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Bloodshot

CHERIE
PRIEST

B A L L A N T I N E B O O K S | N E W Y O R K
Prie_9780345520609_5p_all_r1.qxp:Layout 1 11/5/10 9:26 AM Page xvi

Bloodshot is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places,

and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or
are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead,
events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

A Spectra Trade Paperback Original

Copyright © 2011 by Cherie Priest

All rights reserved.

Published in the United States by Spectra, an imprint of

The Random House Publishing Group, a division of
Random House, Inc., New York.

SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of

Random House, Inc.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Priest, Cherie.
Bloodshot / Cherie Priest.
p. cm.
ISBN 978-0-345-52060-9 (pbk.) — ISBN 978-0-345-52061-6 (ebook)
1. Private investigators—Fiction. 2. Vampires—Fiction. 3. Thieves—Fiction.
I. Title.
PS3616.R537B58 2011
813'.6—dc22
2010040168

Printed in the United States of America

www.ballantinebooks.com

246897531

Book design by Susan Turner

Prie_9780345520609_3p_all_r1.qxp:Layout 1 10/1/10 10:02 AM Page 1

Bloodshot
Prie_9780345520609_3p_all_r1.qxp:Layout 1 10/1/10 10:02 AM Page 3

you wouldn’t believe some of the weird shit people

pay me to steal.
Old things, new things. Expensive things, rare
things, gross things.
Lately it’s been naughty things.
We’ve all heard stories about people who regret
their tattoos. But I’d rather spend eternity with Tweety
Bird inked on my ass than knowing there’s a hide-the-
cucumber short film out there with my name on it,
and my bank account tells me I’m not alone. I’ve done
three pilfer-the-porno cases in the last eight months,
and I’ve got another one on deck.
But I think I’m going to tell that fourth case to go
to hell. Maybe I’ll quit doing them altogether. They
make me feel like an ambulance chaser, or one of those
private dicks who earns a living by spying on cheating
Prie_9780345520609_3p_all_r1.qxp:Layout 1 10/1/10 10:02 AM Page 4

4 Cherie Priest

spouses, and that’s no fun. Profitable, yes, but there’s no dignity in

it, and I don’t need the money that badly.
In fact, I don’t need the money at all. I’ve been at this gig for
nearly a century, and in that time I’ve stored up quite a healthy lit-
tle nest egg.
I suppose this begs the question of why I’d even bother with
loathsome cases, if all I’m going to do is bitch about them. It can’t
be mere boredom, can it? Mere boredom cannot explain why I will-
ingly breached the bedroom of a fifty-year-old man with a pen-
chant for stuffed animals in Star Trek uniforms.
Perhaps I need to do some soul searching on this one.
But I say all that to simply say this: I was ready for a different
kind of case. I would even go so far as to say I was eager for a dif-
ferent kind of case, but if you haven’t heard the old adage about
being careful what you wish for, and you’d like a cautionary fable
based upon that finger-wagging premise, well then. Keep reading.
Have I got a doozy for you.
It began with a card I received in the mail. A simple card
doesn’t sound so strange, but the extenuating circumstances were
these: (1) The card arrived at my home address; (2) it was addressed
to me, personally, by name; and (3) I didn’t recognize the hand-
writing. I can count on one hand the number of people who might
send me a note at home, and I’ve known each of those folks for
decades. This was somebody new. And instinct and experience told
me that this was Not A Good Thing.
The envelope also lacked a postmark, which was a neat trick
considering the locked residential boxes downstairs. So it wasn’t
marked in any way, and it didn’t smell like anything, either. I held
it under my nose and closed my eyes, and I caught a whiff of
leather—from a glove? the mail carrier’s bag?—and printer ink,
and the rubbery taste of a moistening sponge.
Prie_9780345520609_3p_all_r1.qxp:Layout 1 10/1/10 10:02 AM Page 5

Bloodshot 5

What kind of prissy bitch won’t lick an envelope?

That’s easy. Another vampire.
Under the filthiest, most nonbathing of circumstances we
don’t leave much body odor, and what we do manufacture we pre-
fer to minimize.
That extra bit of precaution told me plenty, even before I read
the card. It told me that this came from someone who didn’t want
to be chased or traced. Somebody was trying to keep all the balls
in his court, or all the cards in his hand—however you preferred to
look at it.
I wasn’t sure how I knew my mystery correspondent was a
man, but I was right. The message within was typed in italics, as if
I ought to whisper should I read it aloud. It said,

Dear Ms. Pendle,

I wish to speak with you about a business matter of utmost

confidentiality and great personal significance. I have very
deep pockets and I require complete discretion. Please contact
me at the phone number below.

Thank you for your time,

Ian Stott

And he signed it with a drop of blood, just in case I was too

dense to gather the nature of my potential client. The blood smelled
sweet and a smidgen sour—not like the Asian sauce, but more like
the candy. It’s subtly different from the blood of a living person—
both more appealing and less so. It’s tough to describe.
We’re dead, sort of. Everything smells and tastes different.
A few things look different, too. My pupils are permanently
dilated, so although my eyes once were brown, now they’re black.
Prie_9780345520609_3p_all_r1.qxp:Layout 1 10/1/10 10:02 AM Page 6

6 Cherie Priest

I’m as white as a compact fluorescent bulb, which you might expect

from a woman who avoids the sun to the best of her ability, and my
teeth . . . well, I try not to show them when I smile.
They’re not all incriminatingly pointy, don’t get me wrong.
When I yawn I’m not flashing a row of shark’s choppers, but my ca-
nines are decidedly pokey. Thank God they don’t hang down as
long as they once did. (I know a guy. He filed them for me.) These
days they may be short, but they’re still sharp enough to puncture
an oilcan, and that’s how I like it.
My hair is more or less the same as it always was, a shade of
black that doesn’t require any further descriptors. It’s short
because—and I tell you this at the risk of dating myself—it was
cut in a flapper style when I was still alive. It used to bother me
that it won’t grow any longer now that I’m post-viable, but I’ve
convinced myself that it’s just as well. It helps reinforce that whole
“sexual ambiguity” thing.
Did I mention that already?
No? Well, it’s easy to sum up. I’m on three Most Wanted lists
internationally . . . and on every single one I’m listed as a man
known only as “Cheshire Red.” I’m not sure how this happened, or
why.
I’m tallish for a woman, or shortish for a man. I’m slender,
with breasts that are small enough to go unremarked. In the dark,
at a glance, on a grainy security camera, I could pass for a young
man. And far be it from me to argue with the feebs. If they want to
keep on the lookout for a dude, so much the better for my career
path and continued operation.
But anyway.
Ian Stott.
The number at the bottom of his summons wasn’t local, and I
didn’t recognize the area code. Call me paranoid, but I had some
reservations about dialing it up. I considered jaunting down to the
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Prie_9780345520609_3p_all_r1.qxp:Layout 1 10/1/10 10:02 AM Page 7

Bloodshot 7

nearest gas station and using the pay phone. Then I remembered
that the bastard already knew where I lived, and I’d just be closing
the barn door after the horse had run off. Hell, I was lucky he
hadn’t shown up on my doorstep.
Come to think of it, I wondered why he hadn’t.
I wondered if he was watching me. I wondered if . . .
Okay. You would be right to call me paranoid, obviously, yes.
But you don’t survive as long as I have by being sloppy and easily
accessible. That’s a recipe for disaster. I’m much happier when I
feel invisible.
I fondled the card between two fingers and tried to talk myself
out of my phobic spiral.
He’d given me a name. Was it his real name? There was no
telling. But he’d signed it properly, although I noted after looking
again at the envelope, the signature didn’t match the chicken-
scratch scrawl of the address. The signature was large and smooth,
and easy to read. My address would’ve been more legible if it’d
been composed in pickup sticks.
Okay, so he knew where I lived, but he was respecting my
space. Apparently. Again I had an irritating flash of nervousness,
wondering if he was right outside—or across the street, or down-
stairs, or hiding in a closet.
Because I couldn’t stop myself, I rushed to the hall closet and
flung it open to make sure. Packed with shades of brown, black,
and gray as usual, it was devoid of any two-legged lurkers. For
about five seconds, I was relieved. Then I scanned the rest of the
room with renewed frantic suspicion.
I grabbed a big black knife—my personal favorite, a carbon
steel jobbie nearly a foot long—and I kicked in my own bathroom
door. Empty. And now it also had a cracked tile on the wall where
the knob had knocked it. Fantastic.
Too crazy to stop once I got myself started, I ran to the bed-
Prie_9780345520609_3p_all_r1.qxp:Layout 1 10/1/10 10:02 AM Page 8

8 Cherie Priest

room and checked that closet as well. More brown, black, and gray.
No intruders.
Into the kitchen I burst. The walk-in pantry was secure.
The spare bedroom, of course! But it was likewise bereft of
uninvited guests, as a mad crashing investigation shortly revealed.
Having exhausted my innate store of neurotic lunacy, I felt like
an idiot. I really should’ve just called the number in the first place.
I sat down on the arm of the couch, fished my phone out of my
bag, took a deep breath, and dialed.
The phone at the other end only rang once before it was an-
swered.
“Hello, Ms. Pendle,” said a smooth, low voice.
“Hello, Mr. Stott.” I tried to keep it dry and droll. No sense in
letting him know he’d rattled me.
“Please, call me Ian. I thank you for responding to my mes-
sage. I realize you’re a busy woman, and I am certain that your time
is valuable, but I wish to state up front that I’m prepared to pay
you handsomely for it.”
I listened hard and tried to get a good handle on the speaker.
Another vampire, definitely. I’d known that much already, but hear-
ing the preternatural, almost musical timbre in his words would’ve
cinched it, regardless. He was well educated and calm, and Amer-
ican.
“That’s what you implied in your note, yes,” I said. “But as
much as I love the money-is-no-object school of business, I still
need to know what you’re after before I can name a price.”
“That’s quite reasonable, and I’m happy to accommodate you.
However, I am reluctant to discuss such a thing over the phone.”
Hmm. A dash of technophobia? He might be older than he
sounded.
“Okay. You want to meet up? I can make that happen.”
Prie_9780345520609_3p_all_r1.qxp:Layout 1 10/1/10 10:02 AM Page 9

Bloodshot 9

“You’ll want someplace public, I expect. Bright lights, people

milling about.” He didn’t have much of an accent, and I couldn’t
place what I detected. Not southern, not urban northern, not mid-
western. He could’ve been a TV anchor if he hadn’t been speaking
so softly.
“This isn’t a blind date, Ian. I don’t need a room full of wit-
nesses and a girlfriend who knows the get-me-outta-here safe word.
There’s a wine bar down on Third Street called Vina. It’s dark and
quiet, and it’s often busy but it’s never conspicuously crowded.
Two primary entrances, easy to escape if necessary, easy to hide out
in the open. Will that work for you?”
I heard a smile in his voice when he echoed, “A blind date.
Funny you should put it that way.” Then he said, “Yes, that’s fine
with me. Is tonight too soon?”
“Tonight is never too soon. Can you meet me there in an
hour?” I checked my watch and noted that it wasn’t quite eight PM.
“Wait. Let’s make it two hours. The bar doesn’t close until two in
the morning, so we’ll have plenty of time to chat.”
“Very well,” he said. “I’ll see you then, Ms. Pendle.” And he
hung up.
I hadn’t bothered to tell him he could call me Raylene. As a
freelance contractor I like to keep things stuffy on my end. I get
little enough respect as it is, since I’m not affiliated with any of the
major Houses—either here in town, or anywhere else.
Vampires tend to be pack animals out of social convenience.
They coagulate around one particularly old, strong, or charismatic
figure and entrench themselves in legitimate enterprises in much
the same way the Mafia does. More often than not, this works
for them. They mostly get left alone, and when they don’t, they’re
tough enough as a group to smack down any external threats.
But external threats are few and far between, and usually they
Prie_9780345520609_3p_all_r1.qxp:Layout 1 10/1/10 10:02 AM Page 10

10 Cherie Priest

come from other vampires. Did I say that we were social creatures?
I might have misspoken. It’s a love–hate thing, the way we get along
with one another. It’s just as well there are so few of us anymore.
I could’ve made it down to Vina in an hour, but I didn’t feel
like rushing.
I felt like changing clothes, freshening up, checking my email,
maybe playing a game of Internet Scrabble, and then wandering
down to Third Street at my leisure.
There was method to my madness.
For one thing, it’s important to always project the appearance
of control. We would operate on my terms—when I want, where I
want. I always try to establish this right out of the gate, because it
gets clients accustomed to the idea that I’ll be calling the shots.
They pay me to achieve an objective. How I achieve that objective
is up to my own discretion and no one else’s, and I will accept no
restrictions. This is not to say that I’m a rabid berserker off the
leash or anything. That’s bad for business and bad for the low-key,
invisible vibe I struggle to maintain.
But I am the queen of situational ethics.
And for another thing, Stott had thrown me more than I
would’ve cared to admit, and I needed to calm myself down. I
wanted to meet him after a bath and maybe an adult beverage.
I’m not Dracula and I do drink . . . wine. In fact I rather enjoy
it, though more than a glass at a time makes me woozy. Blame it on
a semi-dead metabolism or anything else you like, but I don’t
process alcohol well or quickly. I’ve never met a vampire who does.
Therefore, I kept it light—just a few sips of something out of a
box. It was enough to settle my nerves, but not enough to slow me
down.
I dressed, but I didn’t dress up. It attracts too much attention.
I wore three shades of gray with black accents—boots, bag, et
Prie_9780345520609_3p_all_r1.qxp:Layout 1 10/1/10 10:02 AM Page 11

Bloodshot 11

cetera. I ran a hand through my hair and called it “done.” I closed

my wee, lightweight laptop and stuck it into my bag. I picked up my
keys and stuffed them into my pocket. And I left the condo, lock-
ing it behind me. The locking part took a full minute. I like locks,
and I have some good ones.
Down in the parking garage under the building I keep a blue-
gray Thunderbird. It’s not the newest model, but it’s not old
enough to count as a classic—and it’s got more miles on it than
you’d guess. I could afford a better car, sure, but I like the way this
one drives and no one ever looks at it twice. Only this time I left it
in its assigned space. Traffic would be a bitch, parking would be
worse, and I could make it to my destination in thirty minutes if I
kept up a steady pace. It was all downhill, anyway.
I’m not a rooftop-to-rooftop kind of woman. Not unless I’m
really desperate.
By ten o’clock I was standing outside Vina. I did a last-minute
check of my messages, my bag, my hair, and I steeled myself. I
hate meeting new people, even new clients who intend to give me
money. I try to be pleasant, but I’m not very good at it. The best I
can usually pull off is “professional if somewhat chilly.” It’s not
ideal, no. But it beats “awkward and bitchy.”
On the phone, I hadn’t asked how I’d know Ian when I saw
him, but I was willing to bet he’d be the only vampire on the prem-
ises; and if he wasn’t, then I had bigger problems than his
anonymity.
But no. There he was.
I saw him through the window, and knew him even before I
could hear him or smell him.
It could’ve been his exquisite sense of posture—something you
don’t often see in men these days—or it could’ve been the way his
long silver hair lay perfectly flat against his shoulders. His candle-
Prie_9780345520609_3p_all_r1.qxp:Layout 1 10/1/10 10:02 AM Page 12

12 Cherie Priest

white hands curled around the underside of a wineglass, holding it

in the gentle way we vampires sometimes affect when we’re hold-
ing something fragile.
Sometimes we don’t know our own strength.
I let myself inside, nudging my way past a hostess and giving
her a nod that told her I’d found my party. Or maybe it just told her
I was a pushy, impatient cunt. Regardless, I didn’t need her help to
find my table.
My business date was wearing glasses. They weren’t sun-
glasses, exactly, but they were tinted blue. The lenses didn’t hide his
eyes or mask them, so I wondered why he bothered.
“Ms. Pendle?” He added an unnecessary question mark to the
end of my name as he rose from his chair to greet me. He extended
his hand, and I took it to shake it.
“Mr. Stott. Or Ian, as you prefer.”
He gestured at the seat opposite his. While I made myself com-
fortable, he said, “You’re right on time. It’s good of you to meet
me so soon.”
“I’m always on time,” I understated. I’m usually early. “And it
was good of you to stay out of my apartment.”
His eyebrows knitted softly behind the wire frames. “I beg
your pardon?”
“You obviously know where I live, but you went to the trouble
of being polite about it. To tell you the truth, I’m still not sure how
I feel about that. People usually contact me through a third party.”
I let my jacket dangle from the edge of my chair’s back, and set my
bag down on the floor next to my feet.
“Ah.” He took a sip of wine, and a waitress noticed that I was
drinkless.
I put in an order for something white and devoid of sparkles,
and when our server had toddled off, I said, “Ah? Is that all you’ve
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