The scab on the back of my head had come away in two graceless chunks in the shower, blood clots large enough to give even me pause. I still felt them peeling free of my scalp, bits of dead tissue clinging to my fingernails under the hot water.
Focus, Jill. Now’s not the time to go postal. Save it for later. Save it for hellbreed or scurf. Relax. I took in a deep cool breath, aware of the prickle of reaction-sweat along the curve of my lower back, calming my heartbeat with an effort.
Mercifully, Theron let it go. I slid my shades back up my nose. The dimness gave me no trouble, even through dark lenses my vision was acute enough to pick out the clean tiles, the pattern in the plaster on the wall, and the way Theron tilted his head slightly, testing the air.
I smelled Ramon before I saw him. The cologne was musky, mixing with the smell of healthy male and dominance every charismatic man exhales. I also smelled metal and cordite, and my palms itched for a gun.
Settle down, Jill. He’s only human, after all. He couldn’t even break you out in a sweat.
The voice of reason didn’t help. I calmed myself with an effort. The scar prickled, sensitive to the tightening of my aura.
Cholos run to two types: beanpole and brick shithouse. Ramon was the latter, wide and chunky, the 51 colors showing on his do-rag and knotted around his left biceps. He had a broad cheerful face and eyes as cold as leftover coffee. He also had a cannon of a.45 stuck in his waistband and looked about ready to blow his own balls off with pure machismo. “Eh.” He greeted Theron with a lazy salute. His gaze barely flicked over me, lingered on my breasts under my T-shirt, completely dismissed the guns and knives, and returned to the Were. “Paquito’s a fuckin’ idiot. You wanna beer, ese?”
“Love one. This is Kismet. Bruja grande.” Theron was making it, in essence, impossible for Ramon to dismiss me.
The gangbanger eyed me. I eyed him right back through the shades. My heart rate settled down. The body sometimes likes to pitch a fit, thinking it can stave off death or injury by working itself up into the redline after the fact.
Still, you can’t blame the body. It’s wiser than the idiot pushing it through the valley of danger.
Ramon said nothing. He was still deciding. I tilted the shades down a bit and gave him my second-best level glare.
He took it well, only paling and stepping back once. The scar prickled under its cuff, responding to the sudden fog of blood-colored fear tainting the air.
It’s not getting bigger, Jill. Goddamn it.
Theron laid an easy hand on my shoulder. “She’d probably like a beer too.”
Ramon said something under his breath, probably a prayer. When I didn’t disappear or scream in pain, he shrugged. “C’mon back, then. Whatchu here for?”
That was my cue to open my mouth. “Pedro Ayala.” I left it open-ended.
Ramon took another half-step back, his gaze sharpening and his hand making an abortive movement for the.45, stopping in midair and dropping to his side. “What for? He dead.”
I didn’t relax, but I was glad he hadn’t put his hand near the gun. “Whoever killed him is fucking with me and mine.” I didn’t mean it to come out quite so baldly. “You’re not the only people who take care of your own.”
Gangbangers, if they’re smart, understand loyalty. This one didn’t look like an idiot, and he was capable of thinking twice. Both good signs, but you never can tell.
Ramon studied me for another few moments, no sign of warming in his cold-coffee stare. “Pedro was one of yours?”
He was a cop. That makes him one of mine. “He was. I’m after whoever unloaded on him, señor.” I let it hang for five long seconds. “I would also like a beer.”
The gangbanger’s eyes didn’t get any warmer, but his shoulders dropped. He eyed me from top to bottom again, then shifted his inspection to Theron, who spread his hands and shrugged in the particular way Weres have—not volunteering an opinion, but giving polite consent to listen to whatever the questioner wants to say next.
My fingers stopped itching for a gun, and the scar quit prickling as his fear stopped drenching the close air of the foyer.
Ramon visibly decided it might not hurt to be sociable. “C’mon into the kitchen, bruja. I tell you about Ay.”
Chapter Fifteen
It was a productive half-hour.
I ended up with a bandana in the 51 colors, a short lesson in how to wear it and where in the barrio not to go when I had it on, and a full rundown on Pedro Ayala—the scene of his death, and who rumor said saw him gunned down and where to find them. Ramon promised to make a few calls so I was greeted with courtesy and not a hail of bullets if I went from door to door in 51 territory asking about a murdered cop.
It was more than I’d hoped for. The beer didn’t hurt, either.
Even my Impala wasn’t stripped at the curb, which showed someone was watching when we trooped into Ramon’s house. It was a good thing, too.
There were three cholos in flannel despite the heat, watching the car. They looked amused when I went around to the driver’s side instead of Theron. Women’s lib hasn’t penetrated much into the barrio. Still, none of the vatos hanging around would dare dishonor or disregard their abuelita. If they had one.
I almost thought we would get out of there without a fight.
“Eh gato,” one of them called. “Who’s mamacita puta?” A long stream of gutter Spanish followed, asking in effect how much I cost for a few acts that might have been funny if the cholo in question could have gotten it up at all.
Yes, I hate men catcalling at me. It doesn’t precisely bother me—I quit walking the flesh gallery of Lucado Street a long time ago—but I dislike it so intensely my hands itch for a gun each time.
“Does everyone in the barrio know you’re a Were?” I said over the car’s roof, controlling both the urge to drop down into the driver’s seat and the persistent itching for a weapon in my hands. A thin scrim of sweat filmed my forehead, prickled along my lower back.
Control, Jill. It’s just a mouthy little boy. Don’t go off the deep end.
“Not everyone.” Theron showed his teeth again. He was just as on edge as I was. “But they know how to see us down here. Gringos are stupid.”
Gee, thanks. Sour humor took the edge off my temper. “Yeah.” I heard the footsteps behind me and didn’t tense, but my hand did move a bare half-inch, ready to draw and fire if necessary.
They’re civilians, Jill. You can give them a few free shots and you’ll still come out ahead.
But even civilians can get a lucky headshot in. And I had no desire to die again today. I turned on my heel and heard Theron take in a long sharp breath, as if bracing himself.
For a moment I was almost angry. But then, I couldn’t blame him if he was nervous. I was pretty goddamn nervous myself, and hunters are meant to be unpredictable.
The kid standing on the sidewalk couldn’t have been more than fourteen, but his dark eyes were empty as a vacant lot, an emptiness I haven’t seen on many non-nightsiders. Acne pocked his lean face, and I couldn’t tell how long his hair was, since it was slicked down and trapped in a hairnet knotted on his dewy brown forehead. He wore a shining-white wifebeater over a torso all scrawny muscle, and I knew he was carrying just from the way he moved.
He stopped, considering me, and a chill rippled along the edge of my skin. The scar prickled.
Even among normal humans with no scent of the nightside, there are killers.
This one stood easy and hipshot, his dead eyes flicking down my body once, not with a regular man’s ticking-off of breasts, ass, and desirability. No, this young man looked like he was evaluating my ability to interfere with him, and coming to an answer that had nothing to do with my gender.
Score one for a surprise in the barrio, Jill. I eyed him, and my hand eased a little closer to a gun.
He didn’t move. Didn’t even shift his weight, but a line of tension unreeled between us.
His voice had broken, thank God. Because if he�
��d had a reedy little whine with a Spanglish accent, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have smiled from the sheer lunacy of the juxtaposition. And that might have gone badly.
“You lookin’ for Ay, señora?” A light tenor, not piping. He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his well-pressed chinos and his mouth turned into a thin line.
Say what? Word travels fast down here. “Pedro Ayala’s dead, señor.” I kept my tone respectful enough and throttled the uneasy smile once again. It died hard, my lips wanting to twitch. “I’m looking to serve whoever did him in.”
A spark of interest died a quick smothered death under his ruler-straight eyebrows. “Why you wanna do that?”
I took a firmer hold on my temper. Easy, Jill. He’s just a kid. “Why do you want to know?”
His thin shoulders went back and his chin lifted. The sun gilded his thin arms and a chest that stood a good chance of being sunken, and the sullen fury passing over his face was shocking in its intensity—and just as shocking when the emotion fled and he was back to flatline.
Of all things, he unhooked his right hand and offered it to me. “Gilberto Rosario Gonzalez-Ayala.” The words were a monotone. “Ay was mi hermano.”
Brother, huh? My nose itched and the heat, while not enough to make me sweat, was still oppressive. My entire back prickled with vulnerability. “They tell me he was shot in the lungs and drowned, señor.” I kept the words just as flat as his. “Whoever did him is doing others just as bad. Worse, even. I’m going to stop it.” I slowly clasped his hand, careful not to squeeze too hard. Hellbreed-strong fingers can make for a goddamn uncomfortable handshake.
He was under no such compunction, bearing down with surprising strength. His entire arm tensed. “Then you better watch your back, chiquita.”
That’s enough. I doubled the pressure and watched his eyes widen as something creaked in his hand. It sounded like a bone. I tilted my head down, looking over the rim of the shades, and let my lips curl up in a wide, bright, sunny, and utterly false smile. “Thanks for the warning.” A deliberate pause. “Señor.”
It might have been a misstep, but I don’t like threats or veiled warnings. You get them every day in this line of work, and pretty soon the gloss gets worn off. Yawn.
Now those dead dark eyes had lit up, and the change made him boyish. Under the acne and the hairnet, that is. “Ain’t no warning. It’s fact.”
I let him take his hand back. Get into a pissing contest with a hunter, gangboy? Not the best way to stay breathing. “I’m sure of that, Gilberto.” One thing about living in Santa Luz for a long time, my accent was dead-on. “Gracias.”
His thin face wrinkled up into a smile that might have actually been handsome if not for the boils of acne. He would scar badly, this boy, and with those dead eyes…
“Call me Gil, chiquita.” Thin brown fingers flicked, he lit himself a cigarette. “You do who did for Ay, you come down to nuestra casa here. I give you beer.”
Thanks, kid. Like you’re old enough to drink. “I’ll keep it in mind.” Making friends and influencing people among all walks of life, that’s your friendly neighborhood hunter.
“Jill?” Theron, his tone halfway between what the hell are you doing and can we go now please.
“Let’s roll.” I dropped down into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. A faint breath of cherry tobacco lingered in the car—Saul smoked Charvils. Right now I was half wishing for one myself. “Where next, gato?”
“Christ, don’t you start too.” He closed his door with fussy precision. “Go west, we’ll cut across on Antilles. Isn’t that where he got shot?”
“Antilles and Tabasco, the 3100 block. Good idea to check it out, at least. Put your seat belt on.” I buckled myself in and twisted the key in the ignition, the engine roused with a sweet purr that turned a few heads. Sunlight skipped heat off the road, the buildings all leaning tired and sweaty under the assault. I seconded that emotion—one beer was not nearly enough, the way things were going. Go ahead, Theron. Say something. I dare you.
He responded with all the valor of discretion. “Well, that’s not 51-friendly, over there. Put that bandana away.”
We crossed out of 51 territory in ten minutes, and I had a mounting sense of unease, precognition not specific enough to really mean anything. About twelve blocks later I realized the popping, pinging sounds were someone shooting at my car. By then a lucky shot had taken out a tire and the entire contraption—tons of metal—was jigging and jiving like a hellbreed jacked full of silver.
Oh no. No. Skidding, skipping, a flapping noise as the tire gave up the ghost and I struggled against the sudden drag on the steering wheel, time slowing down as if dipped in cold molasses. The engine leapt, straining against inertia, and things got very interesting.
I steered into the skid, mashing the accelerator to the floor to get us out of the firezone if possible, and heard Theron’s coughing roar as the car bucked once more and lifted, physics taking her revenge in a big way. The silvery crinkle of glass shattering married to the crunch of metal folding in ways it didn’t want to. The world blanked out, down was up and up was down, for a long moment. I was picked up, shaken, tossed a few different ways at once, and thrown into that blank spot between normal life and disaster for an endless moment of disorienting darkness—and roared out on the other side in an explosion of too-bright color and sharp pain.
The edged reek of spilled gasoline burst in my sensitive nose. I blinked something wet and warm out of my eyes.
At least I’m right-side-up. Or am I?
It took me a second to figure out which way gravity was dragging, the blood in my eyes streaking in fat globules down my cheeks. Must be a head wound, they’re messy. Bleed a lot.
More pinging and popping sounds, my body moving instinctively, seeking what cover it could, that’s gas I smell, move, Jill, get the fuck out of here, Theron, where’s Theron?
Broken glass littered the seats. The Were was gone. I tore myself free of the seat belt and squirmed around the gearshift, its head ripped free of the shaft. The red fuzzy dice Galina had given me had disappeared and the car had rolled, coming to rest right-side-up. Goddamn. I’m still alive. Again. Go figure.
I braced my shoulders against the seat and kicked. The jolt slammed my shoulders deeper into glass-strewn upholstery. No dice—the entire car was crumpled, I couldn’t bust the door open.
The passenger-side window had been rolled down and was now an irregular hole. Stink of flammable fluid rose gagging-thick. Get out of here, Jill. All it takes is a spark.
I wormed my way toward the window. The pings and whines of bullets still smacked the side of the car. More glass broke. It was a regular fusillade. Jesus wept. What NOW?
The choice was to stay where I was and possibly roast if the car went up, or get shot as I wriggled out the window. I froze, half a precious second trickling away through molasses as the body, idiot meat that it is, expressed in the strongest possible terms that it didn’t want to get shot again, thank you.
MOVE!
My arms shot out, fingers closing around the edges of the hole, jagged metal slicing deep. I didn’t care, hauling myself free, a high keening sound I realized was my own voice, yelling filthy obscenities I probably would have blushed at a few years ago—before I was a hunter.
Now I know how toothpaste feels when it’s pushed free of the tube. It’s a good thing I’m skinny. I worked my way free while the crackling sounds receded from the forefront of my consciousness. Black smoke belched and the unholy reek of vinyl burning scoured hot water from my eyes. My coat got stuck, was sliced, I wriggled free and fell on concrete, fetching my head a stunning blow. Rolling, trained reflex bringing me up to my feet just as my baby, my beautiful Impala I’d bought from a junkyard and nursed to apple-pie order, exploded.
The shockwave flung me flat, leather scraping the pitted surface of the road and my head snapping back, bouncing as I hit again. I scrambled away from the car, already going in the direction the blast had p
ushed me.
I picked myself up. My ears were bleeding, thin trickles of evaporating coolness down my neck.
Goddamn. My car.
The rest of the world returned in a rush of diluted noise. A woman was screaming in Spanish, high-pitched babble. Kids were yelling. Oh God did I hit someone? Hope not. Cover, find cover—I rolled, heading for the far side of the street, my back wrenching in a quick burst of red pain.
They were still shooting at me, but the bulk of the burning car shielded me from view. It was a small mercy, and as soon as the smoke thinned a little they would have a clear field of fire.
There were acres of cracked sunstruck pavement and no cover. Then Theron landed gracefully, his fingers tented on the concrete as bullets spattered. He grabbed me, shifting his weight, and I pushed with the long muscles in my legs, uncoiling in a leap as awkward as it was effective. My back wrenched again, and the scar woke, prickling and roiling as I pulled blindly on etheric force, a completely nonphysical movement that nevertheless echoed in the physical world, adding lift.
The alley opened up like a gift, swallowed us whole, shadows sharp in the flood of sunshine. “Car!” I gasped, and Theron’s hand closed on the collar of my coat. He hauled me back as I tried to reverse direction and take off.
“Goddammit they’re still shooting!” he yelled as I lunged again for the mouth of the alley. More bullets pinged against adobe and brick, puffs of dust turning gold. Black smoke belched up—my car was absolutely totaled, a twisted wreck at the end of three loops of black rubber smeared on patched, cracked pavement.
My baby. Gone in a heartbeat.
Theron yanked at me again, so hard my head bobbled. “Jesus Christ!”
I seconded that emotion. “They blew up my car!”
“Woman, you’re lucky they didn’t fill you full of lead again. This is getting ridiculous.” His hair was wildly mussed, two spots of high color standing out on his cheeks.
“They blew up my car!” I sounded like they’d pissed in my Cheerios. Blood dripped salt-warm and stinging in my eyes. “Goddammit, you fucking Were, do something useful!”
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