Bleeding Out (4 page)

We walk in. They’re playing top-forty music at earsplitting levels. Ru heads straight for the escalator, which is his favorite thing. I remember when this building used to be the library, before it was relocated farther downtown. It became a Virgin Megastore (which sounds like an emporium for sacrificial must-haves). Now it’s owned by another company, but the layout is the same. It’s weird to think that this place used to be full of books. Now it’s full of bored teenagers and confused adults. I hear a familiar chorus.
So coast in slow over Reno
. Lucian puts his arm around me. I remember when we danced to this song, just before we were nearly killed by an Iblis. Simpler times.

Ru heads for the box sets in the basement. It’s freezing down here, and there are less people. I can’t tell the customers from the employees. Sometimes people emerge from a long corridor in the back, but everyone’s wearing the same clothes; everyone’s carrying merchandise. They might be coming from anywhere. Lucian thumbs his way through the foreign film section. I look at the posters, which are mostly of superheroes and women in micro-shorts. None of them seem appropriate for Ru. Now, if they had a poster of Jupiter, we’d be in business.

I’m just about to ask one of the non-salespeople if they have an astronomy section when everything gets quiet. My senses are awake. Something’s different. I go in search of Lucian, but he’s wandered off somewhere. I send him a text:
meet me out front
. It could just be a few stoner vampires craving music, but that’s a best-case scenario. I walk around the basement in circles. Ru’s not here. I take the escalator to the mezzanine floor, and find him browsing through techno albums.

“Tess.” He waves. “They have the new DJ Tiësto.”

“We’re leaving,” I say quietly.

“Oh. Because of the vampires?”

I always forget what a good nose he has. “How many are there?”

“Four. They smell different, though. Strange.”

“Strange good?”

“English is not my first language, but is strange ever good?”

“No.” I sigh. “Okay. Lucian’s meeting us out front. With any luck, they won’t even notice us leave.”

We take the stairs to the ground floor. I see the vampires. One of them looks right at me, and it’s like a kick to the stomach. He’s the one I saw in the convenience store last night. His eyes are still glassy. He smiles.

I grab Ru’s arm.

“Follow me. As soon as we get outside, they’ll scatter.”

“Your words do not match your feelings.”

“Excuse me?” I steer him toward the entrance.

“Your breathing has quickened. Your heart rate is elevated. Why should vampires make you so nervous? Your city is full of them.”

We exit the store, and sunlight breaks over my face. Lucian’s there. He gives me a funny look.

“In a hurry?”

I try to look like I’m not freaking out. “Nah. I just couldn’t stand the air-conditioning in there anymore. Do you mind if we go?”

“It’s not up to me. The afternoon belongs to Ru.”

He stares at both of us impassively. I want to use sign language to say,
Not a word about the vampires
, but Lucian can speak ASL. All I can do is take a breath and trust in fate not to screw me over.

“I’m hungry,” Ru says. “Let’s go.”

He takes my right hand. Lucian takes my left. How do creatures like us find each other? After years of listening to the universe in tremors and lit wicks, I still don’t know what’s driving it all, what’s driving us. Ru’s hand is small and cold in mine. I try to imagine him running from chain lightning, or toward it, playing chicken.

We get our coffee and doughnuts. As Lucian pays, it occurs to me that he’s said absolutely nothing about Theresa’s death. I imagine that’s what he and Selena were talking about. Why else would he have been in her office? I’m starting to get twitchy around him. Lucian and the late Lord Nightingale were close in some way that only necromancers understand. It seems only fair that we
should talk about it over tequila shots, or something along those lines. But he isn’t saying a word.

We grab coffee and take Ru back to the lab. He stays quiet about the vampires that we saw in HMV. There was something off about them, and not just because they were tempting fate by day-walking. I make a note to ask Patrick about it when I get home, although chances are he’ll be burning the midnight heme, or whatever vampires call working late. Lucian and I walk through multiple security checks without speaking. He surrenders his visitor pass at the front desk. We walk outside, and the sun is so bright it’s almost cruel. I shield my eyes for a second. The glass and steel of downtown Vancouver burns with trapped heat. I feel like if I laid my cheek against any surface, it would sizzle. That might actually look pretty neat.

“Where are you off to?” Lucian asks.

“I was going to go home. I need to buy groceries first, though. There’s nothing in the fridge except vermouth and Babybel cheese.”

“You could come over to my place.”

“I could. Do you want to watch a movie?”

He shrugs. This could mean either sex or
Star Trek
. I suppose I at least have a fifty-fifty chance of relieving some tension. As long as we don’t have to watch the episode where Captain Picard gets tortured by Cardassians. We walk to Yaletown. By the time we reach his apartment, I’ve sweat through my blouse and my feet hurt, which is my own fault for wearing these stupid sandals that have
proved impossible to break in. I watch Lucian as he fishes in his pockets for the key. His hands are lovely. His ass looks great in a pair of broken-down cargo jeans. I wonder why we’re still together, which is a favorite neurotic record that I like to play. The greatest hits of my imposter syndrome. Lucian could be with anyone, but for some reason, he chose me. I’ve never been able to figure out why. Before we met, he was hooking up with Sabine Delacroix, a vampire who looked like Jessica Rabbit. If that was his type, then why would he suddenly switch to dating someone like me?

The living room is cool, thanks to the central air. I’m about to sit down on the couch when I remember how soaked my shirt is. I’m not willing to smell myself, but I know that it can’t be good.

“I’m going to have a shower,” I say.

“Okay. I think there’s still some of your conditioner left.”

“Good. I’m not using your two-in-one.”

“There’s nothing wrong with it.”

“Lucian, it’s abnormal for a product to be both shampoo and bodywash. I’ll stick to what I know.”

“Fine.” He kisses me on the cheek. “I’ll prepare something to eat.”

I walk upstairs. His bathroom is bright and spotless. I strip off my clothes and step into the shower. The water raises goose bumps on my skin. I remember the first time I showered after visiting an occult crime scene. I could
still smell the burning ammonia of goblin blood, which had gotten into my hair. I open my eyes and look down at the clear water swirling around my feet. No more blood. I guess this is what it means to take a vacation from the field: showers that don’t always end in having to disinfect the tub. I work some conditioner into my angry hair, which now resembles a knotted bedsheet. It weirds me out that I can’t find a single trace of Lucian in the shower: no skin cells, no stray follicles, nothing. How does he always manage to clean up after himself so well? That’s never something I’ve been adept at.

Once my hair has reached the point where I might actually be able to run a comb through it, I turn off the water and step onto the cold tiles. He’s laid out a fresh towel for me, which smells of his fabric softener. I dry myself off and go to his room, where I always keep a contingency outfit. Not my sexiest ensemble ever, but at least it’s clean. As I’m pulling on the shirt, I notice that he’s left his smartphone on the bed. The red light is blinking. I pick it up gingerly. There’s a new text message.

This must be a test. The universe is testing me to see if I’m a good human being. I should respect his privacy. But, at heart, I’m an investigator. I need to find things out, even when they’re bad. Especially when they’re bad.

“No,” I murmur. “Just take the phone to him.”

It could be the new Lord Nightingale. I doubt she’d say anything pertinent about this case via text message, but one never knows. Maybe it’s an ex. Oh, God, maybe
he’s sleeping with the new Lord Nightingale, just like he slept with the old one. Sure, it was only one time, but old habits die hard.

“Be a better person,” I tell myself. “You can do it.”

I pick up the phone and click on the new message. Clearly, I wasn’t chosen for this profession because I’m trusting. In the soul of every investigator, there’s an only child who wants to know every last detail, even if it hurts.

The message is from an unknown number. It says:

Night, bro.

I put down the phone. I suddenly feel cold. Lucian did have a brother, Lorenzo, but he died. The text must be some kind of joke. I mark the message as unread and go downstairs.

I have an appointment with my occupational therapist
this morning. In exchange for my paid leave of absence, I had to sign a contract saying that I would see Dr. Lori Hinzelmann more often. I’m not sure what these sessions are supposed to accomplish, other than reminding me at regular intervals how crazy I am. I drew the line a year ago when he asked me to sketch the anger I felt toward all the demons who had tried to kill me in the past. Now he mostly just grills me about my personal life, which never fails to provide sundry material for discourse. It’s a bit unreal having a four-foot-tall kobold ask you about your erotic dreams, but then again, most things in my line of work lean toward the bizarre. At least his office has an espresso machine.

The SkyTrain flies me over Commercial Drive. I look through the glass as the tops of trees and buildings whip by. Vancouver exports most of its smog to the Fraser Valley, so the air is clear. I see the shadows of mountains and unlaced clouds. People around me doze, do crosswords, and listen to music that their earbuds can’t contain. The various Auto-Tuned voices and synthetic beats murmur in the air. There’s a trick with aerobic materia that would let me block out the sound, but my mother taught me never to waste power on the things that annoy us. I content myself with looking at the blue fabric of the empty seat across from mine, which resembles movie theater carpet.

I was still a teenager when I was selected by the CORE to become an Occult Special Investigator. They like to headhunt people with any capacity for manipulating natural forces, and when your father’s a pureblood demon, you tend to have that in spades. At the time, I didn’t actually know that my mother had power as well. I thought I’d inherited it solely from my father’s side of the family. There’s still a lot I don’t know about my mother. I look out the window again, as if expecting to see her flying alongside the SkyTrain, waving at me. But all I see are the buildings on Main Street and, between them, patches of blue space.

As far as I know, I’m the only person on this train who can see the energies that make life possible, the torsions and cosmic flares that drive everything. I see the blood and nerves of the universe, but its narrative stays hidden.
Sometimes it’s all too much. I want to be normal and nearsighted. I want to live in a world where demons are just something Hollywood uses to sell movie tickets.

I get off at Burrard Station and walk to the CORE building, which houses multiple offices in addition to the occult Forensics unit. The foyer is all slick marble and track lighting, but within the stone and under the air, power curls hot and sweet like dragon breath. I pass through the necessary checkpoints and step into the elevator, along with several other people. A few of them I’ve seen before, but don’t know by name. We smile politely. We keep silent, which is the first rule. The less we know about each other’s domains, the better.

I step off the elevator and into an air-conditioned waiting room. I check in at the desk and then take a seat. People just like me are reading old issues of
Chatelaine
or cycling through various menus on their smartphones. I guess it should be a comfort to know that I’m not the only person in my line of work who needs therapy. It should be, but I still feel like a lone freak. Derrick is a telepath and he doesn’t feel the need to unburden himself to a goblin therapist.

When it’s my turn, I walk down the hallway that leads to Dr. Hinzelmann’s office. He looks up and smiles. His eyes are the color of maple syrup, with slit pupils. I sit on the couch, which I’ve come to think of as the divan of discontent, since contact with its cushions is usually a prelude to feeling bad for the next forty minutes.

Dr. Hinzelmann opens a green folder. My green folder. All of his folders are color-coded, but I’ve never managed to crack his chromatic code. He glances down at it for a few seconds, then looks at me.

“How are you?”

This question is a trap waiting to be sprung. I’ve tried every conceivable answer, but none of them works. Inevitably, he ends up finding some crack in my resolve. There’s no such thing as feeling fine in this office. Fine means that you could be better. Fine means that you should consider letting go of your anger, and I can’t explain to him that my anger is what keeps me warm.

“Fine,” I say.

“Relaxed?”

“Sure. I’ve been sleeping better.”

“That’s good to hear.”

Lying to him is useless. He sees through every confabulation as if it were made of tissue paper. His eyes scan me. If this were a psychic attack, I could raise a defense, but there’s no adequate ward against a PhD from Johns Hopkins. I feel like he knows my mind, like he’s seen hundreds of minds like mine, obscure and boring. My childish fracture points are as easily divinable to him as a connect-the-dots picture in a child’s coloring book. He smiles. He always smiles before he strikes.

“Would you like some coffee?”

“I already had some. Thanks, though.”

“Really, I just like turning the dials on the machine.”

I almost say,
That makes sense
, but it feels racist. Being a goblin doesn’t make him mechanically inclined. Or does it? I should have paid more attention in my demon anthropology classes. I should pay more attention in general. I can’t remember where Mia said she’d be today, even though she told me twice. I can’t remember whose turn it is to make supper. I could ask Derrick to bring home Sky Dragon, but lately he’s had this weird issue with the chow mein. Something about the noodles being too fat, or maybe not fat enough.