Her snort was unsympathetic. The Sanctuary snapped the point off the needle deftly in a pint-sized biohazard container and scooped up the tray. Sunlight veered through the skylights and burnished her kitchen table. She lived upstairs over her shop, just a regular garden-variety occult store unless you know what you’re about. Then you realize you could find just about everything a serious practitioner of sorcery needs—and practically everything a Were or witch might need, as well—in her little store. “Well, if you’d prefer getting all slimy and bloodhungry…”
“It might be an improvement.” I sighed as the burn settled down, spreading up my arm. “I should stock up on ammo.” I want all the goddamn ammo I can carry if we’ve got scurf. And a few more hours in the day would be nice. Monty was probably climbing the walls by now, I’d phoned in the location of the body and not much else.
“Again?” But she didn’t demur. “Hang on, I’ll fetch it. Will it be on account? I can spot you a few hundred.”
“No, I’ve got it. Business has been good lately.” Hunters get backstairs funding, both from the city and county; it’s a small price to pay for most municipal or county administrations. We also get federal funding if a paranormal incident is big enough to qualify, or if it crosses state lines.
“Defense spending” isn’t only for mundane threats.
Plus, the Church subsidizes training no few apprentices. Even if they do bar us from Heaven, they try to make sure we’re funded enough to hold back the tide of Hell. We’re usually overworked and just-barely-paid-enough, but that’s better than nothing. Resident hunters don’t need to worry about rent or their next meal, thank God.
We just have to worry about damnation.
And being psychic has its perks when it comes to investing. Mikhail had done very well for himself. Screw that “not using your powers for personal gain” bit. When you’re getting shot, knifed, electrocuted, strangled, dumped in rivers, thrown off buildings, or almost eviscerated protecting the common citizenry, the least the world can do is give you a break or two on the stock market.
Of course, living long enough to claim a retirement fund is the problem.
“Are you going to keep the Glocks or switch to something else?” She paused, the sun shining off her lacquered hair.
I have regular Glocks, not the smaller ones most female cops use. My wrists look small, but hellbreed strength means I can handle the recoil better than most men. One of the best days of my life was switching to bigger guns. “I’ll stick with the Glocks. But fill me up on hollowpoints and the silver-grain armor-piercing rounds. I want to be nastier than usual.”
She nodded, tilted her head as the bell jingled downstairs. “Were,” she said shortly, and vanished.
Coming to take me to the dance. I picked up my shredded coat and shrugged into it. The walls quivered slightly, the Sanctuary binding responding to my nervousness and Galina’s as well. Inside their little houses Sancs are the law; the price they pay is being more vulnerable outside than even a weak untrained psychic. But they usually fix it so they don’t have to go outside much—and hunters and Weres, not to mention most hellbreed, will beat the tar out of anyone hassling a Sanctuary. Neutral supply of necessities is the least of the services they provide.
I gauged the fall of sunlight and glanced at the kitchen clock—Elvis in a red jacket, his hips swaying regularly. The days were long, but still, every hour of sunlight gone heightened the possibility of a nightfight with scurf.
Enough to give any hunter shivers. If I wasn’t already halfway to twitched-out between tripping over dead cops and getting shot full of garlic.
The scar throbbed. I reached over, fingers trembling, and stripped the leather cuff off my right wrist. Stared down at the band of paler-even-than-my-usual-milk skin.
On our too-short honeymoon I’d left the cuff off, and I’d even gotten a bit of a tan. For all a hunter’s sun-worship, I stay out too much at night to be anything but fishbelly. I was back to putting the cuff on when I didn’t want to be distracted by the wash of sensory acuity.
Air hit my skin with a thousand sharp needles, suddenly alive again. My nose tingled, picking up the reek of garlic, silver, the dry smell of herbs hung in the large pantry, wet earth from the greenhouse on the roof. Fur and cologne that was a Were downstairs, Galina’s perfume, the incense and Power of her shop.
I examined the lip-print. It wasn’t any bigger. It was just the same as it had always been, and when I tipped it up into the sunlight uncomfortable, allergic warmth spilled up my arm.
Goddamn you, Perry. Getting into my head again. Worming his way in.
My exhaled breath stirred the leaves of small potted herbs growing in the windowsill, under a double drench of light. Air conditioning sent a cool draft across my shoulders. I’d have to change into my first spare and place another order with Jingo out on Cortada Street for another two or three custom jobs.
They don’t sew ammo-loops into regular leather trenches, you know. And I don’t have time anymore for sewing, if I ever did.
I was shaking. My fingers almost blurred. It had been so close last time, and the time before that. Perry had brought me right to the line, made me look over, and I still didn’t know how I had stepped away from the edge.
Yes you do. Get moving, Jill. I slapped the cuff on and buckled it as footsteps sounded on the stairs. “Jill!” Someone shouting, and I knew the voice.
I met Theron halfway. “What’s up?”
“Barrio’s emptying out.” He wasn’t even out of breath, though his dark hair was disarranged and his eyes were lambent, sheened with orange. An excited Were is like an excited hellbreed, the eyes get all glowy. “One of the ’cougars ran across spoor on the east side, right near where you said. They’re tracking now.”
My heart settled into a high fast thumping and I pushed a strand of dark hair, weighted down with a silver wheel-charm double-knotted with red thread, out of my face. It clinked against more charms. “Great. Let’s roll. Galina, that ammo, please?”
“Be careful.” She was at the bottom of the stairs, the pendant at her throat winking with its own light as the air conditioning kicked off again. Her hands were full of cartridges stacked on a red cloisonné tray.
She’s pretty much the only person who tells me that. Anyone else knows it’s useless. Then there’s Saul, who would never tell me that because it implies I couldn’t take care of myself. Except he had last time… because he was worried, and tired, and watching his mother die by inches.
More unpleasant thoughts, arriving right on schedule. “I can’t be careful, Galina. It’s not in the job description. Is the sunsword still black?” It was a good weapon in a dark hole, but it had been drained past recovery a while ago.
When it had been shoved through Navoshtay Niv Arkady’s chest by a half-crazed hellbreed female crouched on a burning car. Just another day in the life of a hunter.
I wish shit like that wasn’t so routine.
“No, it’s silver now, but nowhere near fully charged. You want it?” She looked almost pathetically hopeful, but her eyes didn’t stop at me. Instead, her gaze touched my face, flinched away, and found Theron, who leaned against the wall between us, running his long fingers through his hair.
I stowed the ammo and made sure the guns were easy in their holsters, ran my fingers over the knifehilts. “Not unless I’m sure it won’t snuff out and leave me in the dark. Come on, Theron. I’ll drive.” If you can peel yourself away.
“Give me a second, Jill.” Quiet and courteous, not like the unpredictable smartass I knew. Still, everyone minds their manners at Galina’s.
Even Perry.
Stop thinking about that. “Fine.” I headed for the front of the shop, brushing past the Sanctuary. The scar throbbed wetly. I couldn’t resist one bad-tempered little goose. “Stay inside, Galina. We’d hate to lose you.”
I didn’t miss her muttered reply, which contained at least one term highly unsuitable for a lady’s use. We all mind our manners at Galina
’s—but sometimes it’s fun hearing her cuss like the rest of us.
Outside, it was a solid ninety in the shade. I stamped across the street toward my Impala and stopped, suddenly, right in the middle of the ribbon of concrete, heat waves shimmering up on either end of the block.
The sensation of being watched spilled gooseflesh down my back. You don’t live long as a hunter by ignoring that feeling. I turned a full three-sixty in the middle of the road, scanning the buildings, roofs, the sidewalks, contemplating all the angles.
Who would be watching me? And in the middle of the day, no less, when the sun’s power is at its highest.
I concentrated, still as a cat watching a mousehole. Come on. Stick your nose out, whoever you are. Come and get me.
The wind quieted, ripples dying in the cauldron of the day. Inside the scurfhole, wherever it was, it would be hot too. They would be piled in on top of each other in a lump of contagious slime, dozing through the danger of daylight. Shedding heat while they breathed sickness on each other.
I need more flash grenades. Three just isn’t going to do it. It was one of those random thoughts that floats across your mind right before all hell breaks loose.
Something punched me hard in the chest. I staggered, the wind knocked out of me, and folded down as the hammerblows continued. It didn’t hurt until I tried to roll over and pain crested in a fierce wave, driving iron spikes into muscle and bone. Little twisting jitters of sparkling agony slammed through me, each one so individual I could name it.
The world went dark, heaved, turned over, and rammed me back into myself with a shock like lightning striking. Only it wasn’t lightning. It was the scar on my wrist exploding with furious power as my punctured heart struggled to beat, bullets tearing through my body, shattering, spilling, blood steaming on the road and chips of concrete flicking up.
Someone was shooting me. Doing a handy job of it, too.
More pain, a river of it, a new brand of pain. By brand I mean shape and type, and burning hurting godpleasemakeitstop—
Half-choked screaming. The walls of Galina’s shop tolling deep notes of distress. The coughing roar of a Were having a fit, and it sounded like Saul—but he was somewhere else, wasn’t he?
Saul? My lips tried to shape the word, a bubble of something hot broke on them, ran down my chin. Alone and unprotected in the middle of acres of burning road, except I was being dragged by one arm, shoulder popping out of joint with a short thop! that would have been funny if it wasn’t mine. The scar burned, working inward toward the bone, burrowing in with sick delight. My heart exploded again, body convulsing as weightlessness swallowed me whole.
The scar had actually shocked me, just like a defibrillator. Sparks crackled from the charms lacing my hair.
“Don’t you dare, Jill!” Galina screamed. The sound was a bright ribbon through dark water closing over my head as I thrashed, moaning sounds spilling from my lips along with the bright red. “Don’t you dare die on me!”
Scratching, scrabbling sounds. I opened my eyes and gasped as another lightning-shock, this one different from the first, slammed through me. The flayed, exploded meat of my heart was a live coal buried in my chest, systems struggling to deal with the sudden trauma and loss of blood pressure.
WHAM! This time it was Galina, the power had her distinctive flavor of incense and growing green things. Slamming into my heart, making it beat through the damage as cells regrew, each one a scream of pain.
I coughed, choked, and yelled, striking out, dislocated arm flopping uselessly. The blow was deflected, and my chest was an egg of red-hot pain. Tearing, horrible, agonizing heat coalesced, snapped into a lump in the upper left quadrant of my ribs; the scar chortled to itself as electricity popped, and I arched, mouth full of blood and eyes bulging, a scream locked behind the clotted stone in my throat.
Heartbeat. I had a heartbeat again.
“—fucking dare die on me, Jill Kismet, I’ve seen two hunters go in my time and I won’t lose you, now breathe!” Galina’s voice was deep and irresistible, she leaned on my chest, thumping me a good one, then clamping my nose shut and blowing into my mouth, trying to inflate my lungs but doing a good job of drowning me in my own claret.
I spat blood, a good chunk of it geysering out through nose and lips both. Galina let out a yelp, choked midway by the volume, and I stopped myself from instinctively striking out again. The walls thundered, wavering like seaweed. If I hit a Sanc in her own house, it would get pretty damn uncomfortable pretty goddamn quickly, and I was uncomfy enough already.
The trouble with almost dying is that it makes you weak as shock sets in and the body struggles to function. I curled over on my side, spitting to clear my mouth of blood and lungfluid, the deep drilling ache in my chest intensifying with each labored pulse. My dislocated shoulder throbbed, a bass note drowned out by a whole orchestra of nasty sweating pain. I twitched, several times, nerves firing without any real reason except holy shit, we’re still here? Still working?
“Good girl,” Galina whispered. “That’s my good girl.” Patting my back as I retched, coughing and choking to clear passageways violated by lead and fluid.
The ridiculous little bell she had on the shop door tinkled. “Gone.” It was Theron’s voice. “Tell me she’s okay.”
“Just fine.” The Sanctuary, wonder of wonders, sounded nervous. “Or as fine as you can get when you’ve lost all your blood.”
I haven’t lost all of it, dammit. It still hurts, there must be some left. But I felt weaker and more unsteady than I liked. Agony receded, becoming just garden-variety pain.
That I could deal with.
Get up, milaya. Mikhail’s voice, memory sloshing inside my skull. Or I will hit you again.
He never said anything he didn’t mean. I struggled to get up, to fight.
“Relax, killer. Take it easy.” Hands on my aching shoulders, so familiar. A deep rumbling sound—a Were, purring to ease another’s distress.
Saul? No, he’s miles away. What?
Lassitude poured over me, a sucking swamp of lethargy so huge it threatened to close my eyes and drag me down. “Whafuck?” I slurred, my tongue too thick, not working properly.
“Someone just tried to kill you, Kismet.” Theron, uncharacteristically serious. No wonder he sounded like Saul. “An assault rifle from a rooftop halfway down the street. You know anyone who drives a blue Buick?”
It was so ludicrous I could only repeat myself. “Whafuck?”
“Just lie still for a moment.” Galina’s skirt swished. The walls calmed down, settling into regular lath, plaster, and paint instead of shimmering curtains of energy ready to enforce a Sanctuary’s will on physical and psychic space. “I’m going to get the first-aid kit.”
Best of luck to you. I don’t think I need a Band-Aid. “Arm,” I whispered, through another mouthful of blood. Stop bleeding, Jill. Goddammit. “My arm.”
“Sorry about that.” The Were crouched over me, a bulk radiating safety. He didn’t smell exactly like Saul, but it was comforting nonetheless. “Had to get you out of the middle of the street, dragged you too hard.”
It’s not the first time that’s popped out of the socket. At least I’m still alive. “Thanks.” My voice was a thin thread. I passed out briefly, a stripe of warmth across my face reminding me that daylight was slipping away, and someone had just tried to kill me.
In the middle of the day, with an assault rifle, no sorcery or claws or teeth. Just like a human would kill.
Why?
9
I shifted, let the clutch off, and the Impala responded, leaping forward. Theron grabbed for the dash. Dried blood crackled in my hair, and I rammed the car into third gear like it was going out of style, goosed it, shifted up to fourth and put the pedal to the floor.
“Jesus!” Theron yelled over the rush of wind.
Men. They never like my driving. Of course, nobody likes my driving. I’ve never been in a single accident—basic precognition takes care of tha
t—and the cops all know my car well enough to leave me alone when I’m bending the laws of physics and traffic to get somewhere.
They don’t like to think about why I hurry. Or what I might be hurrying to get to.
Rubber screamed as we took a corner like it was on rails, and I thought about who would want to kill me. A blue Buick and regular ammo—not even silver.
Not even silver. Anyone coming after a hellbreed-tainted hunter is going to have silver ammo. It wouldn’t kill me but it would at least mean someone knew what they were doing, knew it would take me longer to heal and hurt like a motherfuck. Or is that a red herring? I stood on the brake as the intersection ahead of me ran with traffic, the red light looming, juggled probability and precognition, felt the little tingle along my nerves that meant okay GO NOW and stamped on the accelerator again.
The Impala zoomed through the light just as it turned green, skidding around a red Caprice as I jerked the wheel and shot us through traffic like a greased pinball.
Who would try to kill me right on Galina’s doorstep, too? Someone who had a bone to pick with both the Sanc and me? Someone who wanted to make a statement, or who knew I’d still be alive afterward?
Or just someone who knew I could be found at her place every few days? Which was just about anyone on the nightside and quite a few regular folks.
We roared onto the east side a few minutes earlier than I’d thought. My traffic karma was still holding. Theron worked his fingers free of the dash while I unclipped my seatbelt. More blood crackled, drying on my skin, and I felt a little pale.
“You okay?” Theron’s knuckles cracked as he stretched.
“Never better,” I lied. “Getting shot just pisses me off, furboy. Now I’m aching to take it out on a whole nest of scurf.”
“You’d better calm down.” He confined himself to that mild statement, and the glance I shot at him splashed right off the concern on his lean dark face.
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