8
I’D BEEN RIGHT about the beige cabinets against the one wall, and now I was kneeling in front of the open weapons lockers, going through the three bags to decide what to keep with me. I was back to just Grimes, Hooper, and Rocco. The other practitioners had been dismissed, but they hadn’t gone far. Most of them had simply moved to the weight-lifting area and started working out. I dug through the bags to the clink of weights and the small noises that people make when they do the work. The large open space seemed to swallow the noise more than most gyms, so it was very subdued.
Hooper spoke over my shoulder. “Wait, what is that?”
I looked down into the open bag and said, “What are you looking at, and I’ll tell you.”
He squatted beside me and pointed. “That.”
“Phosphorus grenade.”
“Not like any one I’ve ever seen.”
“It’s based on the older models.”
Now I had their attention. They all squatted or knelt by the bag. “How old is that thing?” Hooper asked.
“It’s not old; it’s actually newly manufactured. It comes from a specialty weapons house.”
“What kind of specialty weapons house?” Grimes asked; he looked positively suspicious.
“One that understands that the older idea of phosphorus works better for the undead.”
“How is it better?” Hooper asked.
“I don’t want them to be able to run into water and put it out; I want the bastards to burn.”
“Has it got the same radius as the real old ones?” Rocco asked, and he studied me with those too-dark eyes.
I fought to keep that gaze but wanted to look away. I didn’t like him much right at that moment. “Actually, no. You don’t have to try to be fifty feet away so you don’t get fried with your target. It’s a ten-foot danger zone, easier to set it and get the fuck away.” I reached in and drew out an even smaller one. “This is only five feet.”
“Phosphorus were never grenades, they were markers,” Hooper said.
“Yeah, a marker that if you were fifty feet or closer, you would be vaporized, or wished you were. Let’s call a spade a spade, gentlemen. This is a weapon.”
Grimes said, “It was decommissioned. You shouldn’t be able to get new tech with that material in it.”
“The government has made an exception for the undead and shapeshifters.”
“I didn’t hear about that.” Grimes sounded like he would have, if it were true.
“Gerald Mallory, Washington, DC, head vampire hunter, got a special weapons bill pushed through for us. We had a couple of preternatural marshals get killed when the newer grenades got doused by water.”
“I did hear about that,” Grimes said. “The vampires burned them alive and filmed it.”
“Yep,” I said. “They put it on YouTube before it got yanked. It was used to get the warrant for them and to get us some new toys.”
“Did you watch the film?” Rocco asked, and again there was too much weight to his gaze. I met it, but it made me fight not to wiggle. You’d think I was uncomfortable around him now. Nay, not me.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?” he asked.
I expected Grimes to tell him to stop, but no one came to my rescue. I was pretty sure they were still kicking my tires. Something about what I’d done in the other room with their head psychic had made them more serious about me.
I switched my gaze to Grimes to answer. “Been there, done that, didn’t want the T-shirt.”
“Explain,” Grimes said.
“I’ve seen people burned alive before, Lieutenant; I didn’t feel like seeing it again. Besides, once you’ve seen and smelled it in person, film really can’t compare.” I knew my gaze had gone a little angry, maybe even hostile. I didn’t care. I wasn’t interviewing here; I was here to do my job.
I went back to sorting through my bag.
“They are not going to let you walk into homicide with explosives,” Grimes said.
I spoke without looking up, “Not even a small one?”
“I doubt it,” he said.
“I’ll leave them here then,” I said, and started getting out things I thought they might allow me to carry.
I ended up with the guns lying in a line on the floor. The Mossberg 590A1 Bantam shotgun; a sawed-off that I’d had made, cut down from an Ithaca 37; Heckler & Koch’s MP5, my favorite submachine gun; and Smith & Wesson’s MP9c. I was still wearing the Browning BDM, which had replaced my Browning Hi-Power for concealed carry. The BDM had fewer knobbly bits to catch on clothing. Though honestly, the S&W was the best of the three for concealed carry, but then that was one of the niches it was built to fill.
I laid the blades out next. The machete that was my favorite for beheading, mostly chickens, but I’d used it on vampires a time or two. The two smaller blades that fitted into wrist sheaths. They had higher silver content than a normal knife. They were also balanced for my hands. They sat on the floor in their custom sheaths, fitted for my muscular but small forearms. I had one extra knife that was an in-between size that I’d started carrying since they made me wear the vest. It fitted into the Velcro straps of the MOLLE system on the vest.
Ammunition next, laying out extra magazines for each gun. I liked to have at least two per gun. Three was better, but it was a matter of space. For the shotgun I had a stock mag attached to the butt of the Mossberg that held extra shells. I had a box of shells per shotgun, too.
The last thing was two wooden stakes and a small mallet. That was all that would fit on me and in the backpack.
“That’s not a lot of wooden stakes,” Hooper said.
“I don’t use the stakes unless it’s a morgue execution; then legally that’s one of the approved methods for carrying out the warrant. But honestly, you just have to take the heart and the head, even in the morgue. Most executioners use blades or metal spikes; they go through meat and bone easier than wood.”
“You don’t use the stakes for hunts?” Grimes asked.
“Almost never,” I said.
The three men exchanged a look.
“I take it from that look that your local executioner was a stake-and-hammer man.”
“We were told that most of them are,” Grimes said.
I smiled and shook my head. “That’s the official line, Lieutenant, but trust me, most of us are silver-bullet-and-blade men.”
“Tony didn’t believe that any vampire was really dead until he staked them,” Rocco said.
I picked up the Mossberg. “All you have to do is take the heart and head. Trust me, every gun sitting here will do the job.”
“Even the Smith and Wesson?” Rocco asked.
“I’d have to reload, but eventually, yeah.”
“How many times would you have to reload?” Grimes asked.
I looked down at the Smith & Wesson. “The Browning has to be reloaded twice, and it holds about twice as much as the Smith and Wesson, so probably I’d have to reload four times, but I could do it. Waste a hell of a lot of ammo, though.” I lifted the Mossberg. “The shotguns and the MP5 are my choice for an actual execution, but I can do it with almost everything in my kit.” I looked down at everything. “I wouldn’t actually want to try to decapitate someone with either of the wrist sheath knives, but they’ll reach most vampires’ hearts.”
I put the shotgun down and opened another bag. I got my vest and helmet out. I really hated the helmet, even more than the vest. I was up against things that could tear my head off my body, so the helmet seemed a little silly to me, but it was part of the new SOP for us. I couldn’t wait to see what they’d make us wear, or carry, next.
“So you just have the stakes because they insist on you carrying some of them,” Grimes said.
“I follow the rules, Lieutenant, even if I don’t agree with them.”
“I don’t see any metal spikes,” Hooper said.
“I don’t do morgue stakings if I can help it, and outside that, I trust the guns.” I took off my suit jacket and started taking off my shoulder rig. It wouldn’t fit under the vest, or rather I couldn’t get to the weapons on the rig once the vest went over everything.
“Wait,” Grimes said.
I turned and looked at him.
“Move your hair off your back, please.”
I moved the nearly waist-length hair so they could see my back. I knew what he’d seen.
“That knife is almost as long as you are from shoulder to waist,” he said, “and you’ve been wearing it the whole time.”
“Yep.” I let my hair fall back, and like magic, the blade was nearly invisible. Add a suit jacket or a heavy shirt, and it was.
“You have any more surprises on you, Marshal Blake?” he asked.
“No.”
“How easy is it to draw?”
“Easy enough that I’ve had this sheath design redone for me three times, so I could keep carrying it this way.”
“Why do you need to have it redone?” Rocco asked.
“Emergency room trips. They always cut everything off if you aren’t able-bodied enough to stop them.”
“That where you got the arm scars?” Hooper asked.
I looked down at my arms, as if I’d just noticed the old injuries. I touched the mound of scar tissue at my left elbow. “Vampire.” I touched the thin scars that started just below it. “Shapeshifted witch.” The cross-shaped burn scar was criss-crossed by the scars, so the cross was a little crooked on one side. “Human servants of a vampire. They branded me. Thought it was funny.” I turned to my right arm. “Knife fight with a master vampire’s human servant.” I undid my belt so that I could slip the shoulder rig off, then I held the rig with the gun and knife still on it and used my other hand to lower my shirt from one shoulder. “Same vampire that did my elbow bit through my collarbone, broke it.” I pushed the shoulder of my shirt up to show the small shiny scar on it. “Bad guy’s girlfriend shot me.” Then I smiled, because what else could I do. “We’ll have to be better friends for you to see the other scars.”
Grimes and Hooper looked a little uncomfortable, but Rocco didn’t. We’d passed the point where a little hint could embarrass us. We’d already seen too far inside each other’s private lives for that to faze either of us. It was a strange, instant kind of intimacy, what we’d done. I didn’t like it much. I couldn’t tell how Rocco felt about it. He hadn’t liked me peeking at him and his wife, that was all I knew for sure.
I started to put on the vest.
“Are you about to suit up?” Grimes asked.
I looked at him over the collar of the vest; I hadn’t fastened the Velcro yet. “I was, why?”
“Unless the vampire you’re hunting is inside with Sheriff Shaw, you’ll just have to take it off to talk to him.”
“They won’t let me wear full gear in the police station?” I made it a question.
“Carrying all that, they’ll stop you at the front. You’ll never get into an interrogation room dressed for battle,” Rocco said.
I sighed and slipped the vest back over my head. “Fine, I hate the vest and helmet, anyway. I’ll carry them in a bag.”
“The vest and helmet will save your life,” Grimes said.
“If I weren’t hunting things that could peel the vest like an onion and crush the helmet, with my head in it, like an eggshell, maybe. I love having a badge and being part of the Marshals Service, but whoever is making the rules keeps making us rig up like we’re hunting human beings. Trust me, what we’ll hunt here in Vegas isn’t human.”
“What would you wear if you had your choice?” Grimes asked.
“Maybe something that was better at stopping slashing. Nothing works good enough against a stabbing attack yet. But honestly, I’d carry the weapons and leave the protective gear at home if I were going in with just me. I move faster without the vest, and speed will usually save my life more than the vest.”
“Do you have trouble moving in full gear?” Grimes asked.
“The damn thing weighs around fifty pounds.”
“Which is what, half your body weight?” he asked.
I nodded. “About that, I weigh one-ten.”
“That would be like putting a hundred-pound vest on most of us. We wouldn’t be able to move, either.”
Hooper was the one to ask it. “How badly do you move in the vest?”
“I can’t tell what’s going on with you guys. I keep expecting you to rush me to the hospital to see your men, or to Shaw to get this started, but you’re checking me out.”
“We’re about to trust you with our lives on a hunt that’s already killed three of our operators. Speed won’t bring them back. Rushing things won’t wake up the men in the hospital. All speed will do is get more of my team killed, and that is not acceptable. You’re a strong and controlled practitioner, but if you can barely move when you’re in full gear, you’re going to be an obstacle to overcome, not a help.”
I looked into Grimes’s very serious face. He had a point. The vest was very new, and when I wasn’t working with SWAT, I did my best not to wear it, but it wasn’t because I couldn’t move in it.
I sighed again, laid the vest with my other gear, and walked toward the weight area. The men were using the weights, but they were watching us, too. I went to the weight bench where tall, dark, and handsome Santa was bench-pressing. Mercy of the straight brown hair was spotting him, which meant the weight was heavy for the big man. Both Santa and Mercy had to weigh well over two hundred pounds, most of it muscle.
I watched Santa’s arms bulge with the effort to push the bar up and back into its cradle. Mercy’s hands hovered nearby, and at the end he had to guide the bar. That meant it was close to the other man’s limit on this exercise.
“Can I jump in for a minute? The lieutenant wants to see if I’m going to slow you guys down.”
The two men exchanged a look, and then Santa sat up, smiling. “Tell us what weight you want, and we’ll put it on.”
“What’s on it now?”
“Two-sixty; I was doing reps.” He had to add that last so I wouldn’t think it was the max weight he could bench. It was a guy thing; I got it.
I stared at the weights, thinking. I was about to do something that the guys would both like, a lot, and hate. I knew I could bench-press the weight; I’d done it at home. Thanks to vampire marks and several different kinds of lycanthropy floating around in my body, I could do things that were amazing even to me. I hadn’t been this strong long enough for it to lose its novelty. But I’d never showed it off to human cops before. I debated, but it was the quickest way I could think of to make my point.
The other men had started gathering around. Mercy reached for the weights. “What weight do you want, Blake?”
I waved him away. “This will do.”
They exchanged a look, all of them. Some of them smiled. Santa stood and waved at the bench as if to say, It’s all yours.
I went to the back of the bench. Mercy moved out of my way. The others moved back and gave me room. I knew I could bench-press it, and that would impress them, but I knew something that would impress them more, and I was tired of having my credentials checked. I wanted to be done with the tests and be out hunting vampires before it got dark. What I needed was something fairly spectacular.
I put my hands on the bar and braced my legs wide enough to get a good stance. I knew I was strong enough to lift it, but my mass wasn’t enough to counterbalance it, so I had to rely on other muscles to keep me steady and upright while my arms did the other work.
I got my grip on the bar, worked my stance.
Santa said, “That’s two hundred and sixty pounds, Blake.”
“I heard you the first time, Santa.” I lifted the bar, tensing my stomach and leg muscles to hold me while I curled it. Making it a controlled, pretty curl was the hard part, but I did it. I curled it, then set it back down with a tiny clink.
My breath was coming a little hard, and my whole body felt pumped and full of blood; there was even a little roar in my ears, which meant I shouldn’t try to curl that much weight again. So I wouldn’t, but . . . There was absolute silence from the men, as if they’d forgotten to breathe.
I put my hands on my waist and fought to control my breathing; it would all be for nothing if I looked dizzy or unsteady now.
Someone said, “Oh my God.”
I looked at the lieutenant and the sergeants where they stood off the edge of the mat. “I can carry my own weight, Lieutenant.”
“Hell, you can carry me,” Mercy said.
Santa said, “How did you do that? There’s not enough of you to lift that much weight.”
“Could you do it again?” Grimes asked.
“You mean reps?” I asked.
He nodded.
I grinned. “Maybe, but I wouldn’t want to try.”
He gave an expression that was almost a smile, then shook his head. “Answer Santa’s question, Anita.”
“You’ve heard the rumors. Hell, you checked up on me before I stepped off the plane.”
“You’re right, I did. So you really are the human servant of your local Master of the City.”
“That won’t make you this strong,” I said.
“I saw your medical records,” he said.
“And,” I said.
“You’re a medical miracle.”
“So they tell me.”
“What?” Santa asked, looking from one to the other of us.
“So, you really are carrying five different kinds of lycanthropy, but you don’t shift.”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Wait,” Santa said, “that’s not possible.”
“Actually,” Grimes said, “there have been three documented cases in the United States alone; you would be the fourth. Worldwide there have been thirty. People like you are what gave them the idea for the lycanthropy vaccines.”
Someone must have made a movement because Grimes said, “Yes, Arrio.”
“Is her lycanthropy contagious?”
“Anita,” he said.
“Shapeshifters are only contagious in animal form, and I don’t have an animal form, so, no.”
“Are you sure?” he asked.
“Not a hundred percent, no. I wouldn’t drink my blood, and if you have a cut, you might not want me to bleed on you.”
“But you’ve got five different kinds in your blood, right?” Santa asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then if you bled on me, I wouldn’t get just one, I’d get them all, or nothing, right?”
I nodded. “Yes.”
“Would it make me be able to do what you just did?”
“You can do what I just did.”
He shook his head, frowning. “Able to curl over twice my body weight, so, six-ninety, seven hundred pounds.”
“I’ve seen a shapeshifter about your size that could do it, but I’m not as strong as a real shapeshifter. If I were, I could do reps easy, and I can’t.”
“So a shapeshifter your size would be even stronger?” Davey, the tall blond with the nice mouth, asked.
“Absolutely.” I looked back at the lieutenant. “That’s what I mean about the vest and helmet. It just won’t protect you from that level of strength.”
“It will protect you if you get hit in the chest or head.”
“Some.”
“You’ll wear the full gear when you go out with us, Anita.”
“You’re the boss.”
He smiled. “Reports say you aren’t much for following orders.”
“I’m not.”
“But I’m the boss.”
“For these men, this unit, you are, and if I want to work with you, that makes you the boss.”
“You have a federal badge. You could try to be the boss.”
I laughed. “I’ve seen the way the men react to you. I could have a dozen federal badges, and that wouldn’t make any of these guys see me as their boss.”
“It will let you take all your weapons into the main station if you want to rub their faces in it.”
“I’m trying to make friends here, not enemies.”
“Then you’ll be the most polite fed we’ve met in a while.”
I shrugged. “I just want to start hunting these vampires before dark. Tell me what I have to do to make that happen, and I’ll do it.”
“Collect your gear. We’ll take you to Shaw.”
“Do I wear my gear or just carry it?”
“You asking my opinion?”
“Yes.”
“Carrying it is less aggressive, but they may also see it as a weakness.”
“If I asked you to just take me to the crime scene, would you?”
“No.”
I sighed. “Fine, take me to Shaw. Let him check under my hood, too.”
“Why does that sound dirty?” Santa asked.
“Because everything sounds dirty to you,” Mercy said.
Santa grinned. “Not everything.”
“Why are you called Santa?” I asked.
He aimed that grin at me. “Because I know who’s been naughty and who’s been nice.”
I gave him a look.
He did a Boy Scout salute. “Honest.”
“He’s not lying,” Spider of the curly brown hair said.
I waved my hands, as if clearing the air. “Fine, whatever that means. Let’s go.” I started walking toward Grimes, Rocco, Hooper, and my gear.
Mercy called out, loud enough so it would carry, “Tell us, Santa, is Blake naughty or nice?”
I felt something prickle along my back. It made me whirl around and glare at Santa. “I let Cannibal inside my shields; you don’t get in.”
Santa had a look on his face, as if he were hearing things I couldn’t hear. He blinked and looked at me, his eyes a little unfocused, as if he were having to draw himself back from far away. “I can’t get past her shields.”
“Come on, Blake,” Mercy said, “don’t you want to know if you’re naughty or nice?”
“I’m naughty, Mercer, I’ve killed too many people to be nice.” I didn’t wait to see their reaction. I just turned and went for my gear. I’d pack up, and they’d pass me to Sheriff Shaw. Maybe he’d just take Lieutenant Grimes’s word that I was okay, but remembering the look on Shaw’s face as we drove off, I doubted it. I appreciated everyone’s professional caution, but if this kept up, it would be dark before I got to do my job, and I did not want to hunt Vittorio in the dark. He’d mailed me the head of the last vampire hunter who’d tried to kill him; I was betting he’d be happy to cut me up and mail me to someone, too.