A Perfect Blood (The Hollows #10)(128)
Author: Kim Harrison

I jumped when Mark accidentally bumped my shoulder. He was watching, wide eyed. "Wow," he breathed as Trent’s circle dropped and Dr. Cordova mewled weakly, her little hooves scrabbling at the tile. "I almost didn’t come in tonight."

Eloy lowered himself to the floor, his eyes never leaving Dr. Cordova. The woman was crying, dark streaks running down her black face. Her breath rasped in and out, and she cried out pitifully. Eloy jumped when Trent kicked his gun to me, then Cordova’s to a corner.

Cold steel slid across the tiles, and I stopped Eloy’s gun with my foot, not bothering to pick it up. "I thought you said I wouldn’t like your charms," I said, and Trent grinned, reminding me, for some reason, of seeing him perched in a tree, crouched and dangerous. He hadn’t killed anyone, and a part of me was undeniably glad.

An unexpected burst of radio noise came from out of nowhere, and I twisted, finding the earbud on the floor. Something was happening.

In a surge of motion, Dr. Cordova scrambled to her feet, her hooves skittering on the smooth tile. Goat-slit eyes wide in panic, she tried to run only to reach for a table and miss, her jaw cracking on the flat of it. She slid to the floor and started to crawl, crying.

"Get her!" I cried, and Eloy lifted his head. In a fast crab walk, he lunged for Cordova’s gun, six feet away under a table.

"Look out!" Mark shouted, and I turned to the front windows – just in time to see six men boil in the front door. The-men-who-don’t-belong screamed at us to freeze as they surrounded all of us. Though dressed unalike and in street clothes, it was obvious they were professionals. It wasn’t the wicked-looking guns pointed at us, or the boots designed for running. It wasn’t the short haircuts, or that every single one of them looked like he could do a six-minute mile. It was their faces, as uncaring as if they’d have no problem shooting us even if it was a mistake.

"Gun! Gun!" I shouted, pointing at Eloy, but it didn’t matter. They already had him down, and as I watched, someone snapped his wrist when he refused to let go of his pistol. Eloy screamed, and I felt myself pale.

Remembering what the captain had said, I put my hands in the air. "Whoa, whoa, whoa!" I shouted as a very large black man walked in, his cap saying "captain" more than his confident walk. "I got nothing on me but chalk. Splat gun is in the purse. Where in the hell have you been?"

Trent started to kneel with his hands behind his neck, and one of the men grabbed him, shoving him into a booth. "Hey," I started, affronted, and then shouted, "Hey!" again when the captain grabbed my biceps and roughly propelled me onto the same bench as Trent. "I thought we were working together!" I exclaimed, but my sudden pull on the ley line sputtered to nothing and my knees gave way.

Smiling as if having expected it, the captain hauled me back to my feet, a silver amulet in the shape of an eagle suddenly glowing brightly. Dazed, I wondered if that was where my attempted blast of ever-after had gone. "Did you just . . ." I started, reaching for it, and he shoved me farther into the booth.

I hit Trent’s shoulder, and the elf grinned at me as he scooted over to make room, his hands carefully atop the table where everyone could see them. "You enjoying this?" I said, in a bad temper, and he smiled even wider, the scent of woods and wine spilling from him.

"It’s better than studying portfolios with Quen," he said as Mark landed on the bench across from us, looking scared but relieved. My shoulder bag was next, sliding to a stop at the end of the table. The charms, I noticed, were being swept up with a huge, very quiet vacuum cleaner that was taking everything not nailed down: chunks of plaster, broken glass from the pictures, Dr. Cordova’s shoe . . .

People were still pouring in, some of them in street clothes, but most in nondescript blue work coveralls. Hats and clipboards, I thought, thinking they could walk anywhere at any time and get into anyplace, never seen, never noticed. And what was with that ley-line drain? I’d never felt anything like it. Watching the captain, I started to slowly spindle the line, taking it in a trickle.

"Knock it off, Morgan, or I’ll show you how we take down dead vampires," the big man said without looking at me, and I let go of the line. Damn! Who had I just invited into my parlor?

"They’re fixing the damage," Trent said as the dusty scent of wall spackle pricked my nose and a metal ladder clanked upward.

"You okay?" I asked him, and he nodded, his enthusiasm undimmed but getting harder to see as his usual calm control exerted itself. I could see it there, though, simmering.

"Yeah!" Mark said, leaning over the table toward us since we appeared to have been forgotten for the moment. "What just happened? What is she?" he said as Eloy and Dr. Cordova were literally dragged out the back door.

"Justice," Trent said, and the big man standing at the end of the table turned.

"Better you don’t know," I said as the captain’s eyes squinted. He had his arms over his chest, his biceps bulging from under his polo shirt. "I thought we were doing this together?" I complained. "Nice of you to come back, but if all you’re going to do is abuse us, you can just go away and we’ll take Cordova and Eloy in ourselves."

"Relax, Rachel. I’m sure this will even itself out," Trent said as he scooted a bit farther from me and relaxed his shoulders. In an eyeblink, the businessman was back, but I could see through it. I think the captain could, too.

"Truer words have never been spoken," the man said, his voice the same one from my earbud. His eyes never leaving mine, he shifted a lapel mic closer to his mouth. "Cleaners."

My gut tightened as the captain’s satisfaction that they had HAPA was tempered by my feeling of a new uncertainty. We’d given them their take, but I didn’t like how they were treating us. Mark hiccupped and slid to the back of the booth when the captain eased his well-muscled bulk onto the bench across from me. Past our little corner of quiet, a dozen people silently worked washing Eloy’s blood and Dr. Cordova’s spit from the floor, spackling, painting, replacing pictures of babies dressed up as flowers. From the ceiling, the whine of a battery-powered drill intruded, and I blinked as they replaced the broken fixture with an identical one.

"Thanks for the help," he said, and I brought my gaze back to the captain, startled to see him sitting quietly with his hands laced on the table.

"Really? You’re appreciative?" I said tartly. "You could have fooled me. Here I am trying to get to know you, and you get nasty."

The captain inclined his head. "I wanted to evaluate your performance in a controlled setting. You did good. He did better. Interesting."