I was covered in blood, but it wasn't
mine, so it was okay. Not only was it not my blood, but it
was all animal blood. If the worst casualties of the night
were six chickens and a goat, I could live with it, and so
could everyone else. I'd raised seven corpses in one
night. It was a record even for me.
I pulled into my driveway at a quarter 'til
dawn with the sky still dark and star-filled. I left the Jeep
in the driveway too tired to mess with the garage. It was
May, but it felt like April. Spring in St. Louis was usually
a two day event between the end of winter and the beginning
of summer. One day you were freezing your ass off and the
next day it'd be eighty plus. But this year it had been
spring, a wet gentle spring.
Except for the high number of zombies I'd
raised, it had been a typical night. Everything from raising
a civil war soldier for a local historical society to
question, a will that needed a final signature to a son's
last confrontation with his abusive mother. I'd been neck
deep in lawyers and therapists most of the night. If I heard,
'How does that make you feel, Jonathan, or Cathy, or
whoever?', one more time tonight, I'd scream. I did
not want to watch one more person 'go with his, or her,
feelings' ever. At least with most of the lawyers the
bereaved didn't come to the graveside. The court
appointed lawyer would ascertain that the zombie raised had
enough cognitive ability to know what they were signing, then
he would sign off on the contract as a witness. If the zombie
couldn't answer the questions then no legal signature.
The corpse had to be of "sound" mind to sign a
legally binding signature. I'd never raised a zombie that
couldn't pass the legal definition of soundness, but it
happened sometimes. Jamison, a fellow animator at
Animator's Inc., had a pair of lawyers come to blows on
top of the grave. What fun? The air was cool enough to make
me shiver as I walked down the sidewalk to my door. I could
hear the phone ringing as I fumbled the key into the lock. I
hit the door with my shoulder, because no one ever calls just
before dawn unless it's important. For me that usually
meant the police, which meant a murder scene. I kicked the
door closed and ran for the phone in the kitchen. My
answering machine had kicked on. My voice died on the machine
and Edward's voice came on.
"Anita, it's Edward. If you're
there pick up." Silence.
I was running full out and skidded on my high
heels, grabbing the receiver as I slid into the wall and
nearly dropped the phone. I yelled into the receiver as I
juggled the phone, "Edward, Edward, it's me. I'm
here." Edward was laughing softly when I could finally
hear him.
"Glad I could be amusing. What's
up?" I asked.
"I'm calling in my favor," he
said quietly.
It was my turn for silence. Once upon a time
Edward had come to my aid, been my back-up. He'd brought
a friend, Harley, with him as more back-up. I'd ended up
killing Harley. Now, Harley had tried to kill me first, and
I'd just been quicker, but Edward had taken the killing
personally. Picky, picky. Edward had given me a choice either
he and I could draw down on each other and find out once and
for all which of us was better, or I could owe him a favor.
Some day he would call me up and ask for me to be his back-up
like Harley. I'd agreed to the favor. I never wanted to
come up against Edward for real. Because if I did I was
pretty sure I'd end up dead.
Edward was a hitman. He specialized in
monsters. Vampires, shapeshifters, anything and everything.
There were people like me that did it legal, but Edward
didn't sweat the legalities, or hell, the ethics. He even
occasionally did a human, but only if they had some sort of
dangerous reputation. Other assassins, criminals, bad men, or
women. Edward was an equal opportunity killer, he never
discriminated, not for sex, religion, race, or even species.
If it was dangerous Edward would hunt it and kill it.
It's what he lived for, what he was. He was a
predator's predator.
He'd been offered a contract on my life
once. He'd turned it down and had come to town as my
bodyguard, bringing Harley with him. I'd asked him, why
he hadn't taken the contract. His answer had been simple.
If he took the contract he only got to kill me. If he
protected me he thought he'd get to kill more people.
Perfect Edward reasoning.
He's either a sociopath or so close it makes
little difference. I may be one of the few friends that
Edward has but it's like being friends with a tame
leopard. It may curl on the foot of your bed and let you pet
it's head, but it can still eat your throat out. It just
won't do it tonight.
"Anita, you still there?"
"I'm here, Edward."
"You don't sound happy to hear from
me."
I wanted to ask him, what does change? How does
it feel to dead? I knew other vampires, but Willie was the
first I had known before and after death. It was a peculiar
feeling. "What do you want?"
"Let's just say I'm
cautious," I said.
He laughed again. "Cautious, no you're
not cautious, you're suspicious."
"Yeah," I said. "So what's
the favor?"
"I need back up," he said.
"What could be so terrible that Death needs
back-up?"
"Ted Forrester needs back-up from Anita
Blake, vampire executioner."
Again that jerky head shake. "But she
don't know about vampires the way you do."
Ted Forrester was Edward's alter ego. His
only legal identity that I was aware of. Ted was a bounty
hunter that specialized in preternatural creatures that
weren't vampires. As a general rule vamps were a
specialty item, which was one of the reasons that there were
licensed vamp executioners but not licensed anything else
executioners. Maybe vampires just have a better political
lobby, but whatever , they get the most press. Bounty hunters
like Ted filled in the blanks between the police and the
licensed executioners. They worked mostly in rancher run
states where it was still legal to hunt down varmints and
kill them for money. Varmints still included lycanthropes.
You could shoot them on sight in about six states as long as
later a blood test proves they were lycanthropes. Some of the
killings had been taken to court and were being contested but
nothing had changed yet on a local level.
"So, what does Ted need me for?"
Though truthfully I was relieved that it was
Ted asking and not Edward. Edward on his own
probably meant illegal, maybe even murder. I wasn't quite
into cold-blooded murder, not yet.
"Come to Santa Fe and find out," he
said.
"New Mexico, Santa Fe, New
Mexico?"
"Yes."
"When?" I asked.
"Now."
"Since I'm coming as Anita Blake, vamp
executioner, I can flash my executioners license and bring my
entire arsenal. "
"Bring what you want," Edward said,
"I'll share my toys with you when you
arrive."
"I haven't been to bed yet. Do I have
time to get some sleep before I get on a plane?"
"Get a few hours sleep, but be here by
afternoon. We've moved the bodies, but we're saving
the rest of the crime scene for you."
"What sort of crime scene?"
"I'd say murder, but that's not
quite the right word. Slaughter, butcher, torture. Yes,"
he said, as if trying the word over in his mind, " a
torture scene."
It was the first time he had said
"we". "Are you trying to scare me?" I
asked.
"No," he said.
"Then stop the theatrics and just tell me
what the hell happened."
He sighed, and for the first time I heard a
dragging tiredness in his voice. "We've got ten
missing. Twelve confirmed dead."
"Shit," I said, "Why haven't
I heard anything on the news?"
"The disappearances made the tabloids. I
think the headline was, "Bermuda Triangle in the
Desert.' The twelve dead were three families. Neighbors
just found them today."
"How long had they been dead?" I
asked.
"Days, nearly two weeks for one
family."
"Jesus, why didn't someone miss them
sooner."
"In the last ten years almost the entire
population of Santa Fe has changed. We've got a huge
influx of new people. Plus a lot of people have what amounts
to vacation homes up here. The locals call the newcomers
Californiators. "
"Cute," I said, "but is Ted
Forrester a local?"
"Ted lives near the city, yeah."
A thrill went through me from the soles of my
feet to the top of my head. Edward was the ultimate mystery
man. I knew almost nothing about him, really. "Does this
mean I get to see where you live?"
"You'll be staying with Ted
Forrester," he said.
"But you're Ted Forrester, Edward.
I'll be staying at your house, right?"
He was quiet for a heart beat, then,
"Yes."
Suddenly the whole trip seemed much more
attractive. I was going to see Edward's house. I was
going to be able to pry into his personal life, if he had
one. What could be better?
Though one thing was bothering me. "When
you said families were the victims, does that include
kids?"
"Strangely, no," he said.
"Well, thank goodness for small
blessings," I said.
"You always were a soft touch for the
kiddies," he said.
"Does it really not bother you to see dead
children?"
"No," he said.
I just listened to him breath for a second or
two. I knew that nothing bothered Edward. Nothing moved him.
But children . . . every cop I knew hated to go to a scene
where the vic was a child. There was something personal about
it. Even those of us without children took it hard. That
Edward didn't, bothered me. Funny, but it did.
"It bothers me," I said.