by Hannah Jayne
Alex’s eyes shot down the length of the blade. “To do what? Gut me?”
I narrowed my eyes. “Maybe.”
“You know what this is for, don’t you?”
I looked down at the blade in my hand. It did suddenly seem slightly less menacing, but it was a blade nonetheless, and blades were made for gutting people.
“It’s for scaling fish,” he said.
Or for scaling fish.
“What?” I looked at the damn thing in my hand again, squinting at the tiny bass imprinted on the side. “It’s a bass knife.”
“For fish.”
So I thought it was a bass-style knife. As in, “Bass! The serial killer fish of the lakes!”
Alex took the knife out of my hand, his finger going over the portion of the blade that carved upward.
“You hook the fish right here. Then you pull it down and fillet it with this part.” He flopped the knife over. “This is how you descale it.”
I snatched it out of his hand. “Well, that might be what it’s for in your world. But in the Underworld, things aren’t always what they seem.”
Alex looked unconvinced. “So you’re telling me Big 5 sells magic bass knives?”
“How’d you know this was a Big 5 knife?”
“Do me a favor,” Alex said, effectively ignoring me and going for the door again. “Leave the weaponry to me. Unless, of course, we run into a giant bass monster in the next twenty minutes.”
I shoved my knife back into my purse and glowered at him. Note to self, I thought, once this whole werewolf incident is over, prove to Alex that a fish-scaler can double as a fallen angel gutter . . . .
“I’m going in alone.”
“No. You’re not.”
“I know what I’m doing, Alex. And besides, I have a—”
“Fish scaler.”
I put my hands on my hips. “I was going to say a plan, jackass. I have a plan.”
“And that is?”
I blew out a sigh. “Well, if you must know, I was going to march in there, paste on my friendliest and most innocent smile, and ask to speak to Feng.”
“Isn’t that kind of what you did the last time? You know, the time you nearly got choked to death?”
“That wasn’t my friendly smile.”
“Well, get used to having company because I’m coming in with you.”
I shrugged. “Fine. But I talk to Feng on my own.”
Alex nodded, considering. “We’ll see.”
“But be prepared for total animation domination.”
I yanked open the door and smiled when Alex’s jaw dropped.
“What the hell?”
Though the sign on the outside of the building advertised CHINESE/AMERICAN FOOD, FREE WI-FI and BATHROOMS FOR CUSTOMERS ONLY, the inside was bright and cheery and looked like a scene out of an episode of Sailor Moon. Brightly colored Formica tables covered every bit of the available floor space and crammed at each table was a selection of glossy-haired people in various states of cheery Anime dress. There were schoolgirls in knee socks and over-the-shoulder nunchucks, sailor girls with wide eyes, argyle socks, and plastic swords, and the occasional guy staring out under extra-long bangs and guyliner.
Alex leaned close to me, his lips tickling my earlobe. “These are the terrifying werewolf hunters who nearly choked the life out of you?”
“Shh,” I hissed.
One of the animaniacs stood up with a sweet grin on her face. She was dressed in a crisp navy and white sailor suit with a kicky red tie. Her red and white striped knee socks were tucked into the hooker version of little-girl Mary Jane shoes and her glossy waist-length hair was pulled into two adorable ponytails that framed her deep set, almond-shaped eyes.
Eyes that immediately clouded over when she recognized me.
“I remember you,” she said, her voice preschool-kid sweet while her eyes shot daggers. “You were here before.” She circled an index finger a half-inch from my chest and then her eyes—and her pointing finger—went to Alex. “You were not.”
“It’s Xian, right? I’m Sophie. I’m not sure we actually were introduced the first time.” I paused, my mouth still hanging dumbly open as I followed the lines of heat that went from Xian to Alex. Her cherry-red lips were pursed, her finger still hovering just in front of Alex’s chest. I watched in horrifying slow motion as Xian’s lips parted ever so slightly. The tip of her tongue darted out and slid across her lips, leaving a glossy sheen around her cupid’s bow.
“So anyway,” I went on, somehow thinking that if I spoke louder, the sex spell would be broken, “this is my friend.” I wrapped my hands around his upper arm. “My dear friend, Alex.”
Alex was stiff, either locked in Xian’s steamy gaze or completely terrified of being pummeled by the sexy sailor. I gave him a rather hard—yet friendly—shake. “I’d like to see Feng.” I spun on my heel, my fingers digging into Alex’s flesh. “Is her office still back here?”
I felt Xian’s tiny hand on my shoulder; she dragged me back with the strength of a linebacker. “Why do you need Feng?”
I stumbled backward, nearly falling against Alex. He steadied me and I quickly learned the daggers that Xian was shooting at me earlier were her kind, fluffy daggers. Her entire countenance changed and I was pretty sure that I was about to be gutted by a life-sized cartoon character and her band of merry ani-men. I straightened and looked Xian in the eye.
“What do you two want with Feng?”
“Actually, Xian, it’s just me.” I put my hand on my chest and smiled slyly, rubbing my tongue over my bottom lip and dropping my voice. “I want to talk to Feng. If you don’t mind, Alex would like to stay out here with you. He’s a huge fan of anime.”
Xian brightened, and I was suddenly off her radar. She grabbed Alex by the hand. “Come with me.”
I saw the terrified look on Alex’s face as I zipped down the back hall.
Take that, angel.
Chapter Five
I quickly navigated the narrow hall, picked my way through the grease-and-soot-covered kitchen, and stopped just before pushing open the ancient screen door. I expected Feng to be in her workshop shaving some kind of metal or killing baby bunnies or something, but she was in the alleyway, slouched against the brick wall, head thrown back. Her eyes were closed and a single shard of sunlight made its way through the surrounding buildings and washed over Feng’s throat.
I laid my hand on the screen door’s latch. The sound was miniscule, the latch scratching under the weight of my palm, but Feng’s eyes flew open, her whole body going into a rigid fighting stance. She narrowed her eyes, practically snarling when she saw me through the matted screen.
“What are you doing here?”
Fear, like a lead weight, sunk low in my belly. It pressed against my bladder, made my knees feel weak and made every other limb feel loose. Feng was a trained assassin. I was an idiot with a bass knife. What was I thinking?
I held both of my hands up surrender-style. “It’s me, Sophie Lawson. We met before. I was here with my friend Will, and then we—I saw you—at Sutro Point?”
Feng’s hard face registered no emotion, no indication that she remembered me or had even heard me speak. Finally, she said, “I know who you are. What do you want?”
I gently pushed open the screen door and stepped into the alley. The heat here was moist and oppressive, the stench of rotted vegetables, leftover food, and deep fat fryers making it feel heavy and slick.
I knew that Feng and Xian were twins and though their faces—the almond-shaped eyes, the high sleek jawbones, and hard mouths—were identical physically, that was where the similarities ended. Where Xian’s eyes were rounded out with coal eyeliner and big, waggly lashes, Feng’s were tight, narrow slits, always on the verge of shifting, glaring. Her mouth was set hard, her lips pressed blade thin. She was as tall and willowy as her sister, but Feng kept her shoulders rounded. Her belly was concave and her hips were straight and angular, two inches of smooth olive skin v
isible in the spot where her baggy camouflage pants came up to meet her fraying black baby tee.
“I need to talk to you.”
“About what?”
I looked over my shoulder, my eyes sweeping the dank kitchen behind me. Assured no one was lurking or listening, I dug the silver bullet out of my pocket and held it up to her. “Business.”
Feng’s eyes zeroed in on the bullet. No one else in the city—in the world, likely—made silver bullets like these, but I spun it around anyway so Feng could inspect the tiny Chinese symbol carved on the shaft. The Du family was known not only for their werewolf hunting prowess but for their “artistry.” Each bullet was carved with a symbol that indicated the season in which it was forged. A nice sentiment for an instrument of death, I guessed, but disconcerting nonetheless.
“It’s one of yours,” I assured.
“Fine.”
Feng shrugged and I followed her into her “office.” It was a big, empty room that looked as though it were carved out of concrete, with a uniformly bland gray paint job. Bare bulbs screwed into dented aluminum sockets hung from the ceiling, the yellow light casting weird shadows in corners and against walls. There were no windows, no phone lines, no computers. Floors blended into walls blended into ceiling, giving the whole place the unpleasant feeling of a solid steel block, while flimsy tables that looked like they were discarded from the restaurant hinted at more of an inescapable sweatshop. The Du family emblem was painted on the wall behind Feng—the surname Du intertwined with the American spelling, a stylized painting of a wounded werewolf dying behind the heavy black print. Nausea roiled in my stomach.
I hugged my arms around me, then slyly dipped one hand into my purse, letting my fingertips rest on the sheathed blade of my bass knife. Feng may not be a fish, but I was ready to gut her just the same if it came to it.
At least I hoped I would.
I looked around, trying to quell the nervous heat that prickled around my hairline. If Feng was going to kill me, I whispered in my head, she would have done it by now.
Feng settled herself behind an enormous hunk of mahogany wood—part desk, part work station—and pushed aside a mammoth toolbox that I knew housed bullet samples, spent shells, and tools.
My palms went damp when Feng stared up at me, her eyes like flat stones, but her lips quirked up at one end in a kind of wry, challenging smile.
“So what kind of business do you want to talk about?” Feng wanted to know.
I licked my lips and perched on the end of the folding metal chair set up across from Feng. My throat was closing, but I did my best to control angst in my voice, forcing my words to come out smooth and natural. “Can I ask you a question first?”
Feng pursed her lips, but gave an almost imperceptible shrug.
My heart slammed itself against my rib cage and my mouth suddenly felt impossibly dry. I rubbed my palms on my jeans and when my voice came out it was low, breathy. “What’s it like?”
A single cocked eyebrow. “What is what like?”
I looked around the shadowed room, taking in the sparse furnishing, the cold existence. “Your job. I mean—I work in an office. I stamp papers and give people”—I almost choked on the word—“info sessions to get them acquainted with their new insurance policies and positions.”
It wasn’t a complete lie. There were papers and stamps and even insurance policies. But my “people” were generally dead and their new position was generally an afterlife one. And most of my life insurance policies were collectable once the holder died and then came back to life.
But I wasn’t going to tell Feng that. Or that the whole of my employable existence consisted of trying not to be killed by my clients.
Currently, I run the Fallen Angel Division of the Underworld Detection Agency. Fallen angels are everywhere, but my clients are few and far in between, I suppose the consensus on that one being, “If I’m bad enough to get ejected from Heaven, I’m bad enough to avoid some UDA paperwork.” Not a lot of them come in to register. So, I do a lot of Internet searches, determining if certain weird news “events” could have been caused by one of the fallen rather than just your garden-variety sociopath. Sometimes I hit. Sometimes I get hit. More often I miss.
But that’s beside the point.
“I mean, my job is pretty boring, pretty run of the mill.” It is, if your office fridge is stocked with blood bags and your bathroom has three normal stalls and one tiny one with very high walls for pixies.
Pixies are notoriously, dangerously private.
Feng shifted her weight, resting her elbows on her desk. She looked like she was considering my question, thinking of what she wanted to tell me—and what she didn’t.
There was a moment of stiff, uncomfortable silence and I briefly wondered if Feng had triggered some sort of silent alarm, if maybe the Anime Army wasn’t strapping on bubbly pink shields and climbing astride unicorns to come kill me. I only hoped that Alex would be able to sweet-talk Xian enough to at least get her to leave the nunchucks behind.
Feng’s eyes sliced back to me, part scrutinizing, part studying. My heartbeat sped up and I readied myself for the soliloquy where she told me that she was born into the family legacy of a werewolf hunting and she did it so as not to disappoint her overbearing father, but she really wanted to be a ballerina or an accountant.
“It’s incredible,” Feng said instead. I watched her lick her lips as if just the very idea of hunting was delicious. Her eyes were fixed but dreamy, and her shoulders tensed under her faded black baby tee. She pushed a lock of her glossy black hair over one shoulder and leaned into me, chin resting on her hands.
“It’s best at night, when the moon is full. There’s this silvery glow over everything and you just—you just know when they’re near. There’s this deathly quiet first. It feels like there’s no one alive in the world—it’s just you and it.”
“It?”
“The beast. The dog.” She bit her words off hard and I felt a stripe of terror run down my spine.
“Go on.”
“You close in on it.” Feng stiffened now, her whole body reacting to her words. “You step closer and you can hear your own breath. Your heart is—it’s like, thundering in your ears. You can hear your own blood rushing. And then”—her eyes flashed—“You hear it.”
I swallowed hard, horrified but rapt.
“Its breathing is hard. Once the dog knows he’s cornered, his fear is everywhere. You can smell it. It layers your skin; it’s practically—”
“Palpable,” I said with a shaking voice.
Feng nodded her head rapidly, her dark hair bouncing over her shoulders. “You can almost taste it. Once you get it in your sight—” She slowly cocked her head to the right, her ear near her shoulder. She closed her left eye, and pantomimed holding a gun, her right arm pulling back, her left steadying the barrel.
I felt myself leaning closer to Feng, my heart pounding, my eye closing, trying to get her sight.
“Then boom!” Her voice was so loud and booming I squelched a startled yelp.
“You blow the fucker’s head off. Nothing but brains and fur on the back wall.” Feng was grinning and splaying her hands, heinous, psychopathic jazz-hand style. She giggled and bile clawed at the back of my throat.
I thought of Sampson and her words reverberated in my head—His fear is everywhere . . . brains and fur on the back wall. . . .
And then she giggled.
My stomach roiled when she looked at me, the grin going all the way up to her eyes. “It’s the most amazing feeling in the world, man.”
“The killing?” I could barely get the words past my teeth, knowing the hunted, the “it” she could be looking for was within seven square miles of Feng’s rage, and someone who was so close to me.
“No,” Feng shrugged. “That’s just a fringe benefit. The real good feeling comes from knowing that you’re keeping San Francisco safe from another one of those salivating tree-pee-ers.”
“Rea
lly?”
“No.” Feng wagged her head, her grin not faltering at all. “I really like the killing.”
I tried to mirror Feng’s overjoyed grin, but I’m pretty sure mine came out as wildly uncomfortable as I felt. I shifted in my chair, trying to take the immense weight off my suddenly full bladder. “At least you enjoy your work,” I managed.
Feng frowned, looking off in the distance again. “Yeah, but, a lot of it is just busy work now. At least that’s the way it feels. Don’t get me wrong; I like making the bullets.”
“They’re like art,” I mumbled absently, repeating what I had heard her say, had heard Dixon say, had heard Will say.
Feng pumped her head, her lips rolling up into an agreeable half smile. “Yeah, they are. I like doing it—and not just because I know what their final destination is.” She mimed shooting a gun once more, and once more my stomach threatened to escape through my mouth.
“It’s just that there’s not a lot to do lately. Not a lot of active duty. We’re pretty clear. Except . . .”
I leaned forward, the angst and sickness in my stomach flip-flopping to heart-palpitating anxiety. “Except?”
Feng leaned back, all the spunk and joy going out of her face as a suspicious expression masked it. “What did you say you wanted again?”
“Um,” I stuttered, digging in my pocket for the silver bullet. “This. This bullet. It’s yours.”
“Uh-huh.”
I sucked in a shaky breath. “I found it at a crime scene.”
Feng looked at me blankly, her expression giving nothing away.
“At Sutro Point.”
Finally, she nodded. Whether it was in agreement or understanding I couldn’t be sure. “You were there.” We locked eyes and I straightened, feeling slightly bolstered. “Why were you there?”
Feng crossed her arms in front of her chest looking relaxed, but guarded. “Same reason you were there, I suspect.”
“I came with a police detective. We were processing the crime scene.”
She raked a hand through her hair, looking away. “Same here.”
“It was a homicide. Two humans were murdered by another human being.”