A Perfect Blood
(The tenth book in the Rachel Morgan series)
A novel by Kim Harrison
Dedication
To the guy who likes remodeling even more than I do
Chapter One
The woman across from me barely sniffed when I slammed the pen down on the counter. She didnt care that I was furious, that Id been standing in this stupid line for over an hour, that I couldnt get my license renewed or my car registered in my name. I was tired of doing everything through Jenks or Ivy, but DEMON wasnt a species option on the form. Friday morning at the DMV office. God! What had I been thinking?
Look, I said, waving a faded photocopied piece of paper. I have my birth certificate, my high school diploma, my old license, and a library card. Im standing right in front of you. I am a person, and I need a new drivers license and my car registered!
The woman gestured for the next guy in line, her bedraggled graying hair and lack of makeup only adding to her bored disinterest. I glared at the tidy Were in a business suit who had moved to stand too close behind me, and nervous, he dropped back.
The clerk looked at me over her glasses and sucked at her teeth. Im sorry, she finally said, tapping at her keyboard and bringing up a new screen. Youre not in the system under witch or even other. She squinted at me. Youre listed as dead. Youre not dead, are you?
Crap on toast, can this get any worse? Frustrated, I tugged my shoulder bag up higher. No, but can I get a dead-vamp sticker and get on with my life? I asked, and the Were behind me cleared his throat impatiently.
She pushed her thick glasses back where they belonged. Are you a vampire? she asked dryly, and I slumped.
No, I was obviously not a vampire. From all accounts, I looked like a witch. Long, frizzy red hair; average build; average height; with a propensity for wearing leather when the situation demanded it and sometimes when it didnt. Until a few months ago Id called myself a witch, too, but when the choice was between becoming a lobotomized witch or a free demon . . . I took the demon status. I didnt know they were going to take everything else, too. Demons were legal nonentities on this side of the ley lines. God help me if I should land in jail for jaywalkingI apparently had fewer rights than a pixy, and I was tired of it.
I cant help you, Ms. Morgan, the woman said, beckoning the man behind me forward, and he shoved me aside as he handed her his form and old drivers license.
Please! I said as she ignored me, leaning toward her screen. Beside me, the man grew nervous, the spicy scent of agitated Were rising up.
I just bought the car, I said, but it was obvious this date was over. I need to get it registered. And my license renewed. I gotta drive home!
I didntI had Wayde for thatbut the lie wouldnt hurt anyone.
The woman eyed me with a bored expression as the man took a moment to write his check. You are listed as dead, Ms. Morgan. You need to go down to the social security office and straighten it out there. I cant help you here.
I tried that. My teeth clenched, and the man in front of the counter fidgeted as we both vied for the scrap of worn carpet. They told me I needed a valid drivers license from you, a certified copy of life from my insurance company, and a court-documented form of species status before theyd even talk to me, and the courts wont let me make an appointment because Im listed as dead! I was shouting, and I lowered my voice.
I cant help you, she said as the man pushed me out of his space. Come back when you have the right forms.
Shoved to the side, I closed my eyes and counted to ten, very conscious of Wayde sitting in one of the faded orange plastic chairs under the windows as he waited for me to realize the inevitable. The twentysomething Were was one of Takatas security people, having more muscles than tattoos showing from around his casual jeans and black T-shirt, and the small, stocky man had a lot of tattoos. Hed shown up on my doorstep the last week of July, moving into the belfry despite my protests, a birthday gift from my mom and birth father/pop-star dad. Apparently they didnt think I could keep myself safe anymorewhich bothered me a lot. Sort of. Wayde had been on my moms payroll for nearly four months, and the anger had dulled.
My eyes opened, and seeing that I was still in this nightmare, I gave up. Head down, I gripped my birth certificate tighter and stomped to the bank of orange plastic chairs. Sure enough, Wayde was carefully staring at the ceiling, his feet spread wide and his arms over his chest as he snapped his gum and waited. He looked like a biker dude with his short, carefully trimmed orange-red beard and no mustache. Wayde hadnt told me this was a lost cause, but his opinion was obvious. The man got paid whether he was playing chauffeur for me or camped out in the churchs belfry talking to the pixies.
Seeing me approach, Wayde smiled infuriatingly, his biceps bulging as his arms crossed over his wide chest. No good? he asked in his Midwestern accent, as if he hadnt heard the entire painful conversation.