Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [123]
“That’s right.” I reached back quickly to the spot on the stairs where the knife had fallen. It was a good one, gator-edged and curved. Probably a climber’s knife, made to slice through bungee cables and ropes. I didn’t want it. But I picked it up anyway, and I chucked it hard up at the nearest gleaming yellow bulb, smashing it with a clatter and plunging the stairwell into total darkness.
In a flash I turned to the stairwell door and found the sliding bolt I’d spotted as we’d exited. I slipped it into the locked position and then I turned to Lieutenant Bolton, who was attempting a backward scramble up, as if it’d take him away from me.
And then I fell on him, shoving his head to the side and baring his neck for optimum heavy nibbling. Yes, I remembered what I’d told Cal about nobody getting bitten, but come on.
I’m a big fat liar.
13
Cal swore under his breath, copiously and repeatedly, all the way back from the parkour meeting. He knew what I’d done. He wasn’t psychic or anything; I’d told him, quietly, right before we made a hasty exit back to the rental car and out of the neighborhood.
“You said you weren’t going to bite anybody.”
“I wasn’t planning to.” But I’d been leaving it on the table because sometimes you just have to play these things by ear. Sometimes you get a good eyeful of a man-sized action figure—and he knows what you are, and what you can do … and you know what he is, and what he’s done before, or what he’s helping other people do. And you just can’t stand it because for all his bluster and bullshit he’s weak and horrible, and cowardly, and if he caught you, he’d do terrible things to you—the kinds of things that were done to Ian and Isabelle.
Adrian wouldn’t have any pissy moral qualms about what I’d done. Ian probably wouldn’t, either.
“I can’t believe you’re being such a bitch about this,” I said to Cal, whose lips were jammed together in a grouch-face scowl.
“I don’t care that he’s dead. I don’t even care that you killed him,” he insisted, lips still drawn tighter than a clothesline. “I care that you deliberately endangered yourself—and me, let’s not forget me—after all your careful planning, and all your … all your crazy, self-righteous talk about being prepared for anything!”
“Who’s self-righteous?” I demanded. I’d own up to crazy any day of the week, but self-righteous I was prepared to fight.
“You—you act like you’ve got everything under control, like nothing that happens will surprise or inconvenience you, and everything is covered all the time because you’ve made all these preparations. These crazy fucking preparations. Did you even use anything at all in that bag of yours?”
“No, but I might use some of it later.” And I almost certainly would, once I got rid of this crybaby and picked up my drag queen.
His nostrils flared but he kept his eyes on the road. Deliberately, I assumed. Not wanting to look at me. “We were only supposed to be there looking around. And you didn’t just look around. You didn’t just ask questions. You could’ve gotten us both rounded up and … and wrangled.”
Wrangled. Stupid word.
“Wrangled, mangled. Lots of things could’ve happened, but didn’t. And yes, I said I was there to look around, and hey—I looked around. I came to some conclusions and acted on new information. You know what, Cal? That’s called flexibility. You’re one rigid son of a bitch, and someday it’ll get you killed.”
“I’m more careful than you are.”
“You’re …?” I was flabbergasted. “Do you seriously want to play Who’s More Careful with me? Because I’ll wipe the floor with you, junior. I’ve been around longer than your great-grandparents and I’ve had plenty of time to become the carefulest person you’ll ever meet!”
He shook his head, eyes still locked on the road, to the traffic light and to the rear bumper of the car in front of us. “I’m more careful. Ian’s more careful. Lots of people are more careful than you. You’re reckless as hell, but you’re lucky. That’s all.”
“Fuck you,” I said.
“No, you know what? I take that back. You’re not lucky. You are prepared, just like