted the immortals and the indestructible to know what it’s like to have a human weakness.”

He shakes his massive head. “They’re not so perfect now, are they? Now they can suffer just like we can. Schizophrenia, irrational phobias, multiple personality disorder . .

. I’ve opened up a big can of mental worms, and they’re burrowing right into all those supernatural brains.

“Ten percent of one and a half million pires and thropes. That’s an awful lot of dangerous crazy people, Jace. I think your schedule is going to be a little full for a while.”

The message comes to an end. He doesn’t say good-bye.

“I’m sorry,” Cassius says. “But as long as he’s free, you still haven’t fulfilled the terms of your contract. Yes, you saved the world—but we can’t send you home just yet. We still need you.”

Yeah. He’s got a hundred and fifty thousand reasons to keep me around, now. I sigh.

“Okay, but I want my own office. I’m tired of being summoned in here like some kind of low-grade demon.”

“You may have some demon in you, but it’s definitely not low-grade.”

“Plus some plants. And someone to do plant things to them, so they don’t die.”

“I’ll see what I can arrange.”

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“And a title.”

His eyebrows go up. “Duchess, maybe?”

“You know what I mean. Something that generates a little respect.”

“As opposed to a demeaning nickname?” His voice tells me he knows something I don’t.

He’s wrong. “Yeah, I know what the other agents call me. The Bloodhound.” I shrug.

“Considering all that’s happened to me in the past month, it doesn’t seem to matter much. Hell, I’m just glad they’re not calling me lunch.”

“If you don’t care what people call you, why ask for a title?”

I head for the door. “Because it looks like I’m going to be here awhile—and it’ll look good on my résumé.”

I stop with my hand on the doorknob. “Oh, and I’m still not going to follow a single damn rule I don’t agree with.”

He sighs. I smile, and leave.

But I’ll be back.