Blood Song Read online

  Blood Song

  Cat Adams

  Tor Books by Cat Adams

  Magic’s Design

  BLOOD SINGER

  Blood Song

  Tor Books by C. T. Adams and Cathy Clamp

  TALES OF THE SAZI

  Hunter’s Moon

  Moon’s Web

  Captive Moon

  Howling Moon

  Moon’s Fury

  Timeless Moon

  Cold Moon Rising

  Serpent Moon

  THE THRALL

  Touch of Evil

  Touch of Madness

  Touch of Darkness

  CAT ADAMS

  CAT ADAMS

  BLOOD

  SONG

  A Tom Doherty Associates Book

  New York

  This is a work of fiction. Al of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are

  used fictitiously.

  BLOOD SONG

  Copyright © 2010 by C. T. Adams and Cathy Clamp

  Al rights reserved.

  A Tor Book

  Published by Tom Doherty Associates, LLC

  175 Fifth Avenue

  New York, NY 10010

  www.tor-forge.com

  Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, LLC.

  ISBN 978-0-7653-2494-8

  First Edition: June 2010

  Printed in the United States of America

  0 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

  DEDICATION AND ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  First and always, we would like to thank Cathy’s husband, Don, and Cie’s son, James, for unstinting support and believing in us. Also to our wonderful

  agent, Merrilee Heifetz; her able assistant; our editor; and the throng of other folks who help bring a book from the idea stage to actual, written words

  on the page. Special thanks to our friends and family, and the other writers who offer understanding when we need it.

  Cie would like to specifical y thank her brother, Tim, whose inexhaustible knowledge of basebal helped more than we can say. Even though we

  didn’t get to put much of what he told us on the page, it was necessary to know for setting the scene. Special thanks go out to the folks at McAnal y’s

  Pub on Jim Butcher’s forum, and particularly Lord Nedd for the use of the fez. For the record, there are a couple of instances of homage to Jim

  Butcher in this book. In this case, imitation real y is meant as the sincerest form of flattery, as we find his books to be bril iant.

  Last, but not least, thanks to you, the readers, for coming along for the ride. We hope you enjoy reading these books as much as we enjoy writing

  them.

  A NOTE TO READERS

  First, in my (Cie’s) opinion, for the most part happy families do not make for interesting reading. I don’t know why. They do, however, make for

  happy writers. Every time a writer creates a character with a particularly troubled background (or a kinky sexual bent), it seems that somebody

  out in the “real world” assumes that the writer is working from personal experience. So al ow me to state for the record that Celia Graves’s

  background and troubles are al her own. They do not reflect any personal experience on the part of either of the authors. Thank God!

  Part of the fun of writing is research. In order to make the fantasy portions more believable, you have to be very careful to get the “real” portions

  right. Stil , inevitably, some glitches slip in. The setting of this book is Southern California. We created a fictional city of Santa Maria de Luna and

  slapped it down on the coast between San Juan Capistrano and Oceanside, right on top of Camp Pendleton, which obviously doesn’t exist in this

  reality (our apologies to the U.S. Marines). Just as we created our own city, we came up with a university and rehab facility. But there are scenes

  that take place in Anaheim Stadium and other actual locations. While those portions of the book were researched heavily, it is possible that

  errors slipped in. If so, please forgive us.

  In this reality, the kingdom of Ruslund is located in the western half of the Ukraine, a few miles to the west of Kiev. It was formed about the time

  of the Union of Lublin, with a splinter section al ying itself with the Cossacks to form the new country with one of the nobles becoming king. The

  religion was Eastern Orthodox (which pleased the Cossacks), and the people resisted the Polish conversion to Catholicism that actual y caused

  rifts in the Ukraine in our version of history.

  —C. T. Adams and Cathy Clamp

  FAN INFORMATION

  Fans who wish to sign up for our newsletter can contact us at [email protected]. Our website is located at http://www.catadams.net.

  1

  I pulled the Miata to the curb and checked the address one more time. I stared at the building and the

  neighborhood. It wasn’t what I’d expected. The interview I’d had with the prince’s retainer had taken

  place in a conference room at one of the very best Los Angeles hotels. In fact, at this moment I knew

  that the press and several royal bodyguards were stationed at that same hotel. This place was nice,

  palatial even, but it was far enough off the beaten path that I’d had to use MapQuest to find it.

  I shut off the engine and looked down at the file sitting on the passenger seat. I thought about looking

  at it again, but I’d practical y memorized the contents already. Prince Rezza of Rusland was in the

  United States with his father’s blessing, meeting with private defense contractors. Publicly the prince

  was being the very image of a religious conservative. Ruslund was a smal kingdom in eastern Europe,

  nestled primarily between the Ukraine and Poland, touching on the Czech Republic as wel .

  Rusland might be smal in size, but it was gaining a whole new level of prominence political y thanks to

  the discovery of a huge supply of natural gas in the region. The Russians were practical y apoplectic.

  Their control over Europe’s natural gas supply was critical to their economy. Having a competitor next

  door wasn’t making them happy.

  Despite their common ancestors, the Russians hadn’t been happy with the Ruslunders since … wel ,

  ever. Stil , the little country managed to stubbornly exist as a monarchy in the face of socialism,

  communism, and rampant capitalism. How they’d managed not to be overrun by Germany during World

  War II, or absorbed into the Soviet Union afterward, was one of those burning political questions that

  nobody either could or would answer.

  Traditional y the public religion of Rusland was Orthodox, but a fundamentalist regime was gaining

  power and influence. It was the kind of political turmoil that makes you worry about assassination. The

  prince had very publicly declared his anti-American sentiments and al ied himself with the zealots—who

  would not necessarily be pleased with his private plans while in L.A. Which was why an impostor was

  taking his place for the evening, freeing the real prince up to do whatever it was he had in mind. The

  retainer had been fairly coy, but the prince’s upcoming marriage had been made very public. So I was

  guessing this was the equivalent of sowing the last of his wild oats. Besides, using a stand-in is a fairly

  common ploy when people like royals are trying to ditch the paparazzi. It’s difficult and expensive to find

  someone good enough at magic to do a long-term il usion, but they exist, and there’s always the oldfashioned �
��body double.”

  Whatever. I wasn’t about to judge, especial y not given Vicki’s situation. My job is to keep the

  protectee safe. Celia Graves, personal security consultant. At one point or another I’ve served as a

  bodyguard for movie stars, politicians, authors, celebrities, and, now, royalty. I protect them from the

  press, overzealous fans, and, when necessary, the monsters. I’m good at what I do, so I charge quite a

  lot and stay in business by myself, for myself. I’m not particularly good at the political and social sides

  of the job: too blunt, too sarcastic, not inclined to suck up and play nice. The “attitude” has cost me

  jobs, so I try to work on it … and general y fail miserably.

  I was getting ready to grab my jacket and climb out of the vehicle when I caught sight of the brightly

  patterned photo envelope sticking out from beneath the folder. I checked my watch. I was early. I could

  spare a minute or two to look at the pictures from my best friend’s birthday party this afternoon.

  I grabbed the envelope, pul ed it open, and began flipping through the photos. The ones I’d taken

  weren’t great. I’m no photographer. But the others, taken by one of the staff members at Vicki’s

  insistence, were real y nice. There were shots of Vicki blowing out her candles. There were flowers

  from Vicki’s girlfriend, Alex, and a bal oon bouquet in the background. One or two real y good shots of

  the two of us, and even more of Vicki standing in front of the present I’d bought her.

  Her face was absolutely alight with joy, and I couldn’t help but smile in satisfaction. Unlike Christmas,

  or her last birthday, this time I’d actual y managed to find the perfect gift. Vicki’s a level-nine clairvoyant.

  She uses a mirror to focus her gift. I’d found an antique mirror, backed with real silver, and had it put

  under multiple protection spel s until it was wel nigh unbreakable. That way she could have it in her

  room at Birchwoods.

  I sighed. Vicki had been at Birchwoods, a high-end “treatment” facility, for almost five years now. She

  could probably move home. Then again, maybe not. A clairvoyant of her power could actual y change

  the future if she got out of control. Right now she was stable, but I didn’t doubt that the shielding and

  protected atmosphere of Birchwoods helped her. So it didn’t surprise me that she showed no desire to

  leave, even though I knew Alex wanted the two of them to live together.

  It was none of my business. Vicki might be sweet and quiet, but she had a wil of iron. She would do

  what she was going to do, and that was the end of it.

  I was stil smiling as I stuffed the photos back in the envelope and tossed it back behind the

  passenger seat. It wouldn’t do to have anyone spot them accidental y. As far as the world is concerned,

  Vicki is not at Birchwoods. Like the prince I was about to meet, she has a body double. Hired by her

  wealthy parents, the fake Vicki plays on the Riviera, vacations in the Hamptons, and skis the Swiss

  Alps—none of which the real Vicki has ever had the luxury to do.

  Just thinking about that took away my smile, which was fine. It was time to get down to business. I

  climbed from the vehicle, grabbing my blazer from the passenger seat. I slid it on. It took a minute of

  shifting things around to get everything balanced comfortably. Despite the fact that it was practical y a

  walking armory, the jacket didn’t bulge. The tailoring and il usion spel s cost a smal fortune, but I

  consider it worth every penny. Hidden discreetly beneath that jacket I had not only the holster with my

  Colt but also a pair of “One Shot” brand squirt guns fil ed with holy water, a stake, and a very special

  pair of knives. Oh, and a garrote. Mustn’t forget the garrote, although honestly, I’ve never used it and

  couldn’t imagine drawing it quickly enough for use in a crisis. I was also wearing an ankle holster with a

  little Derringer, but if things got desperate enough for me to draw that I was in deep shit. Stil , when it

  comes to weapons, better too much than too little. Some of the older bats are damned hard to kil , and

  on my best day I wouldn’t want to take on a werewolf or ghoul without backup.

  I glanced down at my watch: ten fifteen. I wasn’t due on shift until eleven. I stil had plenty of time to

  use the nifty new gadget I’d picked up at my favorite weapons shop. I reached behind the front seat

  and pul ed out a black box not much larger than the wal et I carried in my back pocket. The lid was

  hinged, like a jewelry case, with the store’s logo embossed on it in red foil. Very classy. Considering the

  price, it should be. I’d actual y thought twice about whether or not to get it. But if it worked as wel as

  advertised, it would be worth the money.

  I grinned. I’m such a geek. I love gadgets, and this one was sweet. I could hardly wait to take it for a

  test drive.

  Flipping open the lid revealed what looked like a Matchbox car and a smal remote. Made primarily of

  silver, the little car gleamed in the light of the street lamp overhead. I set the tiny vehicle onto the

  pavement at my feet, facing the building where the prince was staying. I took out the remote, then

  closed the box and slid it into my front pocket. Pressing a smal green button on the remote, I said,

  “Perimeter check,” as clearly as I could. The little vehicle zipped forward with astonishing speed. It

  stopped just inside the driveway of the building and turned sharply right. I fol owed on foot, watching in

  pleasure as, with a soft whirring noise, it traced the invisible magical barrier that surrounded the

  building, protecting those inside from preternatural creatures. I fol owed it over wel -lit lawns, around to

  the one-lane service road that ran along the back of the building. Abruptly the little car stopped, emitting

  a sharp, high-pitched whistle. A light on the remote in my hand began flashing red.

  I looked from the remote to the car and back again. “Wel , hel . This can’t be good.” I rummaged in my

  pocket to withdraw the box, where there’d no doubt be the instruction manual that I should’ve read

  ahead of time but hadn’t. Oops. It took a minute, but I final y managed to retrieve the instruction booklet

  and flip to the appropriate page.

  When encountering a perimeter break the unit will issue a warning in the form of a whistle.

  No kidding. I never would’ve guessed. But that didn’t explain the light show.

  The type of energy causing the break will be indicated by color on the transmitter unit. Green

  indicates the presence of ghouls or other necromantic magics; amber, werewolves; blue, vampires.

  A red flashing light indicates non-vampiric demonic energy. A continuous red light indicates a

  current presence.

  “A demon?” I stared at the remote in my hands in disbelief, my hand shaking the tiniest bit. Yes, the

  demonic exists. So does the angelic. But it’s not like I run into either of them every day. In fact, unless a

  person works for one of the militant religious orders, they probably wil go their entire life without

  running into either the angelic or the demonic—other than vampires. Real demons are rare. Which is

  good. Particularly if you don’t have the clearest conscience in the world. How bad a problem this was

  depended on whether we were looking at a half-demon spawn, an imp, or a lesser or greater demon.

  But even flipping desperately through the directions, I didn’t see any way of tel ing which it might be.

  Cra
p. I mean, good news, the light was flashing. Bad news, it was red; I was dealing with a freaking

  demon of one level or another , and the barrier was down.

  I needed to fix this. Fast. I’m neither a mage nor a true believer. About the only thing I had on me right

  now that would hurt anything demonic was the holy water in my One Shots. One Shot being both the

  brand and a literal description. For a vampire, it would burn like acid, I hoped buying me enough time to

  kil it with one of my other weapons. But this wasn’t a simple bat. It had taken something big and bad to

  break through a standing magical barrier like this. If I wound up facing whatever it was, my little squirt

  gun would probably just piss it off.

  Think, girl … think. You need the barrier back up, at least long enough to call in a mage or a

  warrior priest.

  If there was enough residual magic left from before the break I might be able to get the barrier

  partway back up if I could reseal the break. It wouldn’t be as strong, but it would be better than nothing.

  Of course, if I sealed the barrier I might be sealing the demon in.

  I debated the pros and cons for a few seconds, and decided it was better to get the barrier up. If I

  sealed the demon in, we’d have it in a contained area when the priests arrived. If I sealed it out, more

  the better.

  I slid remote and manual into my jacket pocket and drew out one of my two little plastic squirt guns. I

  real y didn’t want to use both. I might wind up needing one if the demon was stil around. Ever so

  careful y, I drew out the refil ing plug and began dribbling holy water in a delicate line. As every drop hit

  the ground, the little scanner moved forward, the headache-inducing whistle giving a little hiccup before

  restarting. Stil , when the last drop fel and my little gun was dry, the gap snapped shut. I knew this

  because the little silver car went silent and shot along the reraised barrier, around the corner, and out

  of sight.

  I jogged after it, across the asphalt and sprinkler-soaked grass, al the while keeping alert for anything

  out of the ordinary. My head was throbbing from the combined effects of stress and that ear-piercing

  whistle.

  I would like to say I was surprised that no one came to a window or door to check out the racket.