Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [10]
Something dawned on me about his initial summons. “The handwriting,” I said out loud.
“Excuse me?”
“The handwriting, on the envelope. It didn’t match your signature. You had someone else address it for you.”
He nodded. “I have an assistant.” The emphasis he placed on the word told me I wasn’t supposed to worry, but it only made me worry more. His assistant was a ghoul, and bound by blood-sharing or kinship to serve him faithfully. It’s rather like having a pet person. I’ve never gotten into that kind of thing, myself. It leaves a bad taste in my mouth. And anyway, it’s dangerous.
I scanned the room and picked his “assistant” out of the crowd with ease. I’d have noticed him sooner if I’d thought to be on the lookout. He was a blond man, perhaps thirty-five years old. An aging hipster, all decked out in artfully slouched clothes that were so expensive they should’ve fit him better. I got the feeling he’d only recently put away his faux-hawk in favor of something looser and chunky.
I knew his type. He was maybe an asshole, and maybe just a guy who never had any direction. Well. Apprenticing yourself to a vampire—that’ll give you direction.
“What’s his name, this assistant of yours?” I asked.
“Cal. You see him over there, I assume?”
“Like for Calvin?” I still hadn’t taken my eyes off him. “Yes, I see him. He’s watching your back, like a good boy.”
I’ve never trusted ghouls. There’s supposedly a soul-bond that occurs when you give an ordinary mortal just enough of your blood to leave them wanting more, but not enough to change them. And it’s bullshit. Everyone knows it. All you’re doing is creating someone who’s addicted to your bodily fluids—somebody who assumes that one of these days, you’re going to go whole-hog and turn him (or her) into a vampire. A few decades of service (or however long) in exchange for a steady supply of your favorite drug and eventually … eternal life. Yeah. I can see what’s in it for the ghouls.
But like any addict of any stripe, sometimes they get greedy. Or they get angry, or they fall in unrequited love with their boss, or any number of other monkey wrenches that can trash your arrangement. It doesn’t happen often, but every now and again a ghoul will snap and rebel.
Those folks I mentioned before that vampires worked over? Mostly unruly ghouls. Besides, when you let somebody get that close to your affairs, he or she can do real damage when going rogue.
No thanks.
In Ian’s case, though, it was different. I could see how a reliable assistant could mean the difference between independence and living isolated and in fear.
“He’s more than a good boy,” he admonished me. “He’s been my lifeline for the last six years. Please don’t assume the worst. Without him, I would lead a much more limited existence.”
“So he’s a Seeing Eye ghoul,” I said before I could stop myself. I felt stupid for having aired the observation and I cringed. I do that a lot. My mouth operates in a higher gear than my brain.
Ian didn’t take it too badly. He said, “Something like that, only much more useful. And he’s genuinely good company, I might add. Don’t judge him by the hair gel, and try not to worry.”
“Try not to worry? Your buddy over there knows where I live, and he knows a whole lot about me. I don’t like any of that.”
“Don’t let it alarm you. You have other ‘homes,’ do you not? You keep a condo in Atlanta, and a house in Tampa. You have a loft in Louisville, and—”
“Knock it off,” I said sharply. He was dancing on my tenderest sore spot, and it was almost enough to make me walk out. “I get it. You and your ghoul can find me. Bravo. But if you think you can blackmail me into taking the case by threatening my safe houses, you’ve got another think coming,” I lied. I was keeping my voice steady, but I feared for my body chemistry. The anxiousness was rising up and it’d be welling out of my pores before long, and that wasn’t good. He’d smell it and know he had the advantage.
I used to think that not much scared me. But the older I get, the longer the