Death Blows: The Bloodhound Files-2 Read Online Free PDF Page B

Hell, some pires actually get by with nothing but a coat of paint, like a car.

    I find it, believe it or not, in the closet. Just casually hanging there, between a nice cashmere sweater and a tweed jacket—I probably looked right at it last time and thought it was a bathrobe. I pull it out and yell, “Charlie! C’mere!”

    He’s there in an instant, moving as quickly and quietly as a tiger. He eyes what I’m holding up and shakes his head. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you’re really not much of a summer dress kind of woman.”

    “This isn’t a dress, it’s a robe.” I trace one of the mystic sigils embroidered on it with a finger. “Saladin Aquitaine was more than just a geologist with a talent for finding diamonds—he was one of the Bravo Brigade.”

    “It’s just a treadmill,” Eisfanger says.

    I glare at him from the other side of a worktable littered with parts. “I can see that. What I want to know is, does this particular treadmill have any particular mystic significance?”

    Eisfanger looks trapped halfway between confused and wary. “You think this is a . . . magic treadmill?”

    “Sure,” says Charlie. “And get a move on, will you? We’ve got Satan’s Conveyor Belt waiting to be processed.”

    I give my partner a look that could blister skin. Too bad his is made of plastic. “Don’t use that tone with me,” I say to Eisfanger. “You’ve got all kinds of weird-ass magic thingies here—why not a treadmill?”

    “Well, it’s esoteric enough,” he admits. “I mean, I’ve never even seen one outside of a lab.”

    “Where I come from they’re a substitute for running outdoors.”

    “But—”

    “Don’t make me explain it, all right?”

    He shrugs. “In any case, I’ve gone over every component, and none of them is mystically charged in any way. They were all a little bored, actually; the machine used to belong to an NFL franchise, was used for testing. It’s been dormant for at least six weeks.” He picks up a gear and examines it critically.
    “I’ve already contacted the team. They say they got rid of some old equipment a few months ago—I think our killer got it from the dump.”

    “No prints?”

    “No. And according to the machine itself, the last person to actually use it was Tyrone Bates—starting quarterback for the Memphis Lunar Knights.”

    “I hear he’s got a hell of an arm,” Charlie says. “But I doubt if he’s much on calling up lightning bolts.”

    “How about the skeleton?” I ask.

    “Postmortem just came back.” Eisfanger picks up a beige file folder and hands it to me.

    I open it and scan the first page. “You were right about the calcium being replaced by copper . . . and they found traces of silver just where you thought they might.”

    Eisfanger nods, allowing himself the smallest amount of smugness.

    I read more, and frown. “Lightning strike confirmed, origin pending. No other chemicals found.” The only other thing in the report that seems unusual is Aquitaine’s date of birth: 1152.

    “He was eight and a half centuries old,” I say. “Even among pires, that’s pretty impressive, right?”

    “Sure,” says Charlie. “But these old-timer cases can be a real pain. Pires that ancient have enemies older than the country they’re living in. And the older the pire—”

    “The craftier and meaner, I know. So you think the killer’s another pire?”

    Charlie shrugs. “Maybe yes, maybe no. Packs have been known to keep blood grudges going for generations, and thropes live about three hundred years anyway.”

    “Terrific.” Even if I caught the killer, it would be like a fruit fly trying to convict a redwood. Come dance on my great-great-granddaughter’s grave when you get out.

    “How about the robe?” I say.

    “Ah. Now that’s much more interesting.” Eisfanger beams and leads us over to another table where the robe is spread out. There are no crescent moons or stars among the symbols woven