Redemption Alley

  “We should call him.”

  No. I opened my eyes. “N-n-n—” My mouth still refused to work.

  Even if the body is patched up after something like that, the psyche shivers and jolts like a junkie doing cold turkey. The human animal isn’t built to take this type of damage and live, and it can shake certain floor-deep bits of your mental furniture around and around until you’re no longer sure who you are.

  “Easy there, hunter. Relax.” A sharp edge under Theron’s tone, he was worried. “Just give yourself a second, Jill. Lay back, or I’ll sit on you.”

  I didn’t think he would, but my muscles were limp as wet noodles, the skin over them throbbing as if I had the mother of all sunburns. I could have gotten up to fight, but it would have taken gunfire and some screaming. The entire conscious surface of my brain retreated from the glare of sunlight, seeking a deep dark hole to hide itself in, to wrap itself in velvet unconsciousness until it got over dying twice in less than two hours.

  The bite on my calf lost its pulsing heat, the feeling of infection retreating along a map of veins.

  “Someone’s trying to kill her,” Theron was saying. “Maybe more than one someone.”

  This is news? I wanted to say, but darkness closed over me, my brain finally having enough and shutting off. The party was over.

  12

  I came to on my couch, a huge orange naugahyde monster that was actually pretty respectable once Saul got around to slipcovering it with some cream linen he’d found on sale. The warehouse creaked and settled, singing its usual greet-the-dawn production number.

  Darkness was kind, but I had to open my eyes. As soon as I did, Theron’s face loomed over me, and I smelled bacon, Were, and a hot griddle.

  “Just stay where you are.” His eyes glowed orange in dimness. Gray dawn edged up through the skylights and the lights in the kitchen were on, sharp yellow blocks throwing shadows into the living room. A single lamp burned at the far end of the couch. “I thought I heard you. It’s five A.M., nobody else has died, we’re running sweeps. Your ass stays on that couch, Jill. Clear?”

  I blinked. My lips were cracked and dry, I licked them before I could speak. “How many—” How many did we lose?

  “Two down. The scurf swarmed your body; we had a hell of a time with it.” He nodded shortly, turned on his heel, and stalked toward the kitchen. “Saul called,” he said over his shoulder.

  Oh, Christ. “What did you tell him?” It was hard work to pitch the words loud enough, my throat was dry as desert glass. I felt feverish, my body fighting off the viral infection. But I was conscious and talking, and if Theron hadn’t killed me I wasn’t in any danger of getting chewy and bendy.

  Or at least, so I hoped.

  “What did you want me to do, lie? He’d skin me.” Dishes clattered, steam hissed. “We’re supposed to look after you, hunter.”

  Blankets slid aside as I gingerly levered myself up. I felt like I’d been drawn and quartered, then sewn back together all wrong. Jesus. What the hell is going on? “He doesn’t need to be worrying about me, Theron. I can take care of myself—”

  “You got bit, Jill. You’re fighting off the infection, but it was close. How many times have you almost-died recently?” It wasn’t like him to interrupt me. An egg cracked, and the sizzling was bacon, I was sure of it. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Scurf. And people trying to murder me as if I was a normal human being instead of a hunter. “I wish I knew.” Guilt pricked under my skin—two Weres, probably with families, dead because I hadn’t been fast enough to kill a hellbreed popping up in the middle of a scurf hole. I would have asked Theron who, but it would be rude—they don’t speak much of the dead, and they especially don’t often name them.

  I could have asked Saul. If he’d been there, what might have happened?

  Theron made a short sound of almost-annoyance. “Well, start at the beginning. What’s been going on?”

  Where do I begin? “There was a Trader that burned down a warehouse. An arkeus I killed the other night—last night? Or something. The scurf, those disappearances have only been going on for a week or so.” And Perry called. And Monty. My brain refused to work just right. What was a hellbreed doing there?

  “Anything else?”

  “A friend asked me to look into something.” Dried blood crackled on my clothes. I held up my hands, tendons standing out under pale skin, the cuff dyed with blood and noisome fluid on my right wrist.

  “Like what?”

  “Some murders without a nightside connection. So far all I have are three bodies and nothing else.” There was a small pile of silver charms on the coffee table, tangled in red thread. They’d probably fallen out when the hellbreed hit me, or gotten torn off in the heat of battle. I did feel like handfuls of my hair had been ripped out. I almost never get my hair cut. Saul sometimes trims it for me, but I was probably rocking the punk look right about now. The back left of my skull was tender, and I could feel the scab there when my face moved. My neck ached, a vicious dull pain.

  Goddamn. Sonofabitch hit me hard enough to knock me out of my hair. That’s a first. I almost wished I hadn’t killed him, though you can’t second-guess things like that in the heat of battle.

  What the hell was a ’breed doing there during the day? And in a scurf hole?

  “I didn’t know you did murders without a nightside connection.”

  “All the murders I personally commit have nightside connections, Theron. Don’t burn my bacon, Saul bought those pans.” I tried to lunge up to my feet, sank down on the couch with an internal curse, holding my head. Dehydration pounded in my brain like a padded hammer rolled in glue and ground glass.

  “Why he cooks on copper bottoms I will never understand, not when there’s perfectly good stainless steel around. There’s orange juice on the table, Jill. Drink the whole thing, it’ll help with the headache.”

  “How do you know I have a headache?”

  “You’re usually much nastier than this. Not up to your usual speed right now.”

  I half-groaned, spotted the glass pitcher Saul usually made ice tea in. There was a clean glass set right next to it, which told me Theron had washed dishes. “Fuck you, Were.”

  “Nice try, but doesn’t have your usual snap. Drink something, will you?”

  I poured myself a huge dollop of orange juice, couldn’t resist. “Where’s the bourbon?”

  He was having none of it. “Do the non-nightside murders have anything to do with someone using plain lead to kill you?”

  “I don’t know, Theron. The bigger mystery is a fucking hellbreed in the middle of a scurf nest.” Not to mention the nest was in a place where no scurf would build it, and… Jesus. It made my head hurt to think about it.

  No assumptions, milaya. Never assume. Mikhail’s voice, the injunction repeated so many times it was worn into memory like a groove on a record. Shortest way to get ass blown off sideways.

  “So more than one person is trying to kill you.”

  “Christ, I’d hope so. If this is only one enemy I’m going to turn in my hunter’s union card.” The banter came naturally, punctuated by the sounds of cooking; it was so much like home I could have cried.

  “You guys have a union?” The sizzling ended, and he came out of the kitchen with two plates. Fragrant steam rose. I’d never had any of his cooking before, but Weres—especially Were males—are very domestic. It was likely to be good.

  Missing Saul rose like a hand clamped around my throat. I took a long draft of orange juice, acid stinging my chapped lips and dry tongue. It took a physical effort to stop before I drank myself sick on it, but I put the glass down only three-quarters empty. “Of course not. Did you make any coffee? How long have I been out?”

  He set a plate down in front of me. “I’ll go turn the coffeepot on, and you’ve been out about fourteen hours. Missed a whole night of fun and games, cleaning up scurf stragglers and all.”

  Shit. “Anyone call? Other than Saul, t
hat is?”

  “Your pager buzzed once or twice. Otherwise, quiet as a mouse.”

  I spotted said pager on the table, scooped it up, and blinked through the layer of blurring closing over my eyes. The plate held scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and a mountain of grits holding up a pat of butter. It looked good. “Thanks.”

  “I’m running backup on you until this is over.” His lean dark face didn’t change, but his eyes flashed orange before settling back into their ordinary darkness. “Saul’s request. So don’t argue.”

  “What exactly did you tell him?” Monty had paged me twice, Carp once, and the last number sent a cold finger tracing down my spine.

  Goddammit.

  The Were shrugged. “I told him you were fine, and sleeping, and that we have scurf. Told him you were playing everything by the book and there was no need to worry, but I’d keep an eye on you. He asked me to not just keep one eye but both on you, since you have—and I quote—a habit of getting yourself beaten to a pulp. He calls it your particular brand of charm.”

  “I do love my work,” I muttered, and set the pager down, exchanging it for the plate. Everything else could wait. I was hungry. “Did you mention coffee, or not?”

  “I did. I didn’t tell Saul someone tried to assassinate you.” One shoulder lifted, dropped, Theron’s particularly ambiguous shrug added to a raised eyebrow. “If he finds out, we’ll both be in dutch. So you’d better get cracking.”

  I couldn’t answer, I had a mouth full of grits. But I glared at him, and Theron snorted, set his plate down, and went to turn the coffeepot on.

  Damn Weres.

  My eyes snagged on the pager again. But first things first.

  I peeled up the remains of my trouser leg and looked at my calf. There was an angry red chunk taken out of the muscle, already scabbed-over. It looked nasty, but the flesh around it wasn’t inflamed. There was no telltale blue network of viral spreading around its edges. It was just a bit of missing meat, about the size of a mouth, and I couldn’t tell which shape the final scar would take. It was healing far slower than anything else, and the scab on my head was still throbbing as I chewed.

  I pushed the shredded leather down, smoothed it over my leg. Let out a heavy, only half-relieved sigh. Took another bite, ignoring the way it turned to ashes in my mouth. The orange juice started going down easier once I had some food in me.

  Why would Perry be calling me now? Especially now, with someone trying to kill me and scurf in town? It was too neat a coincidence not to be suspicious, coming from him.

  And with a hellbreed bursting in on a bunch of scurf. A skunk-haired ’breed who didn’t look familiar. Well, I didn’t know every hellbreed in town. That would be impossible.

  But still.

  I weighed the idea of going into the Monde Nuit to ask Perry a few questions—preferably up close, personally, with a few silver-loaded bullets—and shivered. Took a huge bite of bacon, chewed mechanically, and sighed as the coffeemaker started to gurgle and Theron came out. He didn’t make his bacon like Saul did, but it was still crispy and good, and he’d added cheese to the eggs.

  “There’s more when you’re finished with that plate,” he said, settling himself on the couch and picking up his own plate. “Want to tell me what’s really going on?”

  “If I knew, I would. Whoever’s bringing in scurf probably wants to kill Weres as well as me.”

  “Things have been awful quiet lately. I should have known that would change.” He stretched out his long legs and got down to the serious business of eating. “Eat up, Kismet. When are you gonna slow down and start eating properly?”

  “Why waste time on that when I could be killing hellbreed?” I shoveled in another mouthful of grits. I also waited for him to get the last word in, as usual, but he didn’t.

  Jesus. Miracles do happen.

  13

  Monty was out of his office. I left a message on his voicemail and dialed Carp’s cell, popping the last bit of buttered toast in my mouth as I dropped down to sit on my bed, taking a deep inhale of the mixed smell of hunter, leather, and Were that reminded me again of Saul. My hair dripped. I’d taken a few minutes to reattach all the loose charms, braiding some in with red thread, tying others close to the scalp, and shaking my head to hear the reassuring jingle.

  It rang twice. “Carper,” he snarled, the sound of open car windows roaring behind him.

  “It’s Jill. You bellowed?”

  A full five seconds of silence, and the wind-noise cut down. He must have rolled up his window. “I need to see you. Somewhere private.”

  Well, miracles never cease. “I’m a married woman, Carp. What’s up?”

  “No shit, Kismet. It’s serious, and I need to see you. Now.” Did he actually sound nervous? It wasn’t like him at all.

  I juggled everything in my head, sighed. “Is it a case?”

  “It’s the Kutchner case.”

  My heart gave a bounce, my innards quivered, and I let out a short sound that might have been a curse if I hadn’t swallowed the last half of it with my mostly chewed toast. Now this is really too much, Carp. Goddammit. “Where?”

  “You know Picaro’s, on Fourth?”

  It was downtown, a little hole-in-the-wall bar. I was going to have to wear my replacement trenchcoat. “I can be there in half an hour. Care to drop me a clue?”

  “Not without seeing you. Try to be inconspicuous.”

  I’m a hunter, Carp. I could be standing right next to you and you wouldn’t know, if I wanted it that way. “I’m bringing a friend.”

  “Come alone.”

  You know, I would if people weren’t trying cut me in half with machine-gun fire or sic scurf on me. A shiver of reaction cooled along my skin, the scar a hard quiescent knot. “Can’t. Don’t worry, it’s one of my people.”

  “Fine.” Bad-tempered as usual, he hung up, but not before I heard the click of a lighter and a sharp inhale.

  I hope he’s not driving, smoking, and juggling a cell phone. I laid the phone back in its charger. “What the hell is going on?”

  The empty air of my bedroom gave no answers. I heard Theron humming as he did dishes, rattling and clinking and sounding so much like Saul tears rose in my throat again.

  Jesus. How was it possible to miss someone this much?

  I touched the soiled leather of the cuff. He’d left me three, each custom-made with snapping buckles, fitting close to the wrist. This was the last one. I wondered if he’d thought he was going to be home sooner.

  Two Weres were dead. Someone had tried to kill me, or kill them. A whole mess of old, contagious scurf—and a hellbreed. Which was like seeing a snake in a beehive—something you don’t expect at all.

  What did it mean?

  I don’t know. But I’m damn well going to find out.

  To get into Picaro’s, you have to go down two flights of stairs from a plain door on the blank side of a skyscraper set in a hill. The main part of the bar doubles as a restaurant, a dim little hole with frayed carpet, sticky-tabled red vinyl booths, and stained-glass lamps hanging everywhere.

  Picaro’s main claim to fame is their two-dollar drink specials, and large cheap breakfasts you can nurse a hangover on. Of course, they’re nothing compared to a Were’s cooking, but you take what you can get.

  I was actually even contemplating a second breakfast as I slid into the booth opposite Carper, my replacement trench creaking as it folded. There were deep shadows under the deet’s blue eyes, and he’d taken off his tweed jacket. An actual tweed jacket, for Christ’s sake. He looked like an English professor in mufti, except for the shoulder holster and the flat oily stare of a cop who’s seen too much. He was also scruffy, sandy stubble standing out on his chin and the flat planes of his cheeks. Carp’s face is built like a skewed skyscraper, all angles that should work together but don’t. He’s handsome in the untraditional way of a character actor.

  Theron dropped into the booth right next to me, and Carp opened his big mouth.
r />   “Jesus. Are you dating another one of those fur rugs?”

  I know you like ruffling Saul’s fur, but this is different. I winced, and opened my mouth to reply. The Were beat me to it.

  Theron gave him a wide, toothy, sunny smile. “Maybe she just likes a little more than skinboys can give, Officer.”

  For Christ’s sake. Save me from males and their pissing contests. “It’s Detective, Theron. And you’re looking at my temporary backup, Carp. Which means he’s deputized, and technically fellow law enforcement. So quit yanking his chain and tell me what’s on your tiny little mind. Sunlight’s wasting.” And I have other business to handle. Like finding out who’s trying to kill me, and why. If I knew one, I’d know the other.

  Carp cupped his coffee in both palms, studying Theron. His gaze flicked to me, and he let out a loose, gusty sigh. The waitress came back, stepping into our armed truce with a bored “whaddalya have?”

  I asked for orange juice and two orders of bacon, extra-crispy. Theron politely declined.

  The place was deserted except for the bar, where a blue haze of cigarette smoke whirled slowly. A few anonymous male shapes sat in the cloudbank, and the waitress became a ghost among them as she headed for the kitchen. I touched the fork laid at my place—cheap metal, poorly stamped. “So why don’t you want anyone seeing you with me? Afraid people might start to talk?” I meant it as light banter, but Carp’s face immediately set itself hard like he’d sucked on a lemon.

  He reached under the table. Theron stiffened, an infinitely small movement, and I wanted to roll my eyes. Carp’s hand came up holding nothing but his badge, which he flipped open and set on the table between us.

  “I’m Internal Affairs.” He said it baldly, like it was a bad taste in his mouth. Maybe it was. “I had a hell of a time getting away this morning, but I had to talk to you. What were you doing at the Kutchner widow’s place, Jill?”

  I studied him for a few moments. Internal Affairs? No wonder you’re paranoid. Still, Carp was a good cop with a finely-tuned sense of the weird; he knew when to call me in and get out of my way.