Bloodshot - Cherie Priest [9]
I picked up the thread. “You’re not trying to recruit me, are you? Because I know all about Japalito’s drive to flesh out his organization, and I’ve already told him where he can stick it. Likewise, Marianne knows that she can go jump in a lake. If I wanted to be part of a House, I’d have joined up a long time ago. So if that’s what you’re here for, you’re out of luck.”
“Then let me set your mind at ease: I, too, lack any House affiliations. Anymore,” he added after a pause.
I almost scooted my chair back on the spot. Instead I held my wineglass and took a hard sip. “You’re an outcast?”
“Not exactly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
He matched my sips, but he had a head start and his glass was already half empty. “Precisely what it sounds like. I’m not an outcast. There is no bounty on my head, and no allegiance you might offend if you opt to assist me. But there’s a chance you might draw fire from … another quarter.”
“Hard to believe,” I grumbled.
Ian Stott pressed his lips together and squeezed out a thin smile. “I trust you’re comfortable with dangerous cases. I can’t imagine you charge exorbitant rates for mere cakewalks.”
“I’m not afraid of a little dirty work and, generally speaking, I’m not afraid of pissing people off. But there are circles whose notice I’d prefer to escape. If there’s no House hunting for you, then why set yourself apart? Who are you afraid of?”
“In my state? Almost everyone. Even you. Especially you.”
I didn’t get it, and I told him so. “Your state? What’s wrong with your state?”
“You can’t tell?” He seemed a bit surprised, and cautiously happy about it. “My … state.” He set his wine aside and removed his wire-frame glasses, giving me a good look at his eyes.
They were as light as his hair, a silver-gray color that was part David Bowie and, I realized as they failed to focus, part Ray Charles.
He was undead. His pupils should’ve been like mine, big as nickels. He should’ve been the most striking fellow I’d ever seen, with that shocking light hair and the youthful face. All it would take to round out the package would be a set of ink-black eyes.
“You’re blind? But you can’t be! I’ve never heard of a blind … one of us.” I was stunned, and I’ve got to tell you, that doesn’t happen very often. All the vampires I’ve ever known—myself included—heal up fast and thoroughly. We’re tough to knock down, and even harder to keep down because we recover so well from injury. I’ve always liked to consider it a trade-off for our inability to tan.
I flipped through my mental Rolodex of kindred. I could recall a guy who was missing some fingers, and I knew of one old ruffian who had lost an ear. We’re not starfish; we can’t regenerate lost parts. But except for the occasional old-timer with a peg leg or one-armed goon, I’d never heard of a vampire with a permanent disability. Unless …
“Wait. Were you blind already when you were turned?” I asked. But even as I said it, I knew it was a bad guess. It happens, sure. Mostly permanent disabilities are served up as a punishment for bad behavior. Probably not this guy, though. When folks get worked over and “turned,” vampires don’t just take their eyes. And they certainly aren’t allowed to remain beautiful.
He shook his head. “I’m afraid not.”
“And it hasn’t repaired itself? How long have you been like this?” It was hard to keep the creeping horror out of my voice. I did my best to sound like I didn’t want to run screaming away from him, but I did. It scared me in a primal way, in a way that made me sick to my stomach.
“No,” he said. “It’s repaired itself to the fullest extent that I can reasonably expect. And it might surprise you to know that it’s much, much better now than it was ten years ago.”
“Really?”
“Yes.” He reapplied his glasses and took another drink. “At first there was nothing. It was as if I were wearing a blindfold. Over the years I’ve regained some of my vision—just bits and pieces, but it’s better than before. I can track light and motion,