Blessed Death Page 31

  “Cerberus Security,” MacLaine read, and then looked up at me. “This is the guy I called to arrange our meeting.”

  I nodded.

  His eyes went wide, “Please tell me this isn't the same Cerberus who . . .”

  “Guarded the Greek Underworld?” I laughed. “That was a giant dog, Mr. MacLaine. With three heads, I believe.”

  “Oh.” He laughed, but it sounded strained. “Just a reference to the protection skills then?”

  “Yes, exactly.” I smiled. Nope, I wouldn't tell him that he had guessed correctly.

  Cerberus was actually a shapeshifting god with a fondness for practical jokes and dangerous women. I'm unsure which had cost him his job. I've known him for centuries, and he still hasn't told me. I know that Hades personally kicked his old, guard dog out of the Greek Underworld. Gave him the fiery boot. So now, Cerberus watched over humans. Humans who could pay him enough to soothe his wounded, puppy pride. Cer was damn good at what he did, but he was better at defense. He lacked the subtlety for a proper offense. If you told Cer to kill someone, he would probably just punch them in the face, really hard. I doubt he'd even stop to ask if the guy needed killing to begin with. So he kept to the security side of the business, and he called me for anything beyond that. Conversely, when my clients had a bunch of buffoons guarding them, I sent them to Cerberus.

  “Ms. Tanager?” MacLaine stopped me again.

  “Call me Elaria.” I smiled at him.

  “That's lovely.” He grinned. “You must call me Adam then. I was just wondering . . . isn't a tanager a type of bird?”

  “Why, yes, it is, Adam.” I was still smiling as I left. It was always nice when someone appreciated the subtleties.

  Chapter Two

  Jonah Malone was a gangster. Or a mobster. Probably a whole lot of words that ended in “er.” He had clawed his way to the top, and then discovered that he didn't actually have a head for business. All of his enterprises were failing, not just the one MacLaine had purchased, and Jonah was reverting to his old thug ways to handle the frustration.

  It had been a simple thing to schedule an appointment to see him. I simply sang to the receptionist over the phone, and she found a spot for me that very day. Then I walked into Jonah Malone's office, closed the door, and sang to him. In five minutes, he had completely forgotten why he wanted to kill MacLaine. He also decided to sell off his remaining businesses, and get out while he could. Perhaps meditate more. I figured why not help improve the guy while I'm messing with his head?

  I walked out feeling relaxed, and satisfied with a job well done. I had video taped Jonah's “change of heart”, and sent it to Cer, who would pass it along to MacLaine as confirmation. Within ten minutes, MacLaine had transferred my payment into my account. I could finally go home. Maybe I'd have a Mai Tai on the plane as a special treat. Hell, maybe I'd have two.

  I was on the way to the airport, when Cerberus called.

  “Got another one for you, El.” Cerberus didn't bother with a greeting.

  “I'm tired and cold, Cer.” I sighed. “Give it to someone else. I'm going home.”

  “No one else can handle this. It's bad.”

  “How bad?”

  “Blooder army bad.”

  “That's pretty fucking bad.” I made a face at the phone.

  “Yes.”

  “Fuck.”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose army?” I asked.

  “Some guy named Lincoln.” Cerberus's voice had a shrug in it.

  “Like the president?”

  “Yep.” He didn't offer anymore info.

  “Where is this army going? What do they want? Who's the client?” I huffed. “You wanna give me anything without me pulling your fucking canines to get it?”

  “Whoa, easy now,” Cer chuckled. “You're turning me on, Elaria, sweetheart. You wanna stop in Denver and make good on some of your promises? We can fly to Kansas together after your failed attempts at pulling my pearly whites.”

  “Kansas!” I nearly screeched, causing my driver to look back at me in concern. “It's fine. I'm fine,” I told the driver. To Cer, I said, “I'm not going to Kansas. Who do you think I am? Dorothy?”

  “You'd look cute in a little gingham dress,” he offered.

  “The only way you'd get me in gingham is if you put on a collar and let me call you Toto,” I shot back.

  “For you, baby? Anytime.”

  “Great.” I rolled my eyes. “Now we have our next couple's costume planned.”

  “No, really.” I could hear Cerberus smirk. “I look good in a collar.”

  Cerberus and I had been playing this mating game since we met, back when I was sixteen, and we'd never concluded it. Part of me wanted to see if he was as good as he implied, but the other part of me knew our friendship was worth too much to risk it. Plus, we did business together, and everyone knows that saying about mixing business with Percocet. Or something like that.

  “Look.” Cerberus got serious. “The guy is an old friend of mine. He's a blooder, a gheara, but he keeps his people in line, and they don't cause any trouble. He's one of the good ones.”

  “I don't know about a blooder being good, but I'll believe the bit about him keeping his people in line.” I chuckled. “It's not like you hear a lot of vampire stories originating in Kansas. I didn't even know that Kansas had a Beneath. I thought they'd all flown away to Oz.”

  “Banning's a tough one. He fought his way out of Europe, and now the fuckers are coming for him.” Cerberus didn't even acknowledge my jokes on the Beneath, aka the paranormal community. Which he knew irritated me. I put effort into my comedy; the least he could do was acknowledge it.

  “Lincoln doesn't sound European,” I noted dryly.

  “He's not.” Cer finally laughed. “He's a local hire. Mercenary.”

  “Ah,” now that I could relate to. “So the guy is just doing a job. I can't hold that against him.”

  “Yeah, but he contracts with the Falca all the time. Those elitist bastards wouldn't even bother to come to America, and kill Banning themselves,” Cer huffed. “Lincoln, what kind of stupid merc name is that?”

  “So what do you want me to do?” I rolled my eyes, something I did a lot when I talked to Cer. He had a thing about names, especially professional ones, and was always going on about them. And the fact that I didn't have one.

  “Ma'am? We're here,” the cabby called back to me.

  “Hold on, Cer.” I stuffed my phone into my purse and pulled out some cash for the driver. I hurried out of the cab and over to a semi-secluded bench, then pulled out the phone again. “You there?”

  “Why do you always shove your phone in your purse when you put me on hold?” Cerberus grumbled. “Just press the fucking hold button. You think I like listening to all your lady loot knocking against the mic?”

  “I'm going to hang up,” I threatened.

  “Fine,” he growled. “I can get you ten million for the job.”

  I nearly dropped the phone. Ten million was twice my assassination fee. But then I thought about it. An assassination was one person, and Cerberus was asking me to kill . . . Wait, how many blooders was he asking me to kill?

  “How big is this army?” I asked.

  “I'm not sure,” he muttered.

  “How big, Cer?”

  “Big enough that a gheara blooder can't handle it with his entire gura backing him,” Cerberus snapped.

  Blooder, as I mentioned before, is the correct appellation for a vampire. Kind of obvious, I know, but that's how those names usually came about. I mean look at my race, the spellsingers. Well– duh. But the word gheara was a little more interesting. It was Romanian for “fang,” and it indicated that this particular blooder was a big deal, akin to a king, maybe even bigger than that. There were usually hundreds of blooders in a single gura–that's the group of vampires who kiss the gheara's pale patootie. In fact, most people call them a kiss, but the blooders don't like that. Probably because of the ass-kissing
thing. The polite term is gura, which is yet another Romanian word, meaning “mouth”. Then there was the Falca, which were the elite blooders who controlled everything in the blooder world. Falca meant “jaw” in Romanian. Yeah, I guess all the names were obvious; they just sounded less so in another language.

  Anyway, if this guy had an entire gura looking after him, and Cerberus still couldn't help him without me, then there must be a whole lot of mercenary blooders coming after Cer's friend. Crowds were tough; it was much easier to weave a spell around a single mind. To alter the free will of thousands of people at once was nearly impossible. So I would probably have to go another route. I could sing a spell to affect the environment, and attack them physically, leaving them their free wills. Or I could enchant a few of them at a time, and force those to attack the others. Possibly even a combination of both. It would be exhausting, and probably take me multiple songs to complete. I wasn't even sure I could do it.

  “Ten million per song,” I said to Cerberus.

  “What?” Cer shouted into the phone.

  “An assassination usually takes a few lines, half a song at most.” I explained my reasoning. I never arbitrarily picked a price. “And I charge five mil for a kill. So ten million for an entire song is a bargain, especially when you'll be wanting me to kill hundreds, possibly even thousands, of blooders. You know I'll need to sing more than one song to take out an army, so your friend can pay per song. If it gets too expensive, he can tell me to stop singing, and handle the survivors with his gura.”

  “Gods damn you, Elaria,” Cerberus snarled. “You have the mind of Archimedes and the cold calculation of Hades himself.”

  “Thank you,” I said primly. “But you know as well as I that you were trying to dick me over on this one, Cerberus, and I'm not happy about that.”

  “He's a friend, El,” he sighed.

  “Yeah, that's why I'm letting you slide,” I acknowledged.

  You'd think immortals would end up having tons of friends, what with our extensive lifetimes. But it's actually the opposite. When you live as long as we do, you end up breaking most bonds. Family is usually the exception, but even they can drive you crazy enough to make you avoid them for a few decades. When you form a friendship that lasts, like mine and Cer's, it means something.

  “So, are you meeting me in Kansas?” I finally asked him.

  “You'll do it?” Cerberus asked with a measure of surprise.

  “Of course I'll do it.” I rolled my eyes. Again. “Any friend of yours, and all that heroine bullshit.”

  “Thanks, El,” he said sincerely.

  “Of course,” I said just as sincerely. “Now, where in Kansas am I going?”

  “Head to Lawrence,” Cer said. “Check into the Springhill Suites–it's one of the nicer hotels there. A Marriott.”

  “Well, as long as I can stay at a Marriott,” I teased.

  “I'll book a room for you,” he promised. “Under your usual alias.”

  “Florence Nightingale,” I agreed. “Perfect.”

  “And I'll come and get you after I arrive.”

  “Alright,” I agreed. “See you in Kansas, Toto.”

  “Bring your sexy red heels, Dorothy. I'll pack my collar.” Cer laughed as he hung up.

  Chapter Three

  Ah, Kansas. It was actually kind of pretty. Lawrence was a bustling town, but not quite as busy as Seattle, and not nearly as cold. It was November, so there was a nip in the air, but something about that breeze coming off the water in Seattle, made things so much colder there. Lawrence was more mellow with its chill, like Seattle's hippie sibling. Autumn had painted the city in its vibrant colors, and there was the smell of the season on the breeze–dry leaves and cooling earth. I breathed deeply of it as my cabby drove me out to the Springhill Suites.

  As promised, I found a room already booked, and paid for, under my alias. I showed the surprised clerk my Florence Nightingale ID, and he handed me the keys with a twitching smile. I gave him the standard line: my folks had thought it was a great joke to name me Florence, what with our last name being Nightingale and all. The clerk let his lip twitching take the shape of a proper smile.

  I went up to my room, threw my bag on the bed, and started digging around for a change of clothes. I needed a hot shower, and something more comfortable than my secretary get-up. I found a pair of jeans and a cotton blouse with bell sleeves. Perfect to relax in, and maybe go grab some dinner. Then I headed to the bathroom. When I came out, dressed but still rubbing at my damp hair, my phone was ringing. I snatched it up and answered.

  “There's no time for me to meet you,” Cerberus said urgently. “Get over to the Crouching Lion Country Club now.” He rattled off an address.

  “What?” I glanced out of my picture window at the night sky. It was still early; the stars hadn't even brightened yet.

  “Now, Elaria!” Cerberus roared. “They're here!”

  “Fine,” I snapped and disconnected him, muttering to myself, “Crouching Lion. What is it, a kung fu country club?”

  I grabbed the essentials and rushed out of the room. When I got to the street, I paused, not really knowing what I was going to do. I didn't have time to call a cab, and I couldn't exactly show up at a blooder battle with an innocent human in tow. So I needed to grab some wheels of my own. I scanned the road, where a steady stream of cars drove by. I was considering running out to flag one down, when a red sports car pulled away from the pack and screeched up to the hotel. A smarmy guy got out of the car, and I smiled at him.

  “Excuse me.” I ran over before the valet could reach him, and then leaned in close.

  “Hello, pretty lady.” He leaned closer.

  I began to sing, and his face went blank.

  “Here.” He handed me his keys. “I think you need to borrow my car. I'll be at the bar when you get back.” Then he walked past the stunned valet, and into the hotel.

  “Some people are so nice,” I gave the valet a sweet smile before I climbed in the . . . what the hell was it? Oh damn! A Ferrari. Talk about luck.

  I squealed away from the hotel and hit the convenient GPS on the dash. Within minutes, I was pulling up the tree-lined, private road of the Crouching Lion Country Club. As I approached, the night brightened until finally, florescent flood-lights illuminated the outskirts of a blooder horde. They considerately stayed off the road, too intent on crossing the massive golf course to bother getting in my way. It was the straightest path to their goal.

  A line of blooders stood before the main building of the country club. They posed in the aggressive manner employed by determined defenders throughout history. There were quite a lot of them, all armed despite the fact that they were blooders, and could have been considered weapons themselves. But I suppose when you faced an army of your own kind, your talents, no matter how impressive, negated themselves.

  At the head of this fierce flock stood Cerberus, towering over Banning's gura. His massive muscles looked a little too He-Man next to the more mundane physiques of the previously human blooders. Cer's long, dark hair was pulled back in a no-nonsense ponytail, and his even darker eyes were narrowed on the oncoming army. Until he saw me.

  Cerberus smiled, an altogether chilling thing to see since it showcased a set of prominent canines that were a little thicker than your average blooder's. He let out a triumphant howl, and the line of mercenaries paused to look around at what had excited the shifter god. When they saw only me, a woman in a sports car, they went back into attack mode. Obviously I wasn't a threat.

  A guy at the center of the horde paused a little longer than the others, watching me carefully as I sped past him. I had my chosen playlist on pause, my iPod hooked up to the car's stereo, and I hit the button as I raced alongside the golf course. Music blared: Fall Out Boy's “My Songs Know What You Did in the Dark” going into its long intro. I shot up the drive before the club, and pulled the car to a screeching stop right in front of Cerberus.

  The door slammed open with my violent shov
e, and I leapt out. Music blasted out of the vehicle as I jumped on the hood. I could feel the beat of it in my bones, vibrating through the metal beneath my feet. I glanced back at Cerberus and winked, my eyes briefly catching the shocked expression of the man beside him. He was blond and a blooder. Had to be Cer's friend, Banning. Not that it mattered. I turned back around just as the lyrics began pelting my ears.

  I started singing absently as I thought out my battle strategy. I knew I'd have to rein in these mercenaries as fast as possible so that they didn't make a run for it before I could get to them all. I couldn't leave any alive to make a second attempt. That's just sloppy work.

  Fire would be perfect for forming a blooder-proof barrier. But I had to work up to it, wait for the words in the lyrics that would magnify my intent. So I started with the poor sods in front. My hand lifted to them as words shot from my mouth like bullets. Aggression blaring in my ears. Tension coiling in my thighs. The stuttering strength of the song cut through the cold air. Every blooder I pointed to exploded as if I'd blown their heads off with a missile launcher.

  The crowd behind me started muttering as Cerberus chortled.

  “Isn't she wonderful?” Cerberus sauntered up to lean over the top of the car and watch me work. “An artist. A true artist.” He laid his chin in his palm.

  I continued to slam out the vicious verses, ignoring Cer. The song was filling me, becoming a part of my being, and the strength of the spell was rushing around me. A tornado of charged molecules clambering for motivation. Waiting for me to give them a direction. An objective. I felt glorious, powerful enough to make all those mercenaries mine. And I did, I snatched up their minds. Their will. Then I used the next line to vent the brewing musical malice. The blooders before me turned on their companions, and started tearing them to pieces.

  “Holy fucking hellfire.” The blonde man moved up beside Cer.

  I sensed him there, felt his intense stare on me, but didn't have the time to look at him. Still, his face flashed in my mind–a picture of aloof male beauty. Strong jaw, regal nose, eyes glowing green in the shadows. Nice.