the equivalent of a full human body's worth of blood on the back of my bicycle. She opened the storage room door. The golem, about half her height, stood stoic guard over the blood. It looked like a vaguely man-shaped blob of red clay, except for the pair of glowing marbles it had for eyes and the deep slit of its mouth The Hebrew letters for "truth" had been inscribed on its forehead. Its blobby hand held a stick, but otherwise no other weapons. It looked up at Ysabel and then stepped aside for her. She barely paid it any attention, but I sidled carefully out of its range. That stick looked painful.
"Do you have any extras?" I asked, moving to help her with the box.
She looked up, curious. A few stray hairs floated around her face, making her look curiously young and guileless. "We could spare three more pints, perhaps. Do you know of someone else?"
"A widowed vampire with three children who takes my night classes," I lied blithely as I picked up the crate and settled it on the desk. Human blood sloshed inside. "He's run afoul of Rinaldo and come on hard times . . . I think he could use the help."
Ysabel grimaced sympathetically and gave me three extra bags.
I felt far more pleased with myself than guilty when I left the room of potential donors with their long, curious stares, and strapped the crate on the back platform of my bicycle. I rationalized that even if I wasn't actually planning to give the extra blood to Giuseppe, my planned use for it could only help him. I labored through the cramped streets and hauled the crate up each flight of tenement stairs for my deliveries. The street price of clean human blood was higher than thirty-proof whiskey. I could deal with trouble, but I didn't want to hand it roses. By the time I finished, my blouse sported damp patches under each arm and the biting cold air felt positively refreshing. I put the three remaining pints in my own bag and dropped off the crate at the Blood Bank.
My pace slowed considerably as I neared Little Italy. I knew that this wasn't a very good idea. It seemed, however, like a very smart idea, and the one most likely to succeed at infiltrating Rinaldo's gang. The real question was why I was suddenly so eager for it. I'd escaped from Troy and the Defender life and thanked the good Lord for my luck. I hated everything they stood for, so why was I now so eager to begin the ultimate vampire hunt?
Because Rinaldo was worth hunting. He was the evil scourge the Defenders pretended to be fighting. But I couldn't discount the primal rush that had gripped me as I played with that vampire last night. It had been sweeter than I remembered to plunge that blade into his heart. I shied from the thought. What was wrong with me? You aren't your daddy.
The Beast's Rum was technically a speakeasy--in the sense that its primary purpose was the sale of illegal spirits--but it operated with far more of the sensibility of a pre-Prohibition pub. For one, the door opened right onto the Mott Street sidewalk, and old men sat outside, puffing on smelly cigars and drinking fragrant pints of unpasteurized beer. No secret knocks, no changing addresses; to go to the Rum, all you needed was an unhealthy lack of self-preservation and a tolerance for strange smells.
Inside, the bar was so dark that I had to wait several moments for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I noticed that most of the chatter had fallen silent and more than a dozen pairs of eyes--mostly glowing--had turned to stare at me like I was a tasty worm that had wandered its unfortunate way into the chicken coop. The vampires in the room were all male and disturbingly young--the oldest among them couldn't have been turned any older than sixteen. One straddling a stool nearest to the bar looked about thirteen, despite his slicked-back brown hair. Just a little older than the innocent child he and the other boys had punctured to death. Oh, I had no doubt which lion's den I had entered. I was standing in the middle of the
"Do you have any extras?" I asked, moving to help her with the box.
She looked up, curious. A few stray hairs floated around her face, making her look curiously young and guileless. "We could spare three more pints, perhaps. Do you know of someone else?"
"A widowed vampire with three children who takes my night classes," I lied blithely as I picked up the crate and settled it on the desk. Human blood sloshed inside. "He's run afoul of Rinaldo and come on hard times . . . I think he could use the help."
Ysabel grimaced sympathetically and gave me three extra bags.
I felt far more pleased with myself than guilty when I left the room of potential donors with their long, curious stares, and strapped the crate on the back platform of my bicycle. I rationalized that even if I wasn't actually planning to give the extra blood to Giuseppe, my planned use for it could only help him. I labored through the cramped streets and hauled the crate up each flight of tenement stairs for my deliveries. The street price of clean human blood was higher than thirty-proof whiskey. I could deal with trouble, but I didn't want to hand it roses. By the time I finished, my blouse sported damp patches under each arm and the biting cold air felt positively refreshing. I put the three remaining pints in my own bag and dropped off the crate at the Blood Bank.
My pace slowed considerably as I neared Little Italy. I knew that this wasn't a very good idea. It seemed, however, like a very smart idea, and the one most likely to succeed at infiltrating Rinaldo's gang. The real question was why I was suddenly so eager for it. I'd escaped from Troy and the Defender life and thanked the good Lord for my luck. I hated everything they stood for, so why was I now so eager to begin the ultimate vampire hunt?
Because Rinaldo was worth hunting. He was the evil scourge the Defenders pretended to be fighting. But I couldn't discount the primal rush that had gripped me as I played with that vampire last night. It had been sweeter than I remembered to plunge that blade into his heart. I shied from the thought. What was wrong with me? You aren't your daddy.
The Beast's Rum was technically a speakeasy--in the sense that its primary purpose was the sale of illegal spirits--but it operated with far more of the sensibility of a pre-Prohibition pub. For one, the door opened right onto the Mott Street sidewalk, and old men sat outside, puffing on smelly cigars and drinking fragrant pints of unpasteurized beer. No secret knocks, no changing addresses; to go to the Rum, all you needed was an unhealthy lack of self-preservation and a tolerance for strange smells.
Inside, the bar was so dark that I had to wait several moments for my eyes to adjust. When they did, I noticed that most of the chatter had fallen silent and more than a dozen pairs of eyes--mostly glowing--had turned to stare at me like I was a tasty worm that had wandered its unfortunate way into the chicken coop. The vampires in the room were all male and disturbingly young--the oldest among them couldn't have been turned any older than sixteen. One straddling a stool nearest to the bar looked about thirteen, despite his slicked-back brown hair. Just a little older than the innocent child he and the other boys had punctured to death. Oh, I had no doubt which lion's den I had entered. I was standing in the middle of the
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