Cherry Bomb_ A Siobhan Quinn Novel - Caitlin R. Kiernan Page 0,53
her with the voice of a lost and frightened child. It’s a handy trick I’d learned since Providence. And she fell for it. I can’t say that I was merciful. I was too hungry to be merciful. I did manage to be quiet. I held her down on the grass, one hand clamped tightly over her mouth, the other between her legs. She fought, but only until my teeth sank into the flesh just below her left ear and opened up her carotid. She poured into me, a hot red deluge, and if this sounds like porn, well . . . down here in the pit among the nasties, the genteel distinction between fucking and eating can get awfully blurred sometimes.
To my credit, I wasn’t messy. After all, I needed her clothes as much as I needed her blood, and I needed them more or less clean. I was careful, and when all was said and done, there were only a few spatters on the collar of her coat. I quickly undressed the corpse and left the body propped against the roots and trunk of the oak. I went to the granite fountain in the square to wash away the grime from the subway, the dried vomit in my hair, and the Korean girl’s blood that stained my sticky face. There were a couple of kids making out on a park bench, but they ignored me while I bathed. The icy water raining down on me felt like heaven. Afterwards, well . . . let’s dispense with all this tedious blow-by-blow nonsense.
Thanks to the CEO, it had been a while since I’d needed to kill. Okay, discounting the Beast’s recent rampage. What I mean is, it had been a while since I’d done what all honest, hardworking vamps do, finding an unfortunate mark—wrong place, wrong time, as they say—and then drinking until the well goes dry and the heart gives up the ghost. And, sweet Moses on a motorbike, it felt good.
I could have lain there until dawn, drifting in the crimson buzz and the soft orange glow from the gaslights ringing the fountain.
But then the seagull showed up.
It was perched on the edge of the fountain, staring down at me with its beady piss-yellow eyes.
“Hey,” it squawked. “Nice tits.”
I glared up at it. Jesus, I hate seagulls. Not as much as I hate Faeries, but still.
“Who the fuck sent you?” I asked.
“You know, lady,” it said, ignoring my question, “people do sometimes tend to notice shit like vampires bobbing around naked in public fountains.”
“While talking to shit-for-brains talking birds,” I said.
The gull scowled.
“Nice to meet you too, Sunshine.” It sounded genuinely offended.
“Who sent you?” I asked again, sitting up and pushing my dripping bangs out of my eyes.
“I mean,” said the bird in its raspy seagull voice, “I know it’s New York City and all, but . . .”
“Dude, am I gonna have to fucking pluck you to get an answer?” I splashed the bird, and it squawked and flapped its wings like it wasn’t fucking waterproof.
“Just need to be sure you’re really her,” it said, shaking itself indignantly. “‘Be absolutely certain that it’s her.’ That’s what he said.”
“He who?”
“Him,” replied the bird. “My employer. And I have a rep to protect, I’ll have you know. I take pride in my work, and I’m not gonna get all slipshod and careless over the likes of you.”
I splashed him again.
As I’ve said before, lots of the hoodoo and demonic types routinely employ birds as messengers. Spies, too. Owls, crows, sparrows, pigeons, ravens, ducks, and, especially, seagulls. Their profound lack of scruples makes them imminently useful. Dirty deeds done dirt cheap, right? Hell, a herring gull will sell out its whole family for a handful of cold McDonald’s French fries.
“Show me your hand,” it said. “Your left hand.”
Which I did. You see, right after the Bride made me what I am, I lost my left pinkie and the second toe off my left foot. Well, no, I didn’t lose them. I sold them to a bogle grifter named Boston Harry in exchange for—never mind. It’s a long story. I held up my left hand.
The bird nodded its head, making a big show of looking all serious and shit.
“Okay, good,” it said. “Now, show me your left foot.”
“Tell you what, birdie. How about I put my foot up your lice-riddled ass and you fuck off back to whatever landfill or chum bucket you call home?”