The vampires had come to my door. They hadn’t just wanted in: they wanted to raise a ruckus. They didn’t come with just their natural weapons, so they hadn’t come with the intention of killing—No. Wait.
They
had
come to kill me. But it would have to be the right kind of kill since the whole point of pushing me close to death was to bend me into the Grey form Wygan needed for whatever plan he had in mind. And the more trouble the whole scene caused, the more likely I was to be forced out of my home if they weren’t entirely successful. Wygan wouldn’t want them to bite me, just in case someone was a little too thirsty: he couldn’t risk my not being in his control by being blood-tied to another vampire—if that was even possible. It also wouldn’t be difficult to explain the wounds on any bystanders who caught a bullet, unlike the classic broken necks and gouged throats of the usual vampire victim.
Solis had said violence and homicide were up, that the crimes fit a pattern, but he hadn’t said exsanguinated bodies or unexplainable wounds were part of it—Simondson had looked like a hit-and-run but I was pretty sure he was a vampire victim one way or another. The pattern of last night’s crime looked like thugs with guns who’d left some odd piles of human ash scattered around. That might be strange or creepy, but from the reports, the police were already thinking of the uptick in violence as weird gang crime with some bizarre ritual or marker. Witnesses wouldn’t be too eager to say they’d seen something as crazy as one apparent gangbanger roasting another into a pile of ash in the space of a few seconds. That’s nuthouse talk, and vampires are damned good at leaving only foggy memories in the minds of survivors. If anyone had been talking, they’d only say what the vampires wanted them to say—or something so crackpot the cops wouldn’t pay attention. The SPD gang unit was still based in West Seattle, even after the biggest gang problem was cleared out by the demolition of the projects. If they had related crimes downtown, they’d be working with Solis or one of his colleagues, which explained the detective’s swift appearance. Quinton had mentioned vampires making trouble downtown, including some shootings, while I was in London, but that had been centered on the clubs and bars around Belltown and the financial core—the vampire neutral zones where faction fighting was supposed to stay off the streets and not attract the attention of the sheep. But if it was part of the pattern Solis had noted, that would connect last night’s mess to his cases and to me by way of Simondson, the dead guy.
The possibility of a wider pattern explained another curiosity: the vampire who’d cooked another vampire with something very much like one of Quinton’s stunners—probably the same thing I’d done to the vampire last night. That first incident must have been a test run. Once the vampires with the stun sticks knew what effect they had on others of their kind, they could take out their rivals in a more public place than usual—someplace most vampires felt safe—so long as they sprayed a little lead around to cover the scene and make it look like a gang war. It also created panic and fear—emotions that the asetem fed on. Edward had kept his position partially by leaving Quinton alone so no one would discover he was as vulnerable to electrical disruption of his nervous system as the rest of the bloodsucking pack. Except that asetem weren’t as susceptible, according to Quinton, and they weren’t afraid of carrying the stunners around either. I’d just gotten lucky with the one I’d zapped the night before.
There lay an unhappy thought: vampires who weren’t as easy to knock down or kill as the usual kind—which wasn’t a waltz with Fred Astaire to begin with—even if they were a bit slower. And they had weapons to take down their vampire opponents as well as any human in the way without having to close to biting range. I hate it when the monsters get clever. Damn Wygan.
Grendel and I headed back to the condo as I kept thinking. If I were Wygan, I’d keep the pressure on and try to drive me out of my safe zone so he’d have a better chance to catch me and then do whatever he needed to do to me at his leisure. He’d want to keep me off-balance and tired so I’d keep on making mistakes like the ones I’d made with Goodall. On the street alone I was vulnerable; I had a much better idea of what I was and what I could do than ever before, but I still didn’t know enough about what was coming next. I quickened my pace and Grendel loped beside me with a huge doggy grin all over his face. Wygan knew I’d come to him eventually: He had my dad’s ghost captive; he’d taken my employer, too; and he’d teased me with information he knew I couldn’t resist pursuing and then killed off the man who had some of it—assuming Simondson did. But Wygan hadn’t tried to isolate me, hadn’t gone after Quinton. . . .
The thought galvanized me. The grid of power seemed to hum louder and with a discordant note as the shape of the world blazed for an instant, too bright. I burst into a full run, Grendel loping happily beside me as I pounded down the hill toward my place with the conviction that all was not well at home.
THREE
S
moke. I smelled it before I got there, before I saw the dark wisps coiling into the sky. The fire alarm in the building was shrieking loud enough to be heard on the street even over Grendel’s excited barking. A guy with a garden hose was already trying to douse the burning shrub under my balcony, but not all the smoke was coming from the landscaping. I cursed the security door and wrestled my way through it, tugging the dog behind me as he tried to go after the stream of water from the hose.
We galloped up the stairs, my chest tight from the whiff of burning and anxiety that made a high metallic ringing in my ears. It almost sounded like distant fairy voices screaming.
From the landing, I saw my door engulfed in yellow flames sprouting from a bundle of black cloth stuffed against the bottom. Someone had added two fresh, bloody handprints to the stain left on the wall the night before. Nice. As I crouched and ran forward, the bundle of burning cloth tipped away from the door, propelled by the tip of a yardstick poking out through the gap between the door and the threshold. I ordered Grendel to sit and stay while I yanked off my jacket and started beating the flames out.
Quinton ducked through the open doorway with the fire extinguisher from my kitchen and killed the flames in a powdery stream of chemicals. The oily wad of rags smoldered a bit, but didn’t reignite.
Reaching up with the yardstick, Quinton poked the alarm’s reset button. There was still one squalling from inside my condo, but as we stood in the hall it wound down and stopped with a sad whine.
“You all right?” he asked, looking me over.
I stooped to pick up my ruined jacket. It was a good thing I’d bought another one in London, since I seem to be death on outerwear. “Fine. But we’re going to have to get out of here.”
Quinton looked around the hall, silent now as the neighbors were all off at work and the smoke had begun dissipating. “Yeah, I guess that wasn’t too subtle.”
I peered at him, not quite sure in my dopey sleep-deprived state if I’d understood him.
He poked the partially burned rags and gave the stains on the wall a significant look. “The goons are rattling your cage.”
“And I need some quiet if I’m going to stay out of their hands. And keep you out of them, too.”
He considered that before heading back into my condo. “You think they’ll try to split us?”
I nodded and followed him inside. “It’s in their best interest to keep me isolated and off-balance, even to grab whatever leverage they can get.”
“We need to talk.”
“We do. But not here. They’ll keep coming at us so long as we’re someplace they can find us.”
“You think so?”
I nodded, feeling dizzy from the motion. At least my ears had stopped ringing and Grendel was acting subdued, sticking close to us but not begging for attention. The smoke seemed to have damped his spirits as much as it had ours.
Quinton took my steel wastebasket and swept up the mess in the hall as I started pulling out the bags and the ferret’s traveling kit. The living room reeked of smoke.
As I put the necessary pet supplies together, Quinton returned and poked at some of his equipment. “Slag,” he muttered.
“Huh?”
“This stuff near the window. The smoke got in it. Most of it’s kacked. Including my Grey detector. Well. At least that’s something less to carry.” He sighed. “What’s the plan, then, supergirl?”
“Bug out, find a safe place, get some sleep. Then go after them while they think they have us on the run.”
“Risky. What if they grab you? I mean . . . they do intend to grab you, don’t they?”
I shrugged. “Yeah. But I don’t plan to give them any more chances. I’m making mistakes, but if I can get some sleep before they can catch up to us, get some information, then I may have the upper hand. If I move fast.”
Quinton nodded, starting to smile. “We’ll attack them first—gives us the options to act while they only have the option to
react
. I definitely like that scenario. Much better than the alternative.” He picked up a pair of bags and slung them up onto his shoulders.
He threw a handful of objects into another bag and zipped it up while I snatched my one bag and the animal kit. I went back to the bedroom to fetch the ferret and returned to see Quinton grabbing the handles on his last bag with one hand and Grendel’s leash with the other.
“What are we going to do with the dog?” he asked.
“Ben and Mara have a yard . . . and I want to talk to them anyway.” They’d been my first instructors in dealing with the Grey, and their home would be more than just a place to hide; I was pretty sure I would need their knowledge and help before this was done.
Quinton looked thoughtful. “Wygan must know you’re friends with them. And their place is close to the broadcast towers.”
“It’s the best I can come up with. We’ll just have to be careful.”
“It’s worth a try.” Quinton twitched the dog’s leash and Grendel trotted out like he’d been Quinton’s pet all his life. Dogs seemed to do that for him; I guess they knew he loved them.
We secured the condo and bundled our gear downstairs and into the truck. I only wished I’d had the energy to move it into the garage the previous night so it was less obvious to any watchers that we were leaving, but that couldn’t be helped. If we grew a tail, we’d lose it, and there wasn’t anything in terms of electronic tracking they could do that Quinton couldn’t defeat.
We drove away from my building and I wondered if I’d ever see it again.
FOUR
I
t took more than forty minutes to get to the Danzigers’ house on Queen Anne Hill. We had to shake off a tail and check the truck for tracking devices once that was done. Then we were able to continue, but we knew we’d have to check for anyone watching their house. I didn’t know how many resources Wygan had to throw at surveillance and for causing me trouble, but I assumed it was plenty. I didn’t want to draw his attention to the Danzigers if it wasn’t there already. Mara was good at protecting the house with her magic, but the whole family couldn’t just stay home for as long as it took me to wreck Wygan’s plans.
Total destruction was my goal. Even in my bleary, sleepless state, my mind was clear on that. Whatever his plans were, the consequences wouldn’t be pleasant for anyone and I couldn’t let him win.
We both checked the area for watchers, Quinton by eye and scanner, me sinking into the Grey and looking for signs of energy out of place, ghosts, or the ashen signature of those who consorted with vampires. I found one harsh sigil on the sidewalk just outside the reach of Mara’s own protective spells. I left it intact so as not to alert its caster and circled around through the silver mist and ghost light of the Grey to the back of the house. The alley had a few shreds of deep-red blood magic, hot with anger, festooned across the back gate. It was amateur work, done in a hurry and easy to bypass. I wished I could show it to Mara and see what she thought, but I’d have to unmake the nasty little screamer spells to get past them. Whoever had set them hadn’t bothered—or hadn’t known how—to attach them to the grid so they would let him know if they were taken apart. They only went off if tripped. I’d just have to not trip them.
I fetched Quinton to watch my back while I went deeper into the Grey to dismantle the spell. I’d taken Grey things apart before; spells were generally out of my league, but these were rudimentary things and I didn’t have to work too hard to sort out the one thread of magic that held the things together. I grabbed onto the kernel of the thing in the Grey, feeling the muttering of the grid and the hot/cold burn of it through my bones as I did so, and pulled with an even, firm pressure. The fury of the spell ripped along my nerves like a spray of decompressed Freon, and the strands of magic fell apart. It wasn’t too bad, but I stumbled a little as I reemerged back into the normal world.
Quinton caught me. “You all right?”
“Yes.” I tried to brush him aside, but he wasn’t having any. “We can go in now.”
“Maybe we should catch our breath first. You look a little . . . pale.” I might have looked something worse than pale, like maybe not quite solid. Maybe it was just fatigue, but that worried me a little. I only got ghostly when I was very close to the Grey, and here I believed I was all the way out. I brushed the thought aside and let myself through the gate to the Danzigers’ backyard. The gate gleamed with a tracery of pure gold energy I recognized as part of Mara’s magical perimeter. I guess it was used to me after all this time since it didn’t do anything as we stepped through its complex lattice. I heard it whispering pleasing lullabies as we passed.
I’d never seen the back of the Danzigers’ house before; I’d always kept to the interior rooms. The big pale-blue house had a wide, slightly wild back garden, a little tamer than the tumbling wilderness in front, overlooked by a full-width screen porch that overhung the deep stone foundation. The yard was quiet, though we could hear some domestic noises from the house. Quinton tied Grendel to a tree that supported a half-built play platform and we finished the trek across the yard alone.
Mara was standing just inside the screen door when we climbed the back stairs. “Good morning to y’both. Have y’brought us a dog, then?” I’d never been able to read Mara’s energy, and today her face was just as difficult. She wasn’t ready to show me what she thought of our appearance at her door. Our friendship had been a little cooler since I’d nearly gotten her husband eaten by a monster, even if it had been more than a year ago.
“Only temporarily,” I replied. I wasn’t surprised she’d known we were coming. Mara is a witch, after all, and her spells on the house were more sophisticated than they looked.
She opened the door to let us pass. “Did y’take down that wretched blood spell on the garden gate? I thought to do it in a bit, but I wanted to see who’d be coming along to trip it. Not surprised as it’s you.”
I entered the house, hearing the muttering of the grid fade to a distant water babble. The magical calm inside eased an unsuspected tension from my shoulders and I took a deep breath of the quiet. “Good guess.”
She scoffed. “Hardly much of one: You’re the only person we know who consorts with vampires.”
“So you saw them cast the spells?”
“No, but I’ve developed a nose for ’em.” She looked at Quinton and cracked her blinding, infectious grin. “And how is it with you? Are y’keeping herself here out of trouble?”
“Don’t seem to be.”
“Ah. I see. Well, come inside. I’ve some coffee and scones on—if y’can get them before Brian.”
Brian, the Danzigers’ three-year-old son, was scaling a chair beside the long kitchen counter as we entered. His mother snuck up and tapped him on the shoulder. “And what is it you’re playing at? Hm?” she asked as he jumped in surprise.
Brian turned to face her and bit his lower lip, his eyes huge, shifting side to side as he tried to come up with an excuse. “I sawed a mouse.”
Mara didn’t look convinced. “You
saw
a mouse on the counter?”
Brian nodded with vigor and tried to look sincere. “Yes, Mama. Big mouse. It was gonna take the scones.” Brian’s
s
’s came out a bit lispy through a gap between his front teeth.
“Oh, I see. A very large, black-haired mouse, I suppose. And was this very large mouse named Brian, by chance?”
“Umm ... no... .”
Mara raised her eyebrows and fixed a stern look on her son. Brian deflated and looked at the ground with a sigh. I gave him another two years to figure out that his mother really did know everything—at least everything he didn’t want her to. There was no longer a ghost in the house, spying on every move, but that didn’t mean there weren’t other ways for Mara to get information.
Mara straightened up and took a small biscuitlike thing off a plate, wrapped it in a paper towel, and handed it to Brian. “ You may have one scone—just one, mind. You may take it out to the back garden to eat it and then y’can play with the dog.”
Brian’s face lit up. “Did we get a puppy?”
“Mara ...” I started. “Are you sure . . . ?”
She gave me an arch look. “Now y’wouldn’t be bringing us a vicious killer dog, would you?”
“No....”
“Then we’ve nothing to fear.”
I still wasn’t sure sending Brian out to play with Grendel unsupervised was a good idea. The boy was rambunctious and I didn’t know how the dog would react without someone he already knew around to cue him. I saw Mara whisper something over Brian’s head and draw a quick shape over him with her finger.
The charm dissolved into a rain of tiny blue stars that seemed to stick to him as Brian turned and charged for the back door, shouting, “Hi, Harper! I’m gonna see the doggie!”
“No scone for the dog!” Mara called after him. Then she looked a bit worried. “I suppose he’ll be all right a moment....”
Quinton glanced at me. “Grendel doesn’t stand a chance,” he muttered. “I’m betting on the kid.”
Mara stuck her head out the kitchen doorway and called out to her husband. “Ben! ’Tis Harper and Quinton. Come down, can you?”
We could hear him clumping down the stairs from the attic, the old wooden steps musical and echoing under his tread.
A shriek came from the backyard. Quinton, Mara, and I bolted back out to the screen porch and stared out at the yard. I don’t know about them, but I figured Grendel—the appetite on legs—had eaten Brian by now. But no: The boy was rolling around on the ground all right, but the dog was prancing about, wagging his whole butt in the air as Brian guffawed in whoops and gales like the maniac version of his mother’s own laughter.
Brian rolled onto his belly and, as we stared, Grendel trotted over and shoved him onto his back again, licking his face and nuzzling at him. Brian pulled himself up with his hands locked around the dog’s powerful neck and Grendel just stood there, grinning. Grendel received a lot of pats and scritches that rendered the dog into a wiggling mass of glee.
“Oh, yeah, the dog’s a goner,” Quinton murmured in my ear as Brian and Grendel started chasing each other back and forth across the yard.
“Hey, when’d we get a hellhound?” Ben Danziger asked from behind us. We all turned around—perfect synchrony that would have made Balanchine proud—and stared at him as he stood in the doorway from the kitchen and gazed over our heads at the yard beyond the screen. “Well, it doesn’t have three heads, so it can’t be Cerberus,” he added.
“That’s my neighbor’s dog, Grendel,” I said. “And no, he does not have a cat named Beowulf.”
Ben broke out laughing and almost fell, stumbling on the threshold plate of the doorway.
“We’re dog-sitting. My neighbor . . . got shot last night.”
Ben’s laughter cut off short and Mara looked alarmed.
“He’ll be OK,” I assured them, “but he can’t look after the dog for a while. And since it’s my fault he got shot—”
Quinton cut me off. “No, it isn’t. They were trying to kill the dog and Rick was just in the wrong place. That’s not your fault.”
“I told him to take the dog to the door.”
“You didn’t tell him to let it off the leash.”
Mara made sharp cutting gestures at us. “Stop it, the both of ya. I assume you’d not be here, arguing in my home, without a good reason. So. Whyn’t ya sit down and start tellin’ it, soon’s I’ve brought out a bit of food? I’ll not be listenin’ to such bickerin’ before breakfast.” She shooed us into wicker chairs around a wooden table and dragged Ben with her back inside to fetch and carry. Quinton and I kept eyes on Brian and the dog, but they only continued to play as if we weren’t there.
I refused coffee once it was offered, which got me some raised eyebrows, but I’d already had more caffeine than I needed if I was going to get any sleep soon. I played with a couple of the small biscuit-like scones Mara put in front of me along with a glass of water. It wasn’t that I didn’t want to tell the story—that was a big part of the reason we’d come—but I needed to put my thoughts in order before I started in. Quinton wouldn’t tell the tale for me, even if he’d known it all. It was an insane story, if you considered it. It was only because it had all built up over time, a bit here and there, that I could believe it myself.
“There’s a bit of a problem at my place and . . . I hoped we could presume on your hospitality for a day or two,” I started, keeping my voice low so as not to alarm Brian. “I haven’t had a lot of sleep lately and my condo isn’t safe for us to stay in right now. We need someplace secure to catch up and do some planning until things get better. I can’t imagine any place safer from Grey things and I don’t think we led any here. The spell on the back gate didn’t get a chance to alert its caster when I dismantled it, so no one should be coming to check, either.”
Mara made a face. “So things are bad, then.”
“If the normal level of ‘bad’ is something like ‘oh darn, we’ve blown up the house,’ this bad comes with its own small but unattractive mushroom cloud. I’m kind of behind on the news in Seattle since I’ve been out of town, but a little Columbian birdie came by this morning to tell me that the homicide rate in town doubled in the past two weeks and I hear there’s been a lot of purported gang activity downtown, which probably isn’t really gangs. Our favorite vampire king, Edward, has been kidnapped. And it all comes together in some unpleasant plan with me as the bow on the package.”
Ben scowled. “I’m sorry, I think I’m missing something. Is this related to the ghost you were trying to find, the one you called us about a couple of weeks ago?”
I nodded, keeping my gaze on the plate in front of me. “That was my dad.”
“Your da?” Mara questioned. “I thought he died when you were small.”
“It turns out,” I said, feeling something cold and miserable knot up in my gut, “that he blew his brains out. I didn’t know this. I thought it was an accident. I was twelve. But . . . well ...” I stopped talking. This wasn’t going well at all: I felt like crying. Just tired, I told myself. Just too damned tired.
I lifted my head. They were all watching me, and you’d think after more than a decade of professional dance and almost as much in surveillance and snooping, I’d shrug it off, but this time I froze.
Quinton pushed his knee up against mine under the table and dropped his near hand to rest, still and warm, on my leg. “Maybe you should start with the phone call,” he suggested.
The Danzigers huddled closer to the table and leaned in as if I were about to tell a ghost story around the campfire. In a way, I suppose I was.
I shifted my gaze away from them, unhappy about this necessity, and started in. “All right. About three weeks ago I got a phone call from a dead boyfriend. He said things weren’t what I thought they were and that there were . . . things lying in wait for me. Since he died in Los Angeles eight years ago, I thought that might be the place to start looking. It seemed to me that whatever he was talking about must be related to my past—and to my abilities as a Greywalker—since I couldn’t imagine anything else a dead guy might think I needed to be warned about. So I went.”
I glanced around to see how they were reacting. Quinton knew this part, but the Danzigers didn’t. Mara looked wary, her head half turned so she regarded me sideways with narrowed eyes. Ben just looked intrigued. I stifled a yawn and went on.
“I thought I should visit my mother and see if she had any ideas—though of course she doesn’t know about the . . . paranormal connection. A lot of what she revealed isn’t relevant, but she is the one who told me my father hadn’t died in an accident, as I’d believed, but had shot himself.”
Mara flinched back into her seat, catching a sharp breath through her nose. She looked out into the yard, watching her son a moment before she spoke. “Had she any inkling why he did it?”