Flesh Circus jk-4

by Lilith Saintcrow

  The fume was acrid, tasting of rotten pumpkins and stale cigar smoke. Down the short hall, bursting into the living room—couch overturned, floors awash with greasy knee-deep smoke—I flashed through, boots pounding, into the long, wood-floored sparring room.

  The mirrors along one wall were all cracked, the ballet barre splintered, the weapons hanging on the walls scattered except for one long quivering shape under a fall of amber silk. Gilberto Rosario Gonzalez-Ayala was in a crouch, a Bowie knife flat against one forearm, feinting at a shape made of smoke and nightmare. He was bleeding—a scalp wound, I thought, since his face was covered with blood. His left arm hung, flopping queerly, at his side, but his face was alive.

  His eyes damn near shone.

  I’d never seen Gilberto light up before, and now wasn’t the time to pay attention. Still, the computer in my head took note. I hurled myself forward, heard Saul’s coughing roar right behind me as he changed, and hit the shape of green smoke with both physical and etheric force. The scar blazed under my skin, vibrating wetly, and my right fist pistoned forward, smashing into the lattice of evil intent.

  A ringing sound hit the pitch just under “puncture-an-eardrum,” then broke in a cascade of splinters. Just like the smoke, which solidified into breaking crystal shards, raining for the floor. I hit the ground and whirled, boots grinding in the wreckage, and saw Saul, dodging the shambling fingers of a zombie. Four more crowded behind it, all with their jaws working, and just as his claws sheared the face off the one he was dancing with I lurched forward again, fingers unlimbering the whip.

  “Six!” Gilberto yelled. “Seis! Six!”

  What the hell? But then I realized he was telling me how many enemies we had loose inside the warehouse, or at least how many he’d seen.

  Well, at least he’s got his wits about him. How long has he been in here with them? The whip cracked, silver flechettes thudding home in rotting flesh, and the smell exploded. Goddammit, and I was looking forward to getting clean, too.

  It was short work putting the zombies down. These ones were old and fragile, porous bones and worm-eaten flesh. Five of them, and I was looking for the sixth when it blundered around the corner, arms outstretched like a bad B-movie villain, and snarled.

  The whip hit, my fist arrived a few moments later, and I was struck by just how satisfying making a zombie’s head explode can be. If only all problems are as simple as setting your feet, uncoiling from your hip, and smashing a hellbreed-strong fist right through something’s head, then shaking the gobbets of flesh from your fingers.

  But, of course, I have to spoil all that enjoyment by thinking about who the hell would send zombies into my fucking house. Just when I was looking forward to a shower and a little bit of rest.

  I stood still for a moment, panting, head down. Saul’s growl petered out. He cocked his head, still in cougarform, tail lashing. Then the blurring enveloped him, his form running like clay under water, and when it receded he was there again. It’s an amazing thing to see, and the fact that I can see the strings under the surface of the real world responding with my smart eye, see the quivers of energy as thermodynamic laws are violated, doesn’t make it any less amazing.

  The human mind can compass an awful lot, but it isn’t comfortable even when you’re used to it.

  “Dios mio.” Gilberto coughed behind me. It was the first time I heard him sound anything other than bored. “Madre de Dios.”

  Yeah, kid, calling on God is a good thing to do in a situation like this. I let out a long slow breath. “Jesus Christ. What the hell?”

  Saul glanced at me, then turned on his heel and strode back to Gilberto. “What happened?”

  “Doorbell rang.” The kid winced as Saul touched his left arm, but he didn’t let go of the knife. I recognized it—an antique Bowie, with a plain hilt and a blessing running under the metal’s surface.

  It had belonged to the first Jack Karma, one of the hunters in my lineage. Why am I even surprised?

  “His arm’s broken,” Saul said over his shoulder. “Jill?”

  “Get it set and find out what happened. I’m going to sweep the house.”

  “I don’t hear any more.” But he nodded, and crouched easily next to the kid. “This is going to hurt a bit.”

  “Chingada, man, just get it over with.” Gilberto sounded very young. “There was a blond bitch at the door, but I think she left.”

  Wait a second. “Blond?”

  “Dreadlocks, bruja.” He was sweating as Saul probed his arm more. “Right down to her ass. Tall, too. Dressed like mi abuela, for fucksake. Flower muumuu and everything.”

  “Greenstick. Humerus.” Saul looked up at him. “Brace yourself.”

  “Ay de mi, just fucking—”

  Saul made a swift motion, Gilberto spluttered and sucked in a breath. He turned the color of cottage cheese under his brown skin. It was amazing—he actually looked yellow. The acne scars stood out, like the cratered surface of the moon.

  Tall. Blond dreadlocks. And I wonder if he’s talking about a blue caftan embroidered with orchids. “Hold that thought,” I said, and swept the rest of the warehouse.

  Someone definitely had an agenda. They went straight to my bedroom, where the bed stood away from all four walls and three filing cabinets against one wall were busted open and ransacked. Paper fluttered, and I stood for a few moments staring.

  What the hell?

  There was nothing in those cabinets except bills and invoices for things like custom leather work, ammunition, artifacts bought—necessary for tax purposes.

  Hey, even a hunter has to file. Death and taxes are immutable laws for us, too. I generally end up getting a refund, though. It’s the least Uncle Sam can do for me.

  All the really revealing personal papers, like Mikhail’s birth certificate and mine, files on cases closed or unclosed, immunization records, school records, anything that might give an enemy a foothold or a piece of insight, were locked up in a concrete vault under Hutch’s bookstore. After Mikhail’s death and Melisande Belisa’s rifling of his personal papers, it seemed like a good idea, and I was never so glad as right now.

  Sloane’s papers are there too—whatever survived the fire in ’38, that is. Huh.

  I holstered the gun, coiled my whip. The warehouse was fracked-up but clean of zombies, and the shadows were only shadows. Someone had quickly but thoroughly torn through the filing cabinets. I strode out to the kitchen. Someone had opened all the cabinets and torn open the filing cabinet at the end of the breakfast bar. Police and federal contacts, files on protocols for requesting funding from different municipal, county, and state (not to mention federal) contacts—all pulled out and scattered. This was potentially more damaging, so I crouched and searched quickly through the papers, checked the drawers. Each file was labeled in either my spidery handwriting or Saul’s firmer copperplate script.

  Nothing immediately appeared to be missing. A few files had been yanked out and scattered. That was it.

  What the hell?

  “Jill?” Saul appeared in the doorway to the living room.

  “Someone went through my papers.” I rose, surveyed the kitchen. They hadn’t pulled the dishes out, but the fridge door was ajar. Jesus. Wonder what she was looking for? “How’s his arm?”

  “I’m going to cast it. Need anything?”

  I spread my hands. Silver shifted in my hair. “Just one thing, and it’s nothing anyone here can help me with.”

  “Huh.” His shoulder slumped as if he thought I was talking about him personally. “Really?”

  Shit, Jill. Sarcasm is a deadly weapon. “Not really. You’re going to help me find something out.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what Mama Zamba was looking for in my fucking filing cabinets. And why she’s alive if most of her inner circle is dead.” Frustration threatened to knot my hands into fists. “And what the fuck is really going on here.”

  “Oh.” He didn’t look happy, but who would, faced with
that news? “Sure it was Zamba?”

  “Tall? Long blond dreadlocks? A bunch of zombies and green smoke? Sounds like Zamba to me. The only things missing are the cockroaches.”

  “You know, that doesn’t comfort me as much as it should. You okay?”

  I nodded. Silver shifted and tinkled. “Frustrated as all hell. But okay.”

  He opened his mouth, shut it, then plowed on. “All right. I’m going to get the kid put back together. Is anything missing?”

  “Not that I can figure out.” I looked down at the papers, and this time my hands curled into fists despite my deep breathing. I’m just like anyone else—I hate having my house broken into. “Get the kid something to eat, too. He’s thin as a rail.”

  “He fought off six zombies.” Was that actually grudging admiration in Saul’s tone?

  Wonders never cease.

  “Or he was smart enough to stay away from them. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. Get him fixed up.”

  He shifted his weight back, paused. “And then?”

  I struggled with my frustration, kept the words even and calm. “Then we’re going to get cleaned up, board up the front door, and get going. We’re dropping the kid off at Galina’s, where I know he’ll be safe. After that we’re paying a visit to Hutch’s.”

  “I thought Hutch was out of town.”

  He’s vacationing in the Galapagos. Just when I need him too. “He is. But Zamba was after something. It’s a safe bet that whatever-it-is is in the vault. Go on, Saul. Time’s a-wasting.”

  He vanished down the hall, and I heard Gilberto swearing in a high unsteady voice. The kid had some potential. He was also goddamn lucky Zamba hadn’t unseamed him from guts to garters. She must have been in an awful hurry.

  My pager went off as I stood there, thinking. Zombie-stink rose from my clothes, and we were going to have a hell of a time getting the house back together. I dug in my pocket and brought the thing out, still staring at the scattered papers.

  The number was unfamiliar. I snagged the phone, dialed, and was rewarded with a click and two rings.

  The connection went through, and my breath froze in my throat. I could tell who it was just by the slight static behind his breathing and the rumble under the words.

  Perry’s voice crawled into my ear. “My dearest Kiss. I presume you’re well?”

  Don’t FUCKING CALL ME THAT, you goddamn hellspawn. I swallowed, reached all the way down to my toes for patience.

  It was a long reach. I settled for my best fuck-you tone. “Why is the Cirque sending its dogs after me, Pericles?”

  “That isn’t the Cirque, my dearest. It was me, and they are to watch over you.” He paused for maximum effect. “Another performer is dead. Your presence is requested.”

  Oh, for Chrissake…. I took a deep breath, forced myself once again to prioritize. My weary brain rebelled. “Who’s dead? Trader or hellbreed? And when?”

  “Before dawn. One of my kind. A fortune-teller, I believe you would call it. Moragh.”

  Moragh. The name meant nothing to me, especially with all my other irons in the fire. Before dawn meant that Zamba’d had a busy night. “And the hostage?”

  “Safe and snug, and under my especial protection and supervision.” A low, silky laugh. “Fear not for him, my dear. Come see the latest death and destruction. It has a certain symmetry.”

  “I’ll be there when I get there. And Perry?”

  “Yes?”

  What was I going to tell him? Fuck off was what I wanted to say, but it would just give him an opening. He also hadn’t done anything to deserve it—at least not lately. “Take care of that hostage.” If he bites it, this entire city’s going to have a very bad night. You don’t want that either; it’ll interfere with your own games. Don’t think I don’t know it—and don’t think I’m not betting on it.

  “I told you he’s safe.” Now he sounded irritated. Score one for me. “Why do you make me repeat myself?”

  “I just like to make sure you understand,” I informed him sweetly, and slammed the phone down.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hutchinson’s Books, Used and Rare, was painted on the window in fading gold—but Saul and I parked four blocks away and slid up to the back door under a punishing wave of sun and heat. Midmorning, and it was already a scorcher. The shadows teemed with shapes, far darker than morning shadows had a right to be. I kept seeing the little glimmers of colorless crystal eyes and twitched for a weapon.

  Saul didn’t mention it. Whether he was magnanimously refusing to comment or he didn’t sense them was an open question. I was willing to bet on the former.

  I blinked the exhaustion out of my eyes and touched the doorknob. A thin thread of sorcerous energy slid off my fingertips, stroked the locks I’d built. They eased open, tumblers clicking with thin little sounds.

  Saul crowded behind me. Gilberto was dropped off at Galina’s, wide-eyed and with a fresh cast on his arm. Galina, bless her, didn’t ask a goddamn question, just took one look at my face and clucked and cooed over the gangbanger, promising to get him into fresh clothes and get some healing sorcery on that arm. Technically I suppose I should have charmed the bone before we left the warehouse, but I had other things on my mind.

  The whole time, Gilberto clutched Jack Karma’s knife. I didn’t ask him to let go of it. I guess that answered that question. I had a new apprentice. To add to all my other problems.

  The door ghosted open. Paper, dust, and air-conditioning closed around us as I swept it to and relocked it. “Zombies,” I said for the third time. “In our living room. What next?”

  “Well, at least we didn’t have to kill them in the kitchen.” Saul sighed heavily. “That kid…”

  “He’s got the look.”

  “Great.” Saul didn’t sound in the least excited. “Another person to get a slice of your time.”

  “Is that what this is about?” I checked the shop. Books sat quietly on their shelves, leather-bound tomes stacked on chairs and on Hutch’s massive mahogany desk, shipwrecked in a sea of papers. A PC that hadn’t been there last time crouched on one corner of the desk, a shipshape new Mac on the other corner. The two laptops were in their traveling cases, tucked out of sight under the desk.

  Pity he hadn’t taken his phone. The whole point of his vacation was to get him out and away from temptation, the little monster. The deal was, he hacked only when the local hunter needed him to, and the local hunter kept his ass out of jail.

  Unfortunately, sometimes Hutch just couldn’t help himself. He’s small and beaky and a Cowardly Lion, but a challenge in cyberspace? Suddenly he’s Superman, six feet tall and bulletproof. And completely without any goddamn self-control at all. I had to wait until things calmed down and the local FBI liaison, Juan Rujillo, finished smoothing the ruffled feathers before Hutch could come back.

  Saul sounded angelically innocent. “What what is about?”

  “You.” I turned past the small kitchen where Hutch heated his lunches, opened an EMPLOYEES ONLY door. “And whatever it is you’re sitting on.”

  “I’m not sitting on anything.”

  Yeah, that’s why you can’t touch me anymore. That’s why you flinch whenever I get a little frisky. “Okay. When you want to talk about it, fine.” The small room was lined with bookshelves, and even the dust in here vibrated with secrecy. Ordinary people wouldn’t even see the door we’d just ducked through. Though precious few people came in here; this place was kept afloat because of the hunter’s library. Hutch got a stipend and dispensation for when he occasionally went breaking a few electronic-surveillance laws in service to whatever case I was working at the time; I got a research library and an extra pair of eyes to go digging through dusty tomes whenever the end of the world drew too nigh.

  “We never have time.” Did he actually sound sulky?

  Jesus. “You’re kidding, right?”

  “Do I sound like I’m kidding?” He let out a sharp sigh. “Work comes first. I know. I just have to
talk to you sometime.”

  “So talk to me.” I pushed aside the conference table, a big wooden thing suspiciously clean and neat now that Hutch was out of town and I hadn’t been bothering him to look things up for me. Saul bent down and lent his strength, even though I was already handling it. The legs scraped across cheap industrial carpet, and it fetched up against one of the overloaded bookcases. A copy of Luvrienne’s Les Chateaux de Chagrin teetered on a shelf; I prayed it wouldn’t fall. There’s only six of the copies he produced in existence, and it’s one of the best all-around books about the Sorrows to have been written in the last four hundred years.

  Nobody knows you like your own. Luvrienne had barely escaped the fate that stalks every male in a Sorrows house, lived to write about it—and they track down and destroy every copy of the book they can find. Just like they tracked him down and took him back.

  Fortunately, Hutch scanned it into a digital archive and emailed it to every hunter’s library we had addresses for. He gets orders from other libraries for printed copies. The digital age is a wondrous thing.

  However, I don’t want to touch the damn book if I don’t have to. I know too fucking much about the Sorrows to want that.

  I snagged the loop of denim sewn into the carpet and yanked up the cutout square. The concrete underneath was smooth and featureless, its expanse broken only by a recessed iron ring. I grabbed the ring, set my legs, and let out a breath while heaving up.

  A hellbreed-strong right fist helps when you have to lift a concrete slab. But you still have to lift with your legs, not your back. Ergonomics for hunters—a bad back is a liability. Saul kept out of the way—there wasn’t enough room for him to help.

  I keyed the code into the climate-control pad and slid the glass panel aside. A few items Galina keeps for me; I learned my lesson when that Sorrows bitch stole Mikhail’s talisman and rifled all his personal stuff. But the papers are here. All the salvageable vitals on the hunters of my lineage, down from the first and second Jack Karmas. Before the first Jack, we don’t know anything.

  This isn’t the kind of career that lends itself to leaving evidence in the historical record. The day world, the real world, doesn’t want to know. Hunters sometimes rely on sheer outrageousness to slide by unnoticed. A regular civilian’s reaction to a genuine paranormal event is usually screaming and running in the other direction.