Free Death Blows: The Bloodhound Files-2 by DD Barant

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    FIVE

    It’s definitely not Tanaka.

    The body language’s all wrong, for one thing. Tanaka stood and moved with a grace that suggested a panther more than a wolf; this guy is more hunched over, less certain on two feet. He’s big, though—
    must mass nearly as much as Charlie. Looks like he’s wearing some kind of sleeveless vest and dark pants—no shoes, of course.

    The rain is no more than a drizzle now, what native Seattlites don’t even consider actual precipitation—they just say the air’s a little damp. Little beads of moisture sparkle in his black-andgray fur, making it look like someone sprinkled him with industrial-strength fairy dust.

    I’m carrying the Ruger, but if they rush me I’m in trouble—pires and thropes are scary fast, and my gun has zero ability to instill fear in this world. If they attack, I’ll have to kill each and every one of them before they reach me. Not good.

    I sign back, Who the hell are you ?

    You can call me Tair . He signs each letter of his name, then punctuates it with a sign that encapsulates the whole thing.

    What do you want ?

    To warn you .

    About ?

    He chuckles. It’s a sound that’s more familiar than it is menacing, but I’ll be damned if I can remember where I’ve heard it before. A mutual acquaintance—Dr. Peter Adams .

    Why? Is he in danger ?

    Maybe. Maybe he is the danger .

    That throws me. Dr. Pete is probably the most decent, ethical person I’ve met since I came to this world. You’ve got to be kidding .

    He’s not the person you think he is, Jace. What do you know about him, really ?

    Let’s see. He’s got a big family that loves him, he heals people for a living, he risked his own life to save mine—

    That’s not his family .

    I don’t have to bother signing What ? The look on my face does it for me.

    Do a little checking into the “Adams” family. You’ll be surprised at what you come up with .

    Why have you been hanging around the clinic ?

    Keeping an eye on the good doctor. Wouldn’t want him to suddenly vanish without a trace .

    “Threatening him is really not a good idea,” I say, and suddenly the gun is in my hand. I know it won’t impress any of them, but it makes me feel better.

    Wasn’t threatening him. Was threatening you. He growls to underline the remark, a deep rumble that practically makes my bones vibrate.

    “Oh. That’s different. Go right ahead, everyone else does.”

    Dr. Adams has a way of leaving town with unfinished business. That makes the people I work for very unhappy .

    “Oh dear. Unhappy people, I hate those. They’re scary .”

    He chuckles again. You’ve got it wrong again. Being scary is my job .

    He motions with his muzzle, and his group glides forward. Not a pack, though—they’re pires, not thropes. Interesting.

    There are a lot of thrope gangs—the pack structure is a natural fit—but that doesn’t mean there aren’t any pires doing the same thing. The Bloods out of LA are all pires, and their leaders trace their roots all the way back to Egypt—which may explain their fetish for gold jewelry. Ankhs on thick yellow chains, rings with tiny gold pyramids instead of gemstones, bracelets embossed with hieroglyphs; more Tomb Raider than LA Raiders .

    But the style doesn’t stop at the bling. Pires who want to do their gangbanging during daylight hours have to cover up just like all the other blood drinkers—but instead of a nice face mask and hoodie from Abercrombie & Fitch, they wind strips of designer fabric around every exposed inch of flesh. Call themselves “wrappers.”

    Yeah, it’s kind of ridiculous. But so are baggy pants that ride so low they show off your underwear, and the reason that trend started was purely practical, too—it made it easier to hide a gun. The wrappers, for all their Invisible Man/King Tut vibe, have more than style on their minds. Other pires don’t go masked at night, but these guys do; wrapping is an excuse to hide—and