This time I steeled myself, and looked with both smart and dumb eye. My pager quit buzzing, blessedly.
A misshapen hunk sat in the middle of the gouged linoleum, dripping with corruption. It was veiled with a fall of black cloth, but it was almost certainly a chunk of a hangman’s tree. Various shapes squatted on its surface—a chalice of clotted scum, a claw from no creature that walked under the sun, other things whose intent was only to maim and harm. The altar wasn’t finished, but the atmosphere here was already so poisoned they probably wouldn’t need much. All it would take is the slightest push to gap the borders between here and somewhere else the smallest bit, and something could step through.
There were no vulnerable victims waiting in here, but the febrile boiling of agony, misery, hatred, and just plain nastiness here would be snack enough to feed something fresh out of Hell. There was no scoring on the walls, no drawn circle, and no parchment candles on wrought-iron pillars yet.
But there were four lumps of meat on the black material draped over the block. Small lumps, each about the size of a woman’s fist.
I knew what they were. The rest of the organs missing from the student nurses would be at other evocation sites.
I cannot hold back the tide forever.
There’s nothing that can tear down the walls between here and Hell like innocent flesh. I knew what the important part of the autopsy would say. I’d even bet my next municipal check that the four student nurses were all virgins, too.
My city was in deep trouble.
10
I couldn’t get out of Henderson Hill fast enough. The caretaker shuffled away, his thin shoulders slumped under his coveralls, and I’d spent a few minutes of effort to coax whispering-blue banefire off my fingers. The last time I’d seen an altar like this, I’d been flinging yellow hellfire around, razing an entire airfield. It had taken a long time and concerted effort to call out the banefire instead.
Hellfire near an evocation altar is such a bad idea, there are barely words for it. The banefire struggled under the weight of contamination in the air, but finally I coaxed a wisp of blue up from my right-hand fingers. Once it had a good foothold, wreathing my hand in pale blue flames, singing in their hissing little whispers, I cast it at the altar. A blue streak roared foaming from my fingers and hit the nastiness squarely. It would burn clean and leave a thin layer of blessing in its wake, and if it spread to the surrounding rooms, so much the better.
I was seriously considering, like I did each time, burning down the entire goddamn place. But there was no way of doing it without hellfire, and like I said, bad bad idea.
Hellfire feeds on rage. It would be the psychic equivalent of a nuclear weapon, and it would leave even worse fallout.
I got out through the gate and stood for a moment, head down, listening to the chatters and whispers fading behind me. My skin crawled, not just from the dried blood, hellbreed ick, and other gunk coating me. The Talisman was quiescent, nestling under the rags of my shirt. Dawn was underway, the sky lightening to gray in the east and the first flush of color in a thin line along the horizon.
My pager went off again. I almost swore, checked the bezoar one more time, and dug the little electronic gadget out. Clicked back through the calls, once more wishing I could carry a cell phone. But no dice—pagers have a greater tolerance for sorcery, and with as much as I’m half-drowned, electrocuted, or other fun things, replacing a cell is a prohibitive expense. Especially since it’s the police department that pays for it. Monty would have a cow if this one didn’t last more than two weeks; I’d been having a bad run of it lately.
Montaigne was, in fact, calling me right now. Twice. I had a bad feeling about this.
I frowned. Galina, calling me. Several times. The pager quit vibrating, but immediately lit up again.
I juggled priorities for a moment. The autopsies wouldn’t be done for hours, even with a rush on them. I had the bezoar and the capability of tracking that masked ’breed, plus I could figure out where he’d gone to ground without too much trouble. I needed to start digging to find out where the other evocation sites were, because bringing a high-class hellbreed through isn’t something you undertake without a few planned backups.
I’d promised Saul breakfast. And if Galina was spamming my pager, something big was happening.
But first, I had to check in with Monty.
It never rains but it pours.
I cursed internally. Made a note to pick up my car from Galina’s this morning, no matter what else was going on. And picked myself up into a weary run.
I must know where every working pay phone in the entire city is. When that infrastructure goes the way of the dodo, I’m either going to have to start carrying a cell and eat the cost of constantly replacing it, or I’m going to have to figure something out. Breaking and entering to use people’s phones was the option I was most sneakingly in favor of, but one I suspected I’d never actually engage in. There are enough places open even in the dead time of early morning that I’d probably have no problem.
The closest phone was on Henderson after it jagged past Marivala Boulevard, in the corner of a stop-and-rob’s cracked, dirty parking lot. The entire city had gone still, Santa Luz sinking into weariness before false dawn started coloring the eastern horizon and the nightside retreated glaring to its holes and burrows. I was hoping this wasn’t going to be too complex, that Monty was just catching me up on forensics or something… but intuition as well as logic told me I was just trying to make myself feel better.
Oh, Jillybean, you are having one hell of a night, aren’t you?
I had to stop and breathe before I plugged in my calling-card number, then dialed Montaigne.
“What?” he barked right after the second ring. He must’ve been sitting on the damn thing.
“It’s me.” I didn’t have to work to sound tired. “What’ve you got?”
“Jesus Christ.” Click of a lighter, a puffing inhale-exhale. He was smoking a cigarillo, dammit. In his office, despite the fact that all public buildings were supposed to be tobacco-free as of two months ago. And despite the doctor telling him to lay off.
I couldn’t help myself. “Your wife’s not going to like you smoking, Monty.”
“Stay out of my marriage, Kismet.” And boy, did he sound grim. I checked the sky again, decided it was about four in the morning, and winced inwardly. “Got a mass grave just outside the city limits. At least seven contenders, probably more. Weird work.”
Crap. I thought about it for a second. “Bodies ripped up, some organs missing?”
“Oh yeah. They’re crispy, too. Parks & Rec guy stumbled over it; Rosie and Paloma are out there. Rosie called in, said to get you on the wire and send her some fucking backup.”
Jesus. I should’ve expected this. “Where?”
“Follow the Strip south and stop when you see the flashing lights. Do it as fast as you can, Channel Four’s not there yet, but it’s only a matter of time. Jesus.” Another pause, and I heard him swallow. Probably coffee. At least, I hoped it was coffee. “Rosie says it’s fragrant, too. Just a barrel of roses to start the day with.”
“So you’re in early, instead of late? When did that start?”
“I ain’t got home yet, Kismet. Go take a look at this so I can fucking get there, okay?”
“Temper, temper.” But he had a point, for something like this he was in his office playing central control until I got there and cleared the scene. “Cheer up, Montaigne. It could be a serial killer. A normal one.”
His reply was unrepeatable, and he banged the phone down.
I set the receiver down with a grimace. Rubbed at my forehead, dried blood and gunk crackling off my skin. “Goddammit.” It was just a whisper. Dawn was coming up fast.
I was going to have to catch a cab.
11
The driver—a placid, tired, middle-aged Chicano I’d flagged down on Marivala—pulled over onto the shoulder, coming to a neat stop just behind a black-and-whit
e with flashers lit up. They had two of the four lanes going south out of town blocked off, and it looked like Christmas had come early. His license said Paloulian, and I didn’t ask how he’d ended up with a Greek surname. In return, he barely even looked at me. Relying on sheer outrageousness to slide under the notice of normal people has its benefits. Besides, any cabdriver on shift long enough to greet false dawn sees a lot of weird.
Paloulian threw his smoking Camel butt out the window as soon as I closed the back door. His tires chirped as he took off, and the IN SERVICE bar on top of his cab flicked out. He slewed left to get through the empty lanes and took the exit for the industrial park, probably meaning to turn around and head back north.
Thank God there was no traffic just yet, at least not going this direction. And people complain about my driving.
There were at least six black-and-whites, a couple of nondescripts with bubble lights going, and yellow tape fluttering. A Parks & Rec truck sat in the middle, a big white goose among the flock.
All the activity was past the ditch, in a stand of trashwood serving as a modesty screen. The Strip is pretty lonely right here, for all that a regular patrol goes through on the freeway to discourage drag racers. It doesn’t work; pretty much twice a month in summer there’s a bad bustup right where the freeway curves after coming out of downtown.
This part of the Strip was past where the races usually end. The city limit’s about a half mile back, the freeway arrowing for the desert and the steadily lightening horizon in a straight gray line. There are still exits for fast food, industrial parks, or tiny suburbs, but right here there was nothing but concrete, the divider between northbound and southbound, and a strip of greenery on either side surviving on periodic runoff from uphill, where blank fences stood scrawled with graffiti. Greenery is a deceptive term; it’s mostly low slashwood and yellow weeds. Life clings to every breath of water out here, and clings hard.
I cocked my head. Dawn was coming fast, like a brass bell ringing along the eastern horizon. I’d be late for breakfast.
The question was, just how late?
I stalked for the carnival lights. The blue standing guard stiffened. It was “Crosseye” Garcia, so called to differentiate him from the twenty or so other Garcias on the force. Squat and balding, he didn’t quite have a lazy eye, but it was close. If my own mismatched gaze makes people nervous, Crosseye’s just makes them inclined to take him less seriously.
He doesn’t quite have something to prove, but it’s close.
“Hey, Garcia.” I settled for a closed-mouth smile. “Where’s Rosie?”
He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “That way, with fuckin’ Paloma. Take a barf bag. It’s nice an’ juicy.”
“I heard they were crisped.”
“Some. Go take a look, freakshow.”
Considering Crosseye was only slightly less foulmouthed than “Fuckitall” Ramon, who never opened his mouth without an obscenity of breathtaking creativity slipping loose, I suppose I should’ve taken it as a compliment. I skirted the closest car and headed down the shoulder. “You’ve got such a winning personality. Goes with your smile.”
His reply was unrepeatable. We were all in such a good mood this morning.
I hopped the ditch and headed into the slashwood. Murmuring, someone’s voice raised in an exclamation of disgust. And something else.
A breath of smoky, corruption-laden perfume.
Pulse, respiration, my stride didn’t change. But my right hand reached down, drew the gun free. Another high sharp note of disgust, and I heard Rosenfeld, sharp as a new brass tack, saying something about Forensics. Hunter’s silence folded over me—the deep cloak of quiet that an apprentice learns early, because moving soundlessly is a survival skill.
There was a screen of brush along the top rim of a declivity. I edged along it to find the right angle. If there was a mass grave down there, I couldn’t smell it. Which was bad.
I slid through the brush, following the drift of the corruption. This was a goddamn fire risk right next to the freeway. Maybe Parks & Rec had been out here on a preliminary sweep before they cleared it.
At the darkest time before dawn? Come on, Jill. Something’s wrong here.
I kept the gun low as I stepped out of the brush.
I had a few seconds before they spotted me. Rosenfeld had lost more weight; she was just on the edge between looking good and stick-scary. She was on the far side of the site, her lantern jaw sticking out even more stubbornly than usual. Next to her, Ricky Paloma crouched easily, peering at something. Between us lay a shallow depression full of tangled shapes I didn’t look too closely at yet. Blues ringed the scene, all of them recognizable. I spotted the one stranger before he saw me, and the silence over me deepened.
He wore a taupe-and-green Parks & Rec coverall. Weed-thin, a thatch of dark hair—but his shoes were wrong. They were wingtips, not work boots. And the perfume of a hellbreed bargain clung to him.
Luck wasn’t with me. He twitched, dark eyes rolling like glass marbles, maybe sensing a current of bloodlust in the predawn quiet. He saw me, but by then I was already moving. I cleared the fresh-scraped hole and twisted charred bodies in one leap, and I would have been on him like white on rice except for his immediate flinching backward leap. As it was, I jerked and my left boot smacked him in the head with a sound like a melon dropped on an icy sidewalk before he landed.
Rosenfeld yelled. Someone else cursed. The Trader went down in a heap, arms and legs bending oddly, and rolled. Dirt exploded up, and I got a stomach-loosening noseful of grave smell and the bad-pork stench of charred bodies before I hit again, just bare inches away from his scrambling.
“Kismet!” Rosenfeld yelled, but the cry was choked off midway as the Trader lunged up to kneeling, hands splayed on the ground and knees wide akimbo, his lip lifting and the yellowing stubs of his teeth cracking as he growled.
The gun roared. I had to not only get him down and cuff him for questioning, but I had to keep him away from the cops he had been standing around bullshitting with.
The defenseless mortal cops.
Lured them here, maybe. Or lured me. What the hell?
That’s why the whip flashed forward, oddly quiet until it broke the shell of my silence; then silver-laced flechettes didn’t jingle but cracked like silver lightning. They tore across his chest, and he howled.
I screamed, too, a short cry like a falcon’s, and the gun was tracking him. He scrambled aside, but a single shot forced him into scrabbling to the right and back, away from my cops. He’d bargained for speed and probably strength, but I anticipated, and he jagged right into my next shot.
Which blew out his knee. The joint evaporated in a smear of red oatmeal flecked with white bone and the black lacing of hellbreed corruption. I was on him in a hot heartbeat, the whip doubled and slipping around his neck like it belonged there, my knee in his back and the other knee on his left arm. He tried to heave up, but when you lock the arm that high up they just have no goddamn leverage.
God bless jujitsu. Leverage is good.
“Motherfucker!” I yelled, cutting through the noise that was his howling and the screams of several grown men. I yanked back on the whip, twisting it, and choked him off. That brought down the volume somewhat. “Motherfucking cocksucking son of a bitch, what the fuck are you doing here? Huh? Having yourself some fun? Huh? What the fuck are you doing here?”
Rosie was making a lot of noise. I snapped a glance over my shoulder, just to make sure there wasn’t anything nightside-ish to worry about. Nope, she was just getting the boys back, shoving Paloma in front of her and yelling like a battlefield general. She was getting them into a firing line, and while I appreciated that, I was going to have to kick her ass for keeping herself and other cops in danger while I was working.
Just as soon as I took care of this fucker here. Which reminded me: I needed to ease up on the whip, or he was going to collect his eternal reward without telling me what he knew.
And w
e couldn’t have that, now could we.
I untwisted the taut leather a little bit, listened to him wheeze. Snapped another glance back. Rosie had the blues spread out, some of them kneeling, their backs to the brush. “Rosenfeld!” I yelled. “Get them back to the road, goddammit!”
The Trader was shuddering. It took me a second or two to realize he was laughing. Cold fury boiled through me, I choked him a little, and the laughter cut off. Creaking leather loosened when I figured I’d shown him there was nothing funny about the situation.
I heard Rosie and the others moving. Thank God. “Now.” I kept my balance. “Tell me what you’re doing here, Trader, and I’ll grant you a clean death.”
Another weird, quacking laugh. Shaking his whole body like a seizure. If he felt his shattered knee, he didn’t show it. “Hunter,” he crooned, through a mouthful of dirt. I hoped I’d broken a few teeth. “He said you’d be here. This is a gift. His gift to you.”
“Who?” No answer, so I choked up again a little until his body started juddering not with laughter but with panic. He was attached to his skin, this Trader. I let up a little. “Who?”
“Him.” A retching, he spat dirt and snot and saliva. “The table’s laid, the tide is turned. You’re dead. You just don’t know it.”
Oh, please. Like I don’t hear that or some variant every day. “The bodies. Who are they? Where are they from? It’s not like I won’t find out, so buy yourself some time. Make it easier on yourself.”
He writhed under me, yellow grass smoking and flattening away as my aura hardened. He was strong, but he had no leverage. What the hell was he doing here?
A low creaking sssssssssss from behind me jerked my head around. The Trader started laughing again.
A thin line of blue hellfire crawled between the corpses, sharp little fingers poking and prodding. The bodies twisted and jerked, and the curse laid on them triggered with a fwoosh of flame. The Trader tried to heave me off, I shoved him back down and twisted the whip again to cut off that goddamn screeching laughter.