Cassandra Palmer 1(51)
I sneered. «Since when do weres take orders from vamps? I can't believe you toadied to him all these years!»
Jimmy squealed; I guess I hit a nerve. «There's a new order coming, vampire, and a lotta things are about to change. You may be taking orders from us soon!»
I backpedaled. I wanted to hit his pride, not goad him into doing something stupid. «Maybe, but it won't do you much good if you don't live to see it, right? You don't know me, so you won't take my word. But what about Cassie's? How about if she promises to guarantee our good behavior?» Jimmy looked torn, like he really wanted to believe me, and I knew why. The bullet wound in his arm didn't look too bad, but the injury to his torso was another thing. The long white strip of fur down his front had a widening red stain, and his breath sounded labored and a little bubbly. Ten to one I'd hit a lung, and even a shape-shifter was going to have trouble healing that.
«Come on, Jimmy. It's the best offer you're going to get.»
«Tell your muscle to back off if you want a deal, or she dies.» He spat on the ground at my feet to underline the threat, and there was blood in it. Jimmy was running out of time and, as soon as he figured that out, so was I. His whiskers twitched, and I realized with surprise that I could actually smell his fear. It was a tangible thing, to the point that I felt like I could roll it around on my tongue like wine.
It was musky with a sweet undertaste, although the latter might have been from his blood. Now that I had noticed the heightened senses of this new body, they were proving very distracting.
I suddenly understood that Louis-Cesar was not angry; he was furious: a simmering, peppery scent radiated off him in waves, and I had the feeling that as much of it was directed at me—or rather at Tomas—as at Jimmy. It was mixed up with the myriad scents suddenly hammering me from all around: the faint, far-off whiff of the sewers running beneath the earth, diesel fumes and cigarette butts from the parking lot and the reek of sauerkraut from a day-old reuben in a Dumpster. My body, on the other hand, smelled good, really good, and at first I thought it was because it was familiar. Then I realized with a shock that it actually smelled like a favorite meal, hot and fresh and ready to eat. I had never thought of blood smelling sweet, like warm apple pie or steaming cider on a cold day, but now it did. I could almost taste the blood running under the warmth of that skin, and feel how rich it would be sliding down my throat. The idea that I smelled like food to Tomas staggered me to the point that I didn't see what happened in front of me until it was half over.
A suffocating cloud of bluish gas billowed around us, obscuring the parking lot and causing my eyes to burn. Several shots went off, and I heard Louis-Cesar shout for Pritkin to stand down. I think he was afraid that the maniac, who had circled around to come at the fight from a new angle, was going to hit me instead of Jimmy. Since I shared that opinion, I didn't interfere. I was about to go wading into the blue, trying to find me before I ended up dead, when my body came crawling out of the noxious cloud, crying and gasping for breath. I didn't understand what was wrong with it—I wasn't having any trouble breathing—until I remembered that Tomas didn't have to breathe and that I hadn't been doing so the whole time I'd been inside him. That made me start gasping like a fish, while my body crawled up and grabbed me around the ankles. «Help!»
«Am I okay?» I dropped to my knees, almost bowling us both over in the process, and began scrambling around in my clothes. «Tell me you didn't let me get cut up!» I could barely speak past the pulse in my throat, but other than for the thin-edged wound on my abused neck and the dazed, watering eyes, I seemed intact. «Stay here,» I told a very confused Billy Joe. «I'm going after Jimmy.» My head nodded and a hand flapped at me. I paused to hike up Billy's blouse before anything tumbled out, then crawled into the fray.
Pritkin was yelling something, but although I could hear him, I could also hear everything else, and I do mean everything. Conversations in the locker room were as clear as if they weren't happening half a parking lot away. Music, the ring of slot machines and an argument between a waiter and one of the chefs in the kitchen were all clear as a bell. The heartbeats of the few surviving weres, some of which I could hear trying to crawl away underneath the cars, the breathing of everyone around me and the sound of a small piece of paper being blown across the lot turned the quiet night into rush hour at Grand Central Station. Maybe vamps learned how to be selective and to differentiate between trivial stuff and more important things. I guess they have to or go insane. But I didn't know how, and although I could see Pritkin's grim face, I couldn't make out what he was angry about.