Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [150]
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