welcome.
And that was my cue to leave—you couldn’t pay me to get between suckers.
The Tercel was sluggish and had spontaneously developed a new rattle while parked. I leaned toward the center of the car twice on straight stretches, trying to deduce the origin of the noise, fixating because the irritation was a nice distraction.
I noticed the tail two miles later, the persistent shape of the headlights finally catching my attention. I couldn’t say whether it had been there when I left Vega’s drive or latched on later. Sloppy of me. It was a light-colored car, midsized, and just too far back to make out the unique characteristics of the grill.
A couple of easy turns eliminated the car as a casual late-night driver. It stuck to the Tercel, a block back as we entered the city proper. A light ahead turned green. I floored the pedal, cranked the sluggish shifter and watched my pursuer gain ground in the lane beside me. When it was less than four car lengths back, I slammed on the brakes. Tires squealed, and the car split, dodging down an alleyway and out of sight before I could get a good look. I rolled through the light, eyes darting, checking the mirrors in a quick rotation.
If Vega was in trouble, it was likely others knew, and floundering vampires are easy pickings for their rivals. It was probably a hijacker, trying to cap a runner. Cut off their flow of deliveries—information, payments, what have you—and you can topple a vampire. It’s why couriers are third-party, human and protected by human law. Once upon a time, vampires had their own runners, but they got picked off regularly, sometimes with the intention of stalling a rival, sometimes out of spite. It used to be that only the most desperate people would run packages. Now it was the skilled, the crazy and the ambitious.
I finished the last deliveries on autopilot, stumbling over my limited Spanish and missing a turn I’d mentally mapped earlier. The pale car didn’t appear again. The Tercel tried to check out, barely turning over as I left my last stop, and I just made it back to the shop before it died.
“You found Señor Vega,” Carla said as she reviewed the signature sheets I handed her. “How did the drop go?”
“Fine.” I rubbed my eyes. “Hey, do you have a contract with this Goya Worldwide outfit? I’m running a lot of packages from them.”
Carla shook her head. “ Las sangijuelas are ordering things from them. UPS drops off parcels a few times a week. You know how they are. One vampire starts flashing something new. Pretty soon they are all pouncing on the trend.”
“It must be exhausting to keep up with trends when you’re immortal.”
“The tranny isn’t doing so good,” Mickey said, coming into the office from the garage. The tip of her nose was smudged black, and a heavy wrench dragged down one side of her too-large coveralls. “And the starter is toasted. I’ll order some parts. She’ll run for you tomorrow, but do not shut her off. Bring her to my shop when you are finished. I need tools I don’t have here.”
“You guarantee she’ll drive? I’d hate to have to bum a lift from a sucker.”
Mickey smiled and rocked back on her heels. She looked about fourteen. “If she doesn’t run, breakfast will be on me.”
I smiled against the lump that hadn’t left my throat since Vega’s, and headed out into the night. I made a few quick loops, pausing twice in recessed doorways to check my six, but the streets were dead. No limping men on my trail, no pale shadows trolling the streets. In a way it was a letdown. Tilde’s route had me in before three, which meant I was wide awake with nothing to do. I cleaned up in my utility room and drove home.
The house was quiet and still. No noise, no scent of secretly terrible cooking, no warm energy stretching through the air to wrap around me. I went upstairs, to the floor that Malcolm didn’t visit out of respect for the electronics and large windows, and fired up my
And that was my cue to leave—you couldn’t pay me to get between suckers.
The Tercel was sluggish and had spontaneously developed a new rattle while parked. I leaned toward the center of the car twice on straight stretches, trying to deduce the origin of the noise, fixating because the irritation was a nice distraction.
I noticed the tail two miles later, the persistent shape of the headlights finally catching my attention. I couldn’t say whether it had been there when I left Vega’s drive or latched on later. Sloppy of me. It was a light-colored car, midsized, and just too far back to make out the unique characteristics of the grill.
A couple of easy turns eliminated the car as a casual late-night driver. It stuck to the Tercel, a block back as we entered the city proper. A light ahead turned green. I floored the pedal, cranked the sluggish shifter and watched my pursuer gain ground in the lane beside me. When it was less than four car lengths back, I slammed on the brakes. Tires squealed, and the car split, dodging down an alleyway and out of sight before I could get a good look. I rolled through the light, eyes darting, checking the mirrors in a quick rotation.
If Vega was in trouble, it was likely others knew, and floundering vampires are easy pickings for their rivals. It was probably a hijacker, trying to cap a runner. Cut off their flow of deliveries—information, payments, what have you—and you can topple a vampire. It’s why couriers are third-party, human and protected by human law. Once upon a time, vampires had their own runners, but they got picked off regularly, sometimes with the intention of stalling a rival, sometimes out of spite. It used to be that only the most desperate people would run packages. Now it was the skilled, the crazy and the ambitious.
I finished the last deliveries on autopilot, stumbling over my limited Spanish and missing a turn I’d mentally mapped earlier. The pale car didn’t appear again. The Tercel tried to check out, barely turning over as I left my last stop, and I just made it back to the shop before it died.
“You found Señor Vega,” Carla said as she reviewed the signature sheets I handed her. “How did the drop go?”
“Fine.” I rubbed my eyes. “Hey, do you have a contract with this Goya Worldwide outfit? I’m running a lot of packages from them.”
Carla shook her head. “ Las sangijuelas are ordering things from them. UPS drops off parcels a few times a week. You know how they are. One vampire starts flashing something new. Pretty soon they are all pouncing on the trend.”
“It must be exhausting to keep up with trends when you’re immortal.”
“The tranny isn’t doing so good,” Mickey said, coming into the office from the garage. The tip of her nose was smudged black, and a heavy wrench dragged down one side of her too-large coveralls. “And the starter is toasted. I’ll order some parts. She’ll run for you tomorrow, but do not shut her off. Bring her to my shop when you are finished. I need tools I don’t have here.”
“You guarantee she’ll drive? I’d hate to have to bum a lift from a sucker.”
Mickey smiled and rocked back on her heels. She looked about fourteen. “If she doesn’t run, breakfast will be on me.”
I smiled against the lump that hadn’t left my throat since Vega’s, and headed out into the night. I made a few quick loops, pausing twice in recessed doorways to check my six, but the streets were dead. No limping men on my trail, no pale shadows trolling the streets. In a way it was a letdown. Tilde’s route had me in before three, which meant I was wide awake with nothing to do. I cleaned up in my utility room and drove home.
The house was quiet and still. No noise, no scent of secretly terrible cooking, no warm energy stretching through the air to wrap around me. I went upstairs, to the floor that Malcolm didn’t visit out of respect for the electronics and large windows, and fired up my
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