On other continents Weres had—and have—different problems.
"Leather. A strip this long—" His hands shaped the air. "And these." He laid a handful of stuff on the counter.
Probably meant for amulets, and Galina nodded, patting my shoulder.
"I'll ring you up in a moment. Are you sure you're okay, Jill?"
Don't sound so worried, kiddo. I do this for a living, remember? I've been trained. "Peachy keen." I tried not to sound sarcastic, turned away. When she got this soft and worried I felt an acutely uncomfortable need to reassure her, and always ended up sounding like an idiot. Safer just to change the subject. "I'll wait out in the car."
"Be safe," Galina called after me. I made a noise of assent—what can you say, to something like that? I couldn't be safe if I tried.
I didn't even know if I wanted to. I was, in my own special way, as much an adrenaline junkie as Avery. Or even more. Hard not to crave the jolt of staring down death or the feeling of skating the edge of terror and coming out on top, once you've tasted it.
The bell on the door's crossbar tinkled as I stepped outside the safety of her shop, taking in the street with a quick glance. My Impala sat at the curb obediently, her orange paint gleaming. My baby.
Dustcircle came out a few minutes later, carrying a small bag. He settled into the passenger's seat as I roused the engine. "Nice lady."
"Just don't start any trouble around her, and she stays that way." I shifted into first and pulled away from the curb.
"Find everything you needed?"
"Yup." He paused as I accelerated, heading up Fairville. I'd catch Fifteenth and drop down toward Plaskény Square.
My first stop of the night. My heart thudded once under my ribs, settled back into its regular rhythm.
"Mind if I smoke?" He dug in his pocket and came up with a pack of Charvils. The smell of cherry tobacco reached my nose. It was oddly pleasant, especially since he'd stopped looming over me.
"Knock yourself out. Just roll down the window." I redid the upholstery in here, I don't want it reeking.
"Can I ask you something?"
Depends on what you ask, furboy. "Ask." I hit my turn signal, eased us around a corner.
"What happened to your teacher—Tolstoi, right? He was famous."
"Harp didn't tell you?" My heart leapt up into my throat, my palms suddenly slick. "He fell in love and she killed him." He fell in love with a Sorrow, she stole his amulet and tore his throat open. If I ever get the chance, I'm going to kill her. "The Weres gave him a pyre. He deserved it."
The pause was uncomfortable. I shifted, ramming the clutch, and opened my mouth again. "He was the only man who ever thought I was worth a damn."
Shut up, Jill. He doesn't need to hear that. He's just a visiting Were. Stop it. I reached forward, twisted the radio knob angrily, and got lucky. They were playing Jimi Hendrix, and I turned it up, accelerating, the sound of music and wind through the windows sweet enough to drown the lump in my throat.
Mostly.
The Diablo was a hellbreed hole on Plaskény, a long, low vaulted basement at the bottom of a flight of dusty, narrow, filth-drifted stairs. I poured a thin tidal wave of vodka on the bar before smashing the bottle, a nice theatrical touch. The screaming had stopped, but there were still moans and little clicking sounds from the arkeus I'd
just finished mostly dismembering. The clicks dissolved into a gurgle, and a titanic stink rose.
One more hell-thing dead, more or less.
Most of them were dead, draped over chairs, dissolving on top of tables. The dance floor was chaos, and my shoulders hurt. So did my face, I'd taken a shot right on the cheek that could have broken a human hunter's neck.
My shirt was torn, and my long leather trench had ragged claw marks in it. It was just one rip short of the dustheap.
Burning a hellbreed hole is never easy, especially for just one hunter. The only good thing about it was I didn't have to watch where my shots went, eventually they'd hit someone who deserved it. When I used to do backup with Mikhail we'd have to be careful not to clip each other—but working with your teacher is like working with a telepath who anticipates, and if you're a good student you get to the point where you can anticipate too.
Or at least stay the hell out of the way.
I held the gun steady on the bartender, a thin ragged hellbreed with a shock of piebald hair and a twisted upper lip.
Despite that, he was attractive, in a worn sneering way, with that aura of the exotic 'breed carry. He eyed the gun and opened his mouth to say something—
—and I half-turned, lashing out behind me, the whip flicking, striking with a crackle across the face of a slick little female 'breed sneaking up on me through the wreckage. She collapsed, screaming, holding her face. If she lived she'd be scarred by the silver.
Hot nasty satisfaction spilled through my veins like wine-fumes. I was grinning madly, blue sparks crackling over the blessed silver tied in my hair, charms chiming a sweet counterpoint to the violence.
"Spread the word." I turned back to the bartender. The gun didn't waver. I used to use baby Glocks, being cursed with smaller wrists than a man. No more. I like the big ones, my bones can handle recoil a lot better now.
"Whoever's hiding this New York chippie 'breed is on a one-way track back to Hell. I want her, and I want her yesterday. Got it?"
He made a thin whining sound as the whip returned, wrapping itself neatly in my fist. My fingertips tingled. I ached to pull the trigger—someone had hit me with a chair, crunching my leg and almost cutting my throat with a broken bottle. Most of the hellbreed in here I'd just wounded and put down to bleed out, but that one I'd killed.
The hammer rose back as I squeezed the trigger, delicately, gently. It clicked into the up position. "I am not going to tell you again." My voice was deadly soft. My ribs ached—having a couple 'breed pummel you will do that. It had taken a ridiculous amount of ammo, but I'd wanted the first one messy enough to make a statement. Enough of them had escaped to spread the word that I was on the warpath.
It had certainly been messy enough to satisfy. A chaos of blood and screaming, the music pounding through it all until a stray shot had thankfully knocked out a vital connection in the DJ's booth. Then just screams and shouting, and hellbreed cries.
And death.
The bartender scrambled away and fled toward the shattered front door. I hadn't been particularly subtle.
Red and purple light flickered, random reflections cast by the blastball hovering over the dance floor. The rest of the place was wreckage.
It had taken me only fourteen and a half minutes. Give or take. There's something about working overtime and double semiautomatics that makes a girl capable of kicking serious ass.
I filled my lungs. My fingers prickled, the heat becoming uncomfortable. The scar pulsed wetly, thrumming with the force I'd pulled through it. Hey, I could afford it; I was paid up through the month.
Don't think about that, Jill. I flicked my fingers.
Vodka on the bar ignited with a wump!
A thin pale-blue flame smeared like oil. Banefire. It would spread to brackish flammable hellbreed blood and more spilled liquor, and this place was a firetrap anyway. I spent a few moments examining the shell of etheric energy on the concrete walls—the concrete would keep the fire from spreading, but this flame would consume every trace of hellbreed, cleansing the entire interior and leaving a thin coating of inimical-to-hellspawn blessing behind.
Thank you, God. I did not want to burn down more than I needed to.
I turned on my heel, the ragged strips of my coat fluttering. Under its protection, I was mostly whole. I hadn't lost much blood tonight.
Yet. This is only your first stop. Don't get cocky.
The place began to smoke and flame in earnest. I strode up out of the fire, up the steps past the subterranean iron door hanging by one hinge, stepping over the pool of ick that used to be a burly hellbreed grunt bouncer, finally out into th
e night's cool sweetness. The bartender had fled, and I faintly caught the echo of his running feet, heading north and veering to the west.
Probably heading for the Monde. Happy birthday, Perry. I sighed, rolling my shoulders in their sockets, as something detonated behind me and the flames started to lick and sizzle in earnest. Banefire doesn't sound like real flame. It sounds like whispery, papery voices screaming behind you, like a cold sweat in the middle of the night. It is a flame of cleansing, not like the black twisting fire a hunter can call upon to fashion levinbolts.
The scar throbbed aching tension against my wrist. Mikhail's ruby warmed the hollow of my throat. I crossed the street, heels clicking since I didn't have to be quiet at all tonight.
Dustcircle leaned against the hood, smoking one of his cherry cigarettes. He smelled of tension, musk, and sleek electric fur on end. Seeing the bartender blunder up out of the hole and into the night must have been worrisome.
His eyes flicked past me to the doorway. My back prickled. If any 'breed came out now they'd be angry but wounded, and not much of a threat.
That's pride talking, Jill. Even a half-dead 'breed is dangerous. Do not get cocky.
"How many were down there?" He asked it so calmly I almost didn't believe the tense thrumming coming out of him, the Were version of a fidget. Not quite a growl, but certainly more than a purr.
"I stopped counting at twenty." I fished my pager out and checked it. No calls, and it was early still. "I've got lots to do tonight, Dustcircle. You want to get in the car?"
He remained where he was, staring across the street. I restrained the urge to look back over my shoulder.
He took his sweet time examining the twisting blue shadows of banefire. Finally, he spoke. "Were you kind to them?"
I almost went slackjawed in amazement. Kind to them? They were hellbreed. Spoilers and corruptors, sorcerous maggots, predators.
After a moment, I understood. When Weres kill, they do it swiftly. They don't play with their prey.
Unless they're rogue, gone berserk and violating the oldest of Were taboos.
Thou shalt not eat people.
It irked me that he'd even asked. What did he think I was? "I've killed more 'breed than you can possibly imagine,"
I told him, flatly. "Not a single one of them was ever what I'd call happy, and I put them down as quick and clean as I can. You can call that kindness if you want. I like to think I'm being kind to the innocents they prey on. Get in the car."
He did.
Chapter Sixteen
Two holes and a short streetside gunfight to mop up later, I was tired more than physically. I pulled to a stop down the street from the Random, a step above the norm.
Most 'breed like their holes underground, with one entrance. It just shows the burrowing instinct in them. The holes are womblike and thump with music during the night, and any human dumb enough to wander or be lured inside is lucky to escape with only psychic damage.
The Random, however, was a Trader club. If hellbreed came here, they were actively looking to make a deal. Any humans that showed up were the same.
It was a ramshackle building, its windows painted black and its door guarded by two beefy Traders with glittering dusted eyes. I watched through the windshield and let out a soft breath, the scar throbbing. It was time to open up the trunk.
Unfortunately, Dustcircle picked that moment to open his mouth.
"What exactly is this supposed to accomplish?" He sounded uneasy.
You idiot. What do you think I'm doing, having Captain Kangaroo sing-alongs and eating caramel corn? I had to work for an even, nonsarcastic tone, and suspected I failed. "The 'breed community functions on profit and loss. If it becomes too expensive for them to hide this Cenci, they'll police themselves and turn in any information they have. Besides, I'm a new hunter, kind of, I've only been knocking around on my own for half a year. If Mikhail was alive we wouldn't have to do this; he'd visit a few of his sources and we'd track her down that way. They'd know not to mess with him. Me, I'm still teaching the bitches who's boss."
"Proving you're alpha?" He sounded dubious. "Do we have time for this?"
"It's the quickest way to get what I want, which is no more bodies in the street." I felt the shiver even as I said it. It wasn't the whole reason I was clearing out these places. Every 'breed I killed tonight was a slap directly to Perry's bland blond face.
Fuck around with my head, will you? Just see how easy it would be for me to fuck right back. I pushed the flare of murderous rage down. Save it for the Random, Jill. Do it just like you were trained to.
Make Mikhail proud.
"All right." He sniffed, inhaling deeply and tasting the air. "This smells different."
Sure it does. "It's a Trader club. General rule, above ground it's Traders, below it's pure 'breed." Though there are exceptions. Like Perry's place, which switches back and forth according to some weird rule I haven't figured out yet I eased my hands off the wheel. "This one might take me a while."
"I can come with you." He didn't ask, he just said it, and tossed the remains of his most recent cigarette out the half-open window. "I'll leave the 'breed to you and stay out of your way. Watch your back."
It wasn't a half-bad idea, except I'd never worked with him before. This wasn't a place for amateurs. "Probably not a good idea," I said, diplomatically enough. "Harp wants—" Harp wants her deposit back on you, was what I intended to say.
"Harp wants me to keep your skin whole, hunter. I can handle Traders." He rolled up the window, his profile austere in the wash of orange lights from streetlamps. The twin braids on either side of his face moved with him; he opened the car door and stepped out.
I weighed the situation for a few moments, opened my own door. Cool air touched my skin, and dried sweat crackled as I moved. I'd had to scrub the blood off my face more than once tonight.
He stopped at the rear of the car, much bigger than me and wider in the shoulders. He loomed over me with very little trouble, but I had the scar and enough experience to give him a serious run for it. The thought passed through my head, circled, came back, and was gone again.
You can't shut off that part of your brain when you're a hunter—the part that jots everyone down in columns according to how easy or difficult they'd be to kill. The part that doesn't really care why, the part that just wants to survive, by hook or by crook. That cold, calculating, utterly amoral part you have to harness, use—but never let completely free.
I was suddenly very aware that I smelled like death and hellbreed blood, as well as sweat and effort. Dustcircle, of course, looked immaculate and smelled of clean male Were.
He won't be pretty for long if he goes in there. Apparently it was my night for not-very-nice satisfaction. I felt a quick burst of shame, discarded it as useless.
"All right." I popped the trunk and started exchanging spent ammo clips for fresh ones, tucking them into my belt and bandolier. "Pop quiz. A Trader comes at you with his eyes glowing red. What do you do?"
"Get out of the fucking way and let you handle it. Trader eyes don't glow." He folded his arms, his leather jacket creaking a little. One eyebrow raised briefly, and his lip almost curled.
So he's not a complete novice. "What do you do if a hellbreed has me down on the floor with her hands around my windpipe?"
"Stay out of the way and let you handle it. If a 'breed's that close to you it's stupid, doesn't deserve to live." His eyes glowed, a flat green-blue sheen covering them for a moment as the streetlamp overhead reflected against a nonhuman pupil. Just like a cat's eyes, when the light hits them right. "I'm not a complete idiot, Kismet."
So I'm Kismet now, not "hunter" or "hellbreed-smelling bitch." I've been upgraded. "Good to know. Last question." I reached down, picked up the slim length of Mikhail's sword, its clawed finials capped with leather and its blade wrapped in a soft sheath. "We walk in the door and immediately a Trader jumps you. What do you do?"
"Rip its heart out, break its neck." H
e didn't even blink as I ducked through the strap, settling it diagonally across my body so the sword rode my back. The snaps on the soft sheath clinked a little; if I reached up for the sword a quick sideways jerk would free it, since it was too long to really draw or hang at my side like a rapier. "That's a big chunk of metal, kitten. You know how to use it?"
Kitten? If I didn't know better I'd think you just called me a little kid. The smile that rose to my face wasn't pleasant at all. I made sure all my guns had a full clip and one in the chamber. "That's the advantage of having a hellbreed scar on my wrist, furboy. I get to play with all sorts of toys that are too big for me." I slammed the trunk and turned. "You can come and play. Stay low, stay away from the 'breed, and try not to get clipped. Harp would kill me if I let something happen to you."
"I'll do my best." He sounded sardonic. When I glanced at him, he wore a slight smile, a feral light shining through his dark eyes. He looked ready to cause trouble, with the edgy good humor of a Were about to explode with frustration. "If I'm a very good little boy will you stop fussing at me?"
Fussing at him? I was so irritated I almost forgot how tired I was, and how I did not want to be doing this. "I don't fuss. Now shut up—I've got work to do."
"Sure."
I darted another quick glance at him as we stepped out into the street. He stared straight ahead, toward the Random's neon signs and the huddled mass of people lining up at the front door, threads of brackish contamination swirling through the ether around them.
Nobody paid us any mind. We hopped on the sidewalk, and I plunged into an alley slicing off to the side.
"Back door?" Was that grudging admiration in his tone? That rubbed me raw too. What did he think I was, a dolt or a novice? Both? Plus a hellbreed-smelling almost-traitor to the good guys?
Night Shift Page 12
