Death Blows: The Bloodhound Files-2 by DD Barant Page A

who escort me from the front gate to the intake area are both pires, a short Hispanic man named Olmerez and a tall, skinny one named Bicks. Bicks’s skin is so pale it’s almost translucent, blue veins clearly visible on his neck and the backs of his hands.

    They take me down a concrete corridor, barred electric gates buzzing us deeper into the complex. They hand me off without a word to an impassive black woman behind a Plexiglas-screened counter, who checks my ID. She directs me to another room, where I have to pass through a metal detector and then be okayed by a staff shaman who makes me stand in a circle of salt and state that I am not in possession of any fetishes, charms, or cursed objects. Finally, I’m put in an interview room to wait for my subject.

    She shows up in the company of a guard about fifteen minutes later. Her name is Cali Edison, she’s a thrope serving a four-hundred-year sentence—and she’s the only incarcerated member of the Kamic cult I’ve been able to find.

    Cali’s a tiny, wiry woman with ferociously orange hair cut short. She looks like she’s in her 40s, but her file says she’s closer to a 120. She’s dressed in a jumpsuit almost exactly the same shade as her hair, and wears a pair of manacles that look strong enough to hold an elephant. The guard, a massive, black-furred thrope in half-were form, motions for her to sit down, then locks her cuffs to an eyebolt jutting out of the table. He catches my eye, signs be careful so that Cali doesn’t see it. I don’t know what they expect her to do, but they’re not taking any chances.

    “Hi,” I say. I’m sitting at the other end of the table, her file in front of me. “I’m Special Agent Jace Valchek. I’d like to ask you some questions about the Kamic cult.”

    “I’m Cali Edison,” she says, just a trace of a drawl in her voice. “I’d like to screw the president of the United States and then eat his tongue.”

    “Good for you. Everybody needs a dream.”

    “I can’t smoke while I’m in these cuffs.”

    “Or without a cigarette.”

    “Ain’t that the truth. Got one?”

    “I’ve got a whole tobacco patch growing out of my ass. Talk to me and I’ll bring in the harvest early.”

    She grins with small, sharp teeth. “Ain’t been nobody to see me in years. Ask away.”

    “Tell me about the Seduction of the Innocent murders.”

    “That was a long time ago.”

    “How’s your memory?”

    “Gets better when I’m smoking.”

    I fish a pack out of my pocket. I don’t smoke and most thropes I know don’t care for the smell, but Charlie tells me it’s still a pretty common vice for inmates—they’re immune to cancer and don’t have anything better to do.

    I light one myself, then lean forward and stick it in her mouth. She takes a long drag and blows the smoke out her nose. “Ah, I think it’s coming back to me,” she says. “Not that there’s much to tell. Wertham was a real smooth talker, you know? Convinced me and a bunch of others we could grab us a whole lot of power without anyone even noticing. ‘Like embezzling from the dead,’ was the way he put it. ’Course, a fair number of folks had to wind up dead in the first place, but that part never bothered me much.”

    Her eyes are flat and hard, the eyes of a predator looking for weakness. Being in prison for half a century has whittled her down to a core of cold stone, more lem than thrope.

    “What happened to the rest of the cult?”

    “Dead. The Brigade, they weren’t interested in arresting us. They did their damn best to wipe us out—
    not that I blame ’em. We weren’t exactly holding back, neither.”

    “So how’d you survive?”

    She pulls on the cigarette with her lips, sucks in air from the side of her mouth to inhale with the smoke. “Someone had to.”

    “Wertham didn’t.” I don’t know if that’s true or not, and I’m interested in seeing her reaction.

    “No, they stuck him in a coffin and nailed