Wicked Soul (Ancient Blood #1)(24)

The same old man who’d served me the previous day was minding the butcher’s counter again. He lit up in a smile of recognition when I stopped in front of him, shopping basket over one arm.

“Ah, how was the sausage-making, dear?”

“Not good, I’m afraid.” I leaned on the counter and gave a dramatic sigh. “It tasted off. I was wondering if there might have been something off with the blood? Grandma always made it with very fresh ingredients, and this was just not up to par.”

“Oh dear, that’s a shame. I can assure you there’s nothing wrong with the blood, but…” He looked thoughtful for a moment. “I suppose it’s possible our new suppliers treat it slightly different before they package it for shipping.”

“Oh, you have a new supplier?” I perked up. “Could I get the name and address for them? To give them customer feedback, I mean.”

The butcher hesitated for a moment, but then nodded. “Yes, I suppose that would be all right. You’re certainly no vampire.”

I snorted. “No, can’t say that I am. What, are the undead trying to infiltrate pig’s blood suppliers?”

“You would be surprised,” he said, face grave. Leaning over the counter, he whispered, “I’ve had five colleagues across the city have their storerooms raided just this past month. The only thing missing was blood. Now, I might not know much about the undead plague, but I do know the city hasn’t been overrun by thieving sausage makers.”

“Oh, goodness me,” I said, not having problems getting my face to display a sufficient amount of shock at this news. Why on Earth were vampires raiding butchers? Chicago’s murder rate certainly hadn’t dropped, and vampires certainly were accountable for a percentage of it. Maybe they were like Warin and didn’t drink directly from humans? If someone had truly contaminated the animal blood supply, they were targeting peaceful vampires, rather than the ones who hunted humans. That seemed… unusually cruel. And counterintuitive.

The butcher nodding knowingly at my shocked expression. “Mmhm. Those filthy monsters are everywhere. The general population likes to try and forget they exist, but they’re out there. Just waiting for a moment’s inattentiveness to pounce.”

Waiting to pounce on a butcher’s supply of pig’s blood so they could eat without hurting humans, it seemed. I nodded empathetically nonetheless.

“Let me get you that address for your letter,” he said, nodding as if he saw in me a Friend of the Cause. “It ain’t right that we can’t make a good blood sausage because of those monsters.”



* * *



I got home in time to call Bolton & Son, the slaughterhouse supplying my local supermarket, before they closed. Much to my surprise, the address was in the southwestern part of the city—I’d definitely thought it would be located somewhere in the countryside, but apparently not.

“Mjello?” I rough voice greeted me, on the second ring.

“Hi, is this Bolton & Son? The slaughterhouse?”

“Affirmative,” the man on the other end said. “What can I do you for, lady?”

“I wanted to talk to someone about the recent changes to the blood you supply. I was making my grandma’s old recipe for blood sausage, and the taste was off. When I talked to my local butcher, he said the change might come from their new supplier—which would be you. To stop vampires, or something like that?” I was pretty impressed with how much I managed to sound like someone who didn’t live off microwave meals and takeout.

There was silence on the other end of the line for a little while. “Well, yes, we have implemented some changes. They were never intended to harm good people like yourself, just looking to make some home-cooked food. Tell you what, why don’t you come by the office? I’d love to have you sit down with some of the people in charge of this change—they might listen to a consumer more than they do us. We have a few of the old school butchers here who ain’t too keen on messing with the food, if you know what I mean. How about noon tomorrow?”

“Er…” I blinked. I hadn’t exactly been planning to make an excursion out of this, but on the other hand… if I did go, I’d get to snoop around more. So long as I could continue faking a keen interest in the proper preparation of blood sausage, it was undoubtedly a one-time chance at getting closer to getting to the core of whatever network had deemed me expendable enough to kidnap this summer.

“How about Friday around noon? I’m off work then,” I suggested cheerfully.

“It’s a date. Just ask for Billy when you arrive,” he said.

“All right, see you then, Billy!” I hung up, feeling mightily proud of my sleuthing skills.



* * *



When Friday rolled around, I drove my beat-up Fiesta to the address given to me by my supermarket butcher. The slaughterhouse was located at the edge of an industrial estate, surrounded by busy roads, and the stench rolling out from its open gates when I pulled up spoke its clear language that I’d gotten to the right place.

I parked up by what looked like the office-part of the building and got out, shielding my nose with one hand. It wasn’t so much the smell of animals—I’d spent some time in the countryside before—but the overwhelming smell of… death. It was the only description I had for the pungent stench that hung over the building.