Dying Bites: The Bloodhound Files-1 (6 page)

“Of course.” He opens a drawer and takes out a document. “Your employment contract. The terms are very clear—they detail your salary, accommodations, and a generous bonus as compensation for the way in which you were recruited.”

“I don’t give a crap about any of that. When do I get to go home?”

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“At the successful conclusion of your assignment.” He places the document on his desk and pushes it toward me. I stride forward, pick it up, and read through it. It’s surprisingly void of legalese, stating more or less exactly what Cassius just told me—except for one thing.

“This doesn’t define what my assignment is,” I say. “Just that it will ‘be deemed to be successfully concluded with the capture or elimination of the target of the mission.’ “

“Yes. The person responsible for at least three murders so far. We believe—”

“What if I don’t sign?”

Cassius smiles at me. It’s a genuinely likable smile, and I wonder how many years it took him to perfect it. “Who said you have to sign anything? This is simply a description of what we’re willing to provide, if you cooperate with us. You’re free to turn us down.”

He’s good. He doesn’t bother threatening me—I can figure it out for myself. Homeless, broke, and alone, one of a tiny minority on a world full of predators. Good luck with that; I’m sure you’ll do great in your new career as entrée.

Still, they obviously need me. This may be the only chance for negotiation I get.

“I want my living allowance increased by fifty percent,” I say. “I’m not setting up shop in some cramped little walk-up. The abduction bonus gets doubled, and don’t bitch at me about your budget—I can tell you guys don’t do this kind of thing every day, and special projects always have deep pockets. And I want my gun back.”

He doesn’t argue, which irritates me. Instead, he nods, picks up a pen, and writes in the changes.

Then he hands me the pen.

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I grit my teeth, take it and sign the contract. At this point, a signed document is probably better for me than for him.

“Welcome aboard,” he says, tucking one set of the papers away in a drawer. I fold my own copies and jam them in a pocket. “Your weapon and laptop are being examined, but they’ll be returned to you shortly. First, I’d like to introduce you to some of the people you’ll be working with.”

He nods at the golem, who’s been standing motionless as a statue by the door since we arrived. “Charlie Aleph you’ve already met. He’s an Enforcement-class golem with twenty years’ experience. Served in the first Persian war as field artillery, decorated twice for valor. He’ll be your enforcer.”

“Right. Is he going to frisk me for crucifixes and wooden stakes, too? Look, if I’m going to work for you, you’re going to have to trust me—”

“I’m aware of that,” he says, and his tone stops me cold. It has that unmistakable ring of command, the one that says, I know exactly what I’m doing so just shut the hell up or suffer the consequences. I shut up.

“Charlie isn’t there to spy on you or keep you in line. He’s there to protect you, and inflict serious damage on anyone that gets in your way. He’s your weapon, not your babysitter. Got it?”

“Got it.”

“And this is Gretchen Petra.” He nods at the woman seated on the couch. “Gretchen will be your liaison with our intel division.”

The woman rises from the couch and puts out her hand. I shake it; her grip is strong and cool. “A pleasure,” she says. Her accent is British and cultured, and she looks
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vaguely amused. “Please don’t judge our world solely by David. A few of us aren’t complete bastards.”

I know I’ll be working with this woman, but I’m not in the mood to be gracious. “Oh?

What are you, three-quarters?”

Her smile gets a little bigger. “Oh, heavens, no. No more than fifty percent, I assure you.” Her eyes actually seem, I swear to God, to twinkle. “Of course, the rest is pure bitch.” Her voice stays as soft and gentle as freshly laundered flannel. I think I like her.

“Good to know,” I say. “Can we start the briefing now, or do I have to sacrifice a goat or something?”

“No thank you, I just had breakfast,” Gretchen says. “Sir?”

“Go ahead.”

Gretchen nods. “Here’s what we know so far. There have been three killings. Each was recorded, using digital equipment. The recording of the first murder was uploaded to the Internet from the site of the second, and the second uploaded at the site of the third. Two of the sites were in remote areas with no readily available Web access; we don’t know why the killer went to the time and trouble to establish his own.”

“Who were the vics?”

“A researcher, a tour guide, and a waitress. Two males, one female. We’ve been unable to discover any link between them and think they may have been chosen at random.”

“No such thing. How were they killed?”

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“That’s somewhat . . . involved. Three methods were used, all of them requiring a fair bit of planning. The first victim was killed by sled dogs—”

“Hang on. Sled dogs?”

Cassius clears his throat. “Yes. The murder took place near a small outpost at McMurdo Station—the victim was a government scientist.”

I stare at Cassius incredulously. “McMurdo Station? In the Antarctic?”

“Yes.”

“What was he doing research on, were-penguins?”

“I can’t tell you that, I’m afraid. It’s classified.”

Of course. This was the NSA, after all, not the FBI. “Okay, sled dogs. Go on.”

Gretchen continues. “The dogs were sedated, then had a coat of silver-based paint applied to their teeth. Once they were awake, they were exposed to a stimulant that drove them into a near frenzy. The researcher was placed into their pen and torn to pieces.”

“Silver. So he was a lycanthrope?”

“No, a hemovore. He survived until the dogs managed to separate his head from his body.”

“All right. Vic number two?”

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“Australian tour guide, male, also a lycanthrope. Found locked inside a homemade iron maiden in the middle of the Outback. Are you familiar with the device?”

“I know what it is.” A close-fitting coffin lined with spikes that impaled the victim when the lid was closed, a torture device from the Middle Ages. “Silver spikes?”

“Blades, actually. But it was the design of the sarcophagus itself that was particularly cruel—the blades initially penetrated the victim’s skin to a depth of less than an inch.”

“Not enough to kill him, you mean. How did he die—bleed to death?”

“Not at first—the blades were positioned to miss the major arteries. But the victim was locked in the sarcophagus just before the rising of the full moon—the one time that lycanthropes must transform. As his body changed in size and shape, the embedded blades tore deeper into his flesh. Exposure to silver also becomes much more painful to a lycanthrope during a full moon; the resulting agony caused the victim to writhe uncontrollably, literally tearing himself apart.” Her voice is clipped and precise, a professional doing her job. “Then he bled out.”

“And the last one?”

“Took place on the island of Hokkaido, Japan. The victim was a hemovore employed as waitstaff in a blood bar in Sapporo, the largest city and capital of the prefecture. She was bound and suspended by her wrists, approximately twelve feet off the ground. A sharpened wooden pole was fixed to the floor beneath, one end inserted in her rectum. A pulley system transferred her weight slowly from her wrists to the pole. An extremely nasty way to go—the pole eventually emerged from her mouth.”

I nod. “Was the pole tipped with silver, or did it have silver embedded in it?”

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Gretchen arches one elegant eyebrow. “Yes, there was a silver cap affixed to the top of the pole. Completely unnecessary—sharpened wood penetrates the flesh of hemovores on its own. How did you know?”

“He’s killed a vampire using animals and silver, and a lycanthrope by locking him in a coffin and impaling him. These acts are deeply symbolic. Killing a vampire with a wooden stake, even a really big one, doesn’t fit the pattern—there had to be some symbolic reference to lycanthropes in it somewhere. Where was the body found?”

“In a forest—a protected reserve, actually.”

“Let me guess: it has historical or cultural significance to lycanthropes.”

“Yes. Hokkaido is home to a species of wolf found nowhere else.”

I nod. “Okay. Antarctica, Australia, Asia. Obviously, he’s killing people on continents that begin and end with an A—keep a close eye on those places and I guarantee you’ll catch him. Can I go home now?”

Cassius ignores my joke, which almost makes me feel at home. Almost. “Gretch, take Jace up to the forensics lab. The physical evidence we’ve collected is there, plus Damon should be done with your equipment by now. But first, I’d like a few moments alone with Ms. Valchek.”

Charlie heads for the door without a word. Gretchen gives me a sly smile on the way out that I’m not sure how to take.

And then I’m alone with my new boss. Again. I hope it goes better than last time.

“Jace,” he begins, then stops with a frown.

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“I do something wrong already?”

“No. I did.” He sighs and gets up from his chair. “Look, I think we can both agree I pretty much blew the whole firstimpression thing. You don’t have any reason to like me, let alone trust me. But we’re going to be working together, and I do not want the work to suffer—because the work is saving the lives of innocent people. I know you’re professional enough to do that—I just wanted to let you know that I am, too.”

“All right.” I bite down on a half-dozen replies, which hurts; they’re all sharp and extremely bitter.

He looks at me for a second without saying anything. Maybe it’s the Urthbone, but for just an instant he looks incredibly, anciently tired; like he’s been fighting a war for centuries and just doesn’t give a damn anymore.

No, that’s not quite right. He still gives a damn, but it’s buried under so many years and so much psychic baggage that he doesn’t quite know where that damn is anymore, or what it’s for. My grandfather used to get that look when the Alzheimer’s started to set in, the frustrated groping for a word or concept that was tantalizingly close but had no handle to pick it up by; he had the eyes of a wounded little boy when that happened, and it always broke my heart.

“I’ll . . . do my best,” I say. It’s about as conciliatory as I can manage.

The look vanishes, and the Junior partner in the law firm is looking at me again. “I’m sure you will,” he says, and opens the door for me.

And just like that, we’re done. I walked into that office a prisoner, and I walk out an employee. The surreality of it makes me a little lightheaded, and I realize I don’t actually know how often I’m supposed to get a dose of Urthbone. I’ll have to check the first chance I get.

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Charlie and Gretchen are waiting for me, and we head back to the elevator. Gretchen walks as if she’s strolling down a runway at Milan, all poise and elegance. Charlie stalks beside her like a pit bull straining against a leash. I wonder how I look to them—fragile?

Alien? Hopelessly ignorant?

“Well, what do you think of our fearless leader?” Gretchen asks. She jabs at the elevator button with one red-nailed finger.

“I don’t know,” I answer carefully. “I just—”

“Don’t underestimate him—he’s made his career out of people who’ve done that. He’s highly intelligent, Machiavellian to the extreme, and utterly ruthless. If you can get past that, he’s not bad to work for.”

Her honesty surprises me. “Yeah, he sounds like a real sweetheart.”

“He can be—but be careful. He doesn’t have many weaknesses, but women are one of them. Especially your type.”

“What, O Positive?”

“Really? I would have said B Negative. . . . You’re a smart woman, Jace. You’re also stubborn, aggressive—and human. That’s a combination he finds both rare and irresistible.”

“Why?”

She manages to shrug while only moving her eyebrows. “Who knows? It’s like the old joke: Why do vampires date humans?”

“I give up.”

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“Yes, but not without a struggle.”

Great. I’m going to have to deal with “human being” jokes, too.

“David is loyal to a fault,” Gretchen says. “Give him your best—professionally, I mean—

and he’ll put his very long life on the line for you. Cross him and he’ll wait twenty years for his revenge.”

“I’m not planning on being here that long,” I mutter. “But thanks for the whole carrot-andstick pep talk.”

The elevator shows up, disgorges an agent in a business suit and a golem in a shortsleeved white shirt, his hairless head and exposed arms a dull yellow. His ears are just bumps. He nods at Charlie, but doesn’t say anything as he steps past.

“How about you, Charlie?” I ask as we step inside. “Do you agree with Gretch? Is Cassius all she says?”

“The Director knows what he’s doing. If that means making sacrifices to get the job done, that’s what he’ll do.”