Authors: Cherie Priest
Bloodshot (2 page)
“Breathlessly readable, palpably atmospheric, and compellingly suspenseful,
Four and Twenty Blackbirds
is a considerable debut. It’s written with great control and fluency, and it looks like the start of quite a career.” —R
AMSEY
C
AMPBELL
, World Horror Grand Master
“Spooky and engrossing, this revenge play is as sticky as a salmagundi made from blood and swamp dirt. Priest can write scenes that are jump-out-of-your-skin scary. This is the first installment in what I can only hope will be a long and terrifying friendship.” —C
ORY
D
OCTOROW
, author of
Makers
“Fine writing, humor, thrills, real scares, the touch of the occult … had me from the first page. I read straight through. An absolutely wonderful debut, and a book not to be missed.” —H
EATHER
G
RAHAM
,
New York Times
bestselling author of the Bone Island trilogy
“Wonderful. Enchanting. Amazing and original fiction that will satisfy that buttery Southern taste, as well as that biting aftertaste of the dark side. I loved it.” —J
OE
R. L
ANSDALE
, Stoker and Edgar award-winning author of
The Bottoms
“Cherie Priest kicks ass!
Four and Twenty Blackbirds
is lush, rich, intense, and as dark and dangerous as a gator-ridden swamp.” —M
AGGIE
S
HAYNE
,
New York Times
bestselling author of
Kiss me, Kill Me
“A remarkably assured debut, a creepy modern-day Southern gothic that doesn’t rely on cliché but delivers an emotional, powerful tale of self-discovery and the supernatural.” —
San Francisco Chronicle
“Ghost stories are a dime a dozen, so it’s especially satisfying when one comes along that makes you forget all the others you’ve read, and sucks you into the narrative so completely that you’ll stay up all night finishing it because you can’t wait to find out what happens next—and because you’re too creeped out to go to sleep.… A stunning debut novel, one that displays the finely-honed prose and tightly-drawn characterizations of a master craftsman.”
—Orson Scott Card’s Intergalactic Medicine Show
“What do you get when you weave together a ghost story, a voodoo mystery, a family curse, a sharp-tongued protective aunt, a murderous young man intent on doing ‘God’s Will,’ and a bullheaded young woman determined to learn her origins? The answer:
Four and Twenty Blackbirds
, a fantastic debut novel by Cherie Priest that leads the reader on a merry chase down a not-so-primrose path from her home in Tennessee to the desolation of a condemned insane asylum, and finally to a fetid swamp in Florida.… Close the doors, turn off the phone, get a glass of sweet tea and settle into your favorite reading chair. This is one you’re not going to want to put down.”
—Black Gate
magazine
“Priest kills as a stylist. Debut novel? You could have fooled me.
Four and Twenty Blackbirds
feels like it was written by an author with the assurance and experience of already having many books under her belt.… The narrator’s voice is pitch-perfect, the cast wonderfully eccentric and realized, the plot suitably puzzling and steeped in mystery, and that setting.… In other words, the book has everything going for it and you should definitely pick up a copy to see for yourself.” —C
HARLES
D
E
L
INT
,
Fantasy and Science Fiction
“The classic Southern gothic gets an edgy modern makeover in Priest’s debut novel [and] Eden is a heroine for the aging Buffy crowd.” —
Publishers Weekly
WINGS TO THE KINGDOM
“This is an excellent work, rich in local flavor, nicely steeped in goosebumps, and filled with characters you want to know more about. Well done.” —
Bookgasm
“The plot, which begins slowly by setting the stage, builds a roiling crescendo and climaxes in an explosive scene at the top of the tower at the battlefield’s edge. The flamboyant mix of ghosts, the preternatural Old Green Eyes, and murder keeps one on edge.” —
Booklist
“A consummately crafted novel that is neither fish nor fowl, but simply a wonderfully written tale of imagination, the supernatural all wrapped up in a deep south family saga … These Eden Moore books, put simply, rock” —
The Agony Column
“I’m more than ecstatic to have discovered Cherie Priest so early on. Ten years down the line when she’s got a handful of books out and everyone is tossing her name around like she’s Stephen King’s holy granddaughter, I’ll gladly smile and nod, maybe throw out a ‘I knew her when.’ ” —Fantasy Book Spot
NOT FLESH NOR FEATHERS
“Chock-f of chilling details and soaked to the bone with suspense.” —
Southern Living
“This one has all the elements of a good ghost story: family secrets, mysterious disappearances and Tennessee River zombies attacking the town. Well-written, quick paced and detailed, every page is a shivering delight.” —
Publishers Weekly
“Priest’s tale crackles with action and occult thrills, especially in the scenes of the inundated city reeling under the double assault of Mother Nature and the supernatural. Fans will find this her most assured outing yet.” —
BookPage
ALSO BY CHERIE PRIEST
T
HE
C
LOCKWORK
C
ENTURY
Dreadnought
Clementine
Boneshaker
Fathom
Those Who Went Remain There Still
Dreadful Skin
E
DEN
M
OORE
Four and Twenty Blackbirds
Wings to the Kingdom
Not Flesh Nor Feathers
Bloodshot
is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Spectra Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2011 by Cherie Priest
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Spectra, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
S
PECTRA
and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Priest, Cherie.
Bloodshot / Cherie Priest.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-52061-6
1. Private investigators—Fiction. 2. Vampires—Fiction. 3. Thieves—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3616.R537B58 2011
813′.6—dc22
2010040168
Cover design: Jae Song
Cover photograph (woman with gun): © argo74 / Shutterstock
v3.1
Like most books,
Bloodshot
wouldn’t have happened without the assistance, time, and input of a small army of exceedingly awesome folks. Therefore, it’s only appropriate to give some shout-outs and pass along my undying (or undead?) thanks to all of the following: my amazing new editor, Anne Groell, for her outstanding patience and remarkable insight; her assistant, David Pomerico, who has kindly answered many a wacked-out question without complaint; my marvelous agent, Jennifer Jackson, for brokering the whole thing in the first place; and to my husband, Aric, who is probably sick to death of hearing about vampires.
Perpetual thanks also go to my awesome-sauce day-job boss at Subterranean (Hi, Bill and Yanni!), for helping me keep the lights on between writing gigs; to Team Seattle, scattered to the four winds though it may be; to the Seattle-area booksellers who have been so outrageously kind to me, including Steven and Vlad at Third Place Books and Duane at the University Book Store—plus the Barnes & Noble crew at Northgate, in particular Covahgin and John B.; to my webmaster Greg the Mighty, who hasn’t pushed me off a cliff yet, despite what must be overwhelming temptation to do so; and as always, to everyone in the secret clubhouse that serves the world, for always believing that I can do it, even when I don’t agree.
1
Y
ou wouldn’t believe some of the weird shit people pay me to steal.
Old things, new things. Expensive things, rare things, gross things.
Lately it’s been naughty things.
We’ve all heard stories about people who regret their tattoos. But I’d rather spend eternity with Tweety Bird inked on my ass than knowing there’s a hide-the-cucumber short film out there with my name on it, and my bank account tells me I’m not alone. I’ve done three pilfer-the-porno cases in the last eight months, and I’ve got another one on deck.
But I think I’m going to tell that fourth case to go to hell. Maybe I’ll quit doing them altogether. They make me feel like an ambulance chaser, or one of those private dicks who earns a living by spying on cheating
spouses, and that’s no fun. Profitable, yes, but there’s no dignity in it, and I don’t need the money that badly.
In fact, I don’t need the money at all. I’ve been at this gig for nearly a century, and in that time I’ve stored up quite a healthy little nest egg.
I suppose this begs the question of why I’d even bother with loathsome cases, if all I’m going to do is bitch about them. It can’t be mere boredom, can it? Mere boredom cannot explain why I willingly breached the bedroom of a fifty-year-old man with a penchant for stuffed animals in
Star Trek
uniforms.
Perhaps I need to do some soul searching on this one.
But I say all that to simply say this: I was ready for a different kind of case. I would even go so far as to say I was
eager
for a different kind of case, but if you haven’t heard the old adage about being careful what you wish for, and you’d like a cautionary fable based upon that finger-wagging premise, well then. Keep reading.
Have I got a doozy for
you
.
It began with a card I received in the mail. A simple card doesn’t sound so strange, but the extenuating circumstances were these: (1) The card arrived at my home address; (2) it was addressed to me, personally, by name; and (3) I didn’t recognize the handwriting. I can count on one hand the number of people who might send me a note at home, and I’ve known each of those folks for decades. This was somebody new. And instinct and experience told me that this was Not A Good Thing.
The envelope also lacked a postmark, which was a neat trick considering the locked residential boxes downstairs. So it wasn’t marked in any way, and it didn’t smell like anything, either. I held it under my nose and closed my eyes, and I caught a whiff of leather—from a glove? the mail carrier’s bag?—and printer ink, and the rubbery taste of a moistening sponge.
What kind of prissy bitch won’t lick an envelope?
That’s easy. Another vampire.
Under the filthiest, most nonbathing of circumstances we don’t leave much body odor, and what we do manufacture we prefer to minimize.
That extra bit of precaution told me plenty, even before I read the card. It told me that this came from someone who didn’t want to be chased or traced. Somebody was trying to keep all the balls in his court, or all the cards in his hand—however you preferred to look at it.
I wasn’t sure how I knew my mystery correspondent was a man, but I was right. The message within was typed in italics, as if I ought to whisper should I read it aloud. It said,
Dear Ms. Pendle
,
I wish to speak with you about a business matter of utmost confidentiality and great personal significance. I have very deep pockets and I require complete discretion. Please contact me at the phone number below
.
Thank you for your time
,
Ian Stott
And he signed it with a drop of blood, just in case I was too dense to gather the nature of my potential client. The blood smelled sweet and a smidgen sour—not like the Asian sauce, but more like the candy. It’s subtly different from the blood of a living person—both more appealing and less so. It’s tough to describe.