I didn’t bust down the door and throw everything into the back of a U-Haul, even though I probably could have. Instead I let myself inside the quiet way, and after deciding what I could and couldn’t live without, I removed the choicer pieces an item at a time, over a period of weeks.
The history of international crime is the history of official agencies fighting for dominance, and failing to communicate. I might never know exactly how much of this had occurred. I could only proceed as if everyone knew everything about me—worst-case scenario—and act with appropriate caution.
But I’m good at caution.
I bought a new building, since my old one was formally condemned and taped off. The “new” building was 110 years old, and it was only a couple of miles from my original hiding place.
Because I’m nothing if not a creature of habit.
The new location had some perks over the old one. For one thing, it was almost fully restored inside. Much like the parkour parlor in D.C., it had been gutted and refitted for office space … but the economy had tanked, and the offices had never come. So I picked it up for pennies on the dollar, turned the top floor into perfectly serviceable housing in less than five weeks, and furnished three separate lofts.
One was for Pepper and Domino, because it was time to quit deluding myself. One was for Ian, who had no place else to go … and I didn’t want him to leave yet anyway. I’d made him a promise and I didn’t intend to break it. Or maybe that was only the excuse I used in order to keep him close. Because I definitely wanted him close, and he wasn’t exactly running away from me, either.
The kiss on the roof of Bruner’s office … it’d meant something. And given time, given space—and given a little distance from the events that had upended both our lives—I think we both hoped it’d turn into something more.
But for the moment, we were both on edge and both trying to find our equilibrium. We didn’t talk about the kiss, and for a while we didn’t repeat it. I think we were too afraid of chasing each other away, when all we wanted to do was cling together like a couple of baby monkeys. Yeah, we’re pretty goddamn stupid. And broken, and lonely, and needy in very different ways, but those differences weren’t enough to pry us apart or let us really come together. If you know what I mean.
So one of the lofts was for me, because (a) I wasn’t ready to share absolutely everything with Ian; and (b) my Capitol Hill condo was contaminated by filthy feeb fingers. I’d never returned to it.
Instead, I’d faked my death for the fourth time since I’d actually died in 1924.
This time, by all reports I had been Helene Marks, who sadly passed away of cancer in Canada, where I’d gone to seek treatment—lacking sufficient health insurance to seek treatment in the United States. The death before, I was Amelia Westerfeld, and I perished in 1978—in a car crash in Mexico. Before I became Amelia, I was Christine Johnson, who expired of an allergy to shellfish in Singapore in 1951; and before I masqueraded as Christine I was Ruth Chesters, who vanished in the Andes in 1933.
Before that, of course, I was just Raylene Pendle.
I never die at home in California. It’s a matter of paperwork.
I let the state of Washington auction off my condo and all the property therein, what little there was. I then activated one of the other half a dozen potential identities I keep on tap, and started over as Emily Benton.
Say one thing for me, I’m prepared.
Say two things for me, and I’ve got a soft spot for drag queens.
A couple of months after the very fucking timely demise of Ed Bruner, I found myself up on Capitol Hill overlooking downtown Seattle, seated in a coffee shop because I like the smell of the stuff. It was a lazy night, which was good. I needed one. I had a copy of The Stranger and my laptop. And in the background, a guy who didn’t completely suck was ensconced on the corner stage, strumming his guitar and treating us all to an evening of boring shoe-gazer tunes.
The coffeehouse’s door opened with a jingle of the Tibetan bells that were strung along its handle. I wouldn’t have looked up except that with the opening of the door a familiar scent was carried by the night air right up into my nostrils. I knew that scent. It was hair spray and self-tanner, mixed with Nair and glitter gel.
Sister Rose sauntered up to the counter, ordered a double shot of something that’d keep her awake all night, and came to sit across from me at the two-person table I was hogging.
I should’ve been embarrassed by my big stupid grin, but I wasn’t. I only said, “Hey there, beautiful. Long time no see.”
“Back at you, hot stuff.” I was pleased to note that she was grinning, too, so at least I wasn’t alone in my dorky delight. “I’ve been looking all over town for you.”
“Really?”
“No, not really. I know you’re back down on the Square someplace. I just hadn’t pinned it down yet. Then I was walking home from work, and I saw you here in the window.”
“Work?”
She cocked her head toward the door. “Neighbors,” she said, naming a drag bar a few blocks away. “I picked up a place over on First Hill—but, you know. Not the ghetto part. Thanks for the seed money, by the way.”
I’d given Adrian fifty grand and a kiss on the cheek before we’d last parted company. “You’re more than welcome.”
The barista called out “Rose?” meaning that the double shot was ready. She left my company to pick it up and returned with a to-go cup. When she sat back down, she asked, “Any news on the mysterious Mr. Sykes?”
I filled her in on what I’d learned since then, mostly with risky legwork conducted through the vampire grapevine. “He was a high-ranking ghoul, so far as these things go, for the biggest House in San Diego. Apparently, all the money he made from selling his soul to the Department of Defense didn’t make him happy. He figured out one day that he couldn’t take it with him … so he fell in with the Castors. I don’t know what he did to piss them off—nobody’s talking, but I’m still digging—but it was enough for them to give him an overhaul the likes of which he’d never recover from.”
“Yikes.”
“Yeah. Somehow, he got away from them. I guess when you have more money than God”—I borrowed Bruner’s phrase—“you can do things like that. Anyway, he heard about Project Bloodshot, and I guess he thought there was a chance he could learn from the research—maybe get some of his vision or hearing or whatever back. That’s why he wanted the paperwork on Ian and your sister. Whatever experimentation had been conducted on them might help him fix his own problems. So he restarted the program, hiring everyone back in a civilian capacity; and then he went looking for the former participants, if any of them were still alive. It took him a while, but he eventually lured Ian out of hiding by using David Keene. Keene had been in on the program back at the beginning, but Ian had never been anywhere near him, so he wouldn’t have known that. Ian thought he’d found someone who could help him. In fact, all he’d found was someone who was trying to help Jeffery Sykes.”
Rose blew at the foam on top of her drink, and said, “Devious.”
I sighed. “Rationally, I know we haven’t seen the end of this yet, and we won’t until I can track down Sykes and put a nail in his coffin for good. But he’s going to be hard to find. I know this, because the Castors haven’t found him yet—and they have damn fine resources at their disposal.”
“You think maybe he’ll lie low for a while? Since you kind of fucked up his plans?”
“We kind of fucked up his plans.” I smiled evilly. “And to answer your question, for now he’ll go quiet if he knows what’s good for him. The tables have turned, my friend. It’s his turn to hide from us.”
“I hope you’re right. I don’t know about you, but I could use a break.”
“Agreed. I don’t need that kind of excitement anymore. I’m getting too old for all this action and adventure shit.”
“Preach it,” she said.
I lifted the cup of cooling java in a toast. “To boring li
ves of total anonymity.”
“To boring lives,” she echoed wryly. “Filled with bitch-techno, too-high heels, and hefty tips in a lady’s thong.”
I laughed and set the cup down. “Or to new friends, and pet people, and shiny new storehouses for hot goods.”
She lifted an eyebrow so sharp it could’ve poked a hole in a tire. “Pet people? Oh yes. The kids.”
“One big happy family.” I sighed.
“And that’s why you’re out here alone, on a Saturday night? Reading the paper and surfing the ’Net for … what, porn?”
Of course. Always the porn. It has a way of finding me. “Yes, you’ve pretty much got it. Last I saw them, Domino had stomped off in a huff over some perceived insult on my part—”
“Merely perceived, I’m sure.”
“—and Ian was arguing with Pepper over whether or not she needed to submit to his tutoring process, since she refuses to go to school, and I just didn’t feel like listening to it.”
The other eyebrow came up. “Ian and the kids both? Under one roof? You’re serious?”
“Seriously insane, I think. I’m trying to sort out a new condo … or maybe one of those cool old houses back around Nineteenth Street up on Capitol Hill. I don’t know. But for now, it just made sense to keep everyone together. Just until …” I wasn’t sure that there was an end point in mind, come to think of it.
Rose took a dainty sip and agreed, saying only, “Just until.”
In my bag, my phone began to buzz.
“Hang on a second,” I said, and fished it out. I saw the display and said, “Oh dear.”
“Trouble back at the homestead?”
“Nope. Trouble in New York. It’s Horace’s area code, and he’s no doubt in full-on diva mode. I can tell by the ring.” The phone quit vibrating, then immediately began anew as Horace proved to be his permanently impatient self. I said, “If I don’t answer this, he’ll just keep calling all night.”
“By all means,” Rose said with a smile. “Momma’s gotta pay the bills, after all.”
“Shut up, you.”
“Not likely.”
“Hey, when I’m done with this asshole, you want to come back to the homestead—as you put it—and have a drink?”
She said, “If you hadn’t offered, I would’ve had to stalk you.”
“Stalking is such an ugly word,” I said as I fidgeted with the phone. “Goddamn, he’s going to tear me a new one. I totally missed that last case he wanted to give me, and he’ll accuse me of blowing him off.”
“Did you?”
“I was otherwise occupied at the time. As you may recall.”
Out of desperation, I almost pressed the button to silence the ringer and leave us all in peace for the night, but upon the third cycle of ringing I changed my mind and pressed the green button instead.
“I’m here, Horace, and I humbly accept your recriminations.” I felt like I was stepping into a confessional. “Forgive me, you filthy crook. It’s been over three months since last we spoke, and I know that I missed that big job you wanted to foist upon me.”
It shouldn’t have surprised me when he said, “Oh, fuck that bitch. I pawned her off on someone else, and the whole thing turned out to be an orgy of disaster. Consider yourself lucky. You dodged a bullet on that one, and let’s call the whole thing water under the bridge.”
“Uh-oh.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” he demanded.
“You’ve got something worse lined up, don’t you?” I asked, leaning back in the seat and giving Rose a wink.
“Worse?” He drew out the word like a salesman. “Or more interesting? Okay, Ray-baby, check this shit out. You are going to love this one.”
“God help me.”
“Oh, my beloved princess of pilfering. I wouldn’t count on it …”
I couldn’t help but smile. Life was getting back to normal again … God help us all.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
CHERIE PRIEST is the author of eight novels, including Boneshaker. Boneshaker was nominated for both the Hugo Award and the Nebula Award, and it won the Locus Award for Best Science Fiction Novel. Cherie’s other books include Four and Twenty Blackbirds, Fathom, Wings to the Kingdom, and the Endeavour-nominated book Not Flesh Nor Feathers from Tor (Macmillan). Her short novels Dreadful Skin, Clementine, and Those Who Went Remain There Still are published by Subterranean Press. Bloodshot is her first book from Bantam. She lives in Seattle, Washington, with her husband and a fat black cat.
Cherie Priest, Bloodshot
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