Night Shift

  What the flying fuck ?

  I was in a battered extra-large Santa Luz Warriors T-shirt, again, not usual. There was no knife under my pillow, but one of my guns lay on the milk-crate next to my bed, which now sported a red bandanna as covering and a lamp I'd been meaning to fix.

  I grabbed the gun, then touched the lamp. It flicked on, warm electric light flooding my suddenly strange bedroom.

  It looked like the floor had been waxed or something, for God's sake.

  Hello, Toto? Are we still in Kansas?

  I slid my feet out of my warm nest. They met cold hardwood, I rocked up to my feet—and collapsed back down again, my head pounding and my muscles rebelling. I'd run myself into the ground. I'd need food to get back up, something to digest so I could fuel my body's now-unnatural ability to heal.

  I heard footsteps, deliberately loud, and raised the gun. It pays to be cautious. The warehouse echoed, and my heart thudded in my ears. Copper lay against my palate, the taste of fear.

  Saul Dustcircle appeared in my bedroom door. He was barefoot, in jeans and the same black T-shirt. His hair was pulled back from his face with two small braids on either side, the rest of it loose against his shoulders. His dark eyes passed over me once, not pausing at the gun.

  He carried, of all things, a plastic tray I used for holding bullets while I refilled clips, so they didn't roll around.

  Steam rose from it, and I smelled coffee and maple syrup.

  If that wasn't enough, the first thing he said was utterly confusing, too.

  "Breakfast." His voice was neutral enough. "And an apology."

  I'll admit it. I goggled at him, my jaw dropping but the gun remaining steady.

  "I was rude to you. I shouldn't have been; my mother raised me better. I was just tired and frustrated. We've been chasing this bastard a long time, and he keeps slipping through my fingers." His mouth turned down at both corners, bitterly, but his eyes still held mine. "You're a hunter, and a good friend to Weres. I apologize."

  I still stared, my jaw suspiciously loose. Of all the things I've heard in my life, a Were apology is high on the "real seldom" list. They don't often say the words out loud.

  But when they do, they mean them.

  He watched me for another few moments before one corner of his mouth quirked. His eyebrow raised.

  "Truce?" He indicated the tray, lifting it slightly, and I set the gun down on the milk crate with a click, suddenly ashamed of myself.

  "Jesus." My voice cracked. "How long have I been out? How's Harp?"

  "Thirty-six hours or so. Harp's fine, she and Dominic just left to meet with some of the Norte Luz lionesses.

  Captain Montaigne called to make sure you were all right, and some guy named Avery called twice and left messages for you. Something about missing a beer date." He approached with the tray. "You need to eat first. You passed out from blood loss and exhaustion, and you look like you've been pushing yourself lately. If you go killcrazy it won't help us."

  Only Weres go killcrazy. On us hunters it's called suicidal I swallowed the words. Harp was okay. Thank God.

  The tray held a plate of buckwheat pancakes, buttered and drenched in syrup, toast with strawberry jam, a mound of scrambled eggs, and six strips of bacon. There was a huge glass of orange juice, and a coffee cup that smelled absurdly good. Not to mention the mint sprig to garnish everything, and the decoratively cut strawberry fanned out in thin slices.

  "Holy Christ." I managed to sound horrified. "Where did you—"

  "Harp and I went shopping. You had nothing but ketchup and some green lump I think was achieving sentience in your fridge. I figured the least I could do was clean up a bit around here and make you something to eat—I don't know how you like your eggs, so I scrambled them. Come on, it won't stay hot forever. Scoot back."

  He even fluffed the goddamn pillows and settled the tray across my knees. Then he turned around, without so much as another word, and left the room with a long loping stride.

  I stared down at the food. Wow. Most Weres, especially the males, are pretty domestic. It was a peace offering instead of a violation for him to clean up my house, since he wouldn't understand much about personal property—

  again, being Were. And the food… if I didn't trust the verbal apology, the food would have convinced me.

  It looked ridiculously good, and I started in. It tasted even better than it looked, and I was munching on nice crispy bacon and feeling my blood sugar level rise slowly but surely when he came back, carrying a coffee cup and something that looked suspiciously like a stack of files. "When you're done." He laid them at the end of the bed just past my toes and settled down, cross-legged, on the floor a respectable distance away. His dark eyes half-lidded, and he relaxed abruptly into the peculiar lazy alertness of a Were.

  I took a gulp of the coffee and almost closed my eyes. Goddamn. Finished swallowing, and examined his face.

  "I'm sorry." The tray balanced itself on my knees, I cut myself another bite of pancake. "I wasn't very polite either.

  Guess I'm strung a little tight. It's been a bad year out here."

  He nodded. "Harp told me. About your teacher."

  The sharp pain in my chest was expected and natural now. I swallowed hard against it and took another bite.

  I chewed, and decided he had a nice face. Most Weres are handsome, at least, but he actually looked approachable.

  Like Theron at Micky's, who's a goddamn headache to have on a hunt but who manages to be good backup anyway. "Yeah? What else did she tell you?"

  "Not much." He grinned, acknowledging the uselessness of the words. "Just to keep your skin whole. Can't stand to lose another good hunter."

  So you've decided I 'm worthy of being called "hunter" instead of "hellbreed trash." My eyebrows rose. "Harp told you that?"

  He nodded, took another sip of coffee. His hair had reddish highlights, and his aura—plainly visible to my blue eye—swirled a little, different from a hellbreed's brackish stain. He was most likely a cat Were, he had that grace.

  I decided it was time to ask a few questions, or hopefully just get the conversation off the subject of me. "So where are you from?"

  "South Dakota way, 'round the Black Hills. I'm 'cougar."

  I would have guessed it anyway, from the tawny immobility of him. His face was a little broader than a panther Were's, but not as broad as a lion's, and his dark eyes held a gold tint that made me think of dappled shade along a muscular cat's side. He smelled healthy, a little like Dominic but muskier, with the edge of dry maleness boy Weres give off. Human testosterone smells slightly oilier than theirs, especially to my sensitive nose.

  "You're a ways from home."

  "Promised myself I'd get the rogue that did for my sister." His face changed a little. "She and Jean-François were friends, too."

  "I'm sorry." If it makes you feel any better, we'll get him. Nobody kills cops in my town and gets away with it.

  He shrugged, a fluid movement. "How are the eggs?"

  In other words, time for a subject change. "Good. I don't cook much." At all. "Don't have time."

  "I guessed as much." Silence fell, his eyes hooding and the staticky sound of a not-quite purr rumbling out from him. I finished most of everything, took a long draft of orange juice, and found my hands had stopped shaking.

  He got up to take the tray, and when he loped out of the room I scrambled from under the covers to get to the bathroom. I had to pee like nobody's business, and I wanted to get some clothes on. Just wearing a T-shirt was bad for my image, even if he was a Were.

  Chapter Thirteen

  "A New York hellbreed, connected to the rogue?" Harp chewed at her lower lip gently for a moment. "How far can you trust the information, Jill?"

  Sunlight fell in through the skylights, but the warehouse was cool, air conditioning and a small beneficial sorcery adding up to ward off the heat outside. I stretched, my back crackling as I reached for the sky. Then I leaned forward, my legs out to either si
de, almost touching the floor. It wasn't a perfect split but close enough, and I needed the stretch. The stack of files stood just beyond my fingertips as I exhaled, letting my neck relax. I spoke into the floor, shutting my eyes. "He doesn't give me information unless it's true. That's the agreement. If he lies to me, we renegotiate and I get the upper hand. He doesn't want that." My toes pointed, I shuddered, relaxing into the stretch again. "I'm beginning to think there's more to this story, though."

  "How so?" Dominic lay on the couch, one arm flung over his eyes. He didn't look good, dark circles under his eyes and his face hollowed out. It was probably Harp getting hit that did it.

  Weres are serious about their mates. They have no conception of civil or religious marriage; they simply pick their mates and settle down. I've never seen a Were mating that isn't happy. Like so many other things, they do it in a way far more humane and relaxed than humans have ever learned.

  "I looked through your files. There's a pattern. First there's the rogue kill, then there are these other bodies—but the other bodies only show up with someone disturbing the Were. We have a rogue, killing for meat in an irregular cycle, and someone else killing whenever someone disturbs him." I exhaled again, then inhaled, bringing myself up and bending over my right knee, the leather of my pants creaking slightly against the floor. My forehead touched my knee. "The bodies we just found were a regular rogue kill. Four bodies, muscle meat gone, faces missing—but the faces weren't Were work, those were hellbreed claws—and bones chewed. The cops were mostly rogue kills—except the rookie. He's an exception, not only because he's still alive. A rogue won't tear off the top of a car to get at prey; it'll take opportune bits of meat."

  "Humans," Harp corrected softly. Dishes clinked in the kitchen—Dustcircle was washing up, or cooking something.

  Nice of him.

  "Humans," I agreed. "The point is, something peeled open that car and slashed at him to kill him quick and messy.

  It's a hellbreed kill."

  Dominic perked up. "The hellbreed's covering a rogue's tracks?"

  "Or trying to." I straightened, my eyes still closed, and bent over my left leg. My Dies Irae T-shirt rode up, a finger of coolness along my lower back, my breasts pressed against my thigh. A knife-hilt jabbed into my ribs again. "And this hellbreed—Cenci—is desperate enough to come out during the day and tangle with a hunter and two Weres."

  "Suicidal," Dominic muttered.

  I pushed myself up and brought my bare soles together, then leaned down, feeling the stretch in the insides of my thighs. "Not necessarily. Who expects a hellbreed to attack during the day? If indeed she intended to attack, which I'm not convinced of."

  That got Dominic's attention. "You're right. She was hanging out up there like she wanted to stay hidden."

  I shrugged. "She almost made chow mein out of Harp, and if I'd been down with the bodies and tangled up trying to keep the humans out of her way she'd have gotten away scot-free, maybe with both of you dead."

  Dustcircle came around the breakfast bar, wiping his hands on a towel. "Tell me this one again, where Harp gets bitch-smacked by a hellgirl." He was trying for levity, but it didn't go well with his deadly set face. "Because, you know, that never gets old."

  Harper stuck her tongue out at him, a thrumming growl rattling the air. But it was a playful sound, and she went back to looking at the stack of files with a line between her eyebrows. That thoughtful look, when she seemed distracted, was when she was most dangerous.

  "Shut up." Dominic sighed, sinking into the couch. "I'd have been mincemeat too, if it wasn't for Jill. Christ."

  "Glad to be of service. Besides, I'd hate to break in a new set of Feebs." I sighed, leaned forward again, pressing my knees down. The stretch filled my hamstrings with prickles and I had to remind myself to breathe out and relax my lower back. "So, boys and girl, we have our work cut out for us."

  "Well, we've been chasing this asshole across the goddamn country, I'm ready for a change." Harp yawned. "I'm hungry." She actually sounded plaintive.

  "Working on it," Dustcircle replied, easily. "So what is the plan, then?"

  I was hoping you'd ask. The warehouse echoed and rang around us, its midday song of a building ticking and expanding under the sun's weight. "I put in a call to the hunters up in New York and ask them to dig, tell 'em it's urgent. Set them to finding out exactly why this Cenci left and what her story is, and why a high-up hellbreed out there is so all-fired set on getting her back—because something about that smells, there's a piece we're missing.

  You three go down in the barrio and rouse every Were you can, get them spreading through the city to flush the rogue out."

  "Wait a second—" Harp tried to dive in. If I was a Were I might have let her have the floor.

  But I'm not, so I rode right over the top of her. "Meanwhile, I start burning hellbreed holes out here until someone comes forward. She can't hide in my city without someone knowing about it, and I'm going to find out." I straightened and stretched my legs out, sighing. I was already beginning to feel more like myself. I didn't have to see Perry for another month.

  Small favors, but I'd take it.

  "Saul goes with you." Harp said it like it meant some-

  thing. "It's a rogue Were, and you're not going to handle one of those on your own. We leave the hellbreed to you, you leave the rogue to Saul."

  "I don't need a babysitter." I rose to my feet in a smooth wave, charms tinkling and shifting in my hair. "And where I'm going tonight, Weres aren't welcome."

  "So he'll wait outside in the car like a good little boy." Harp folded her arms and glared at me. "Don't make me sit on you, Jill. This is serious."

  "You think I don't know that? You got eviscerated, I got clipped, and we lost thirty-six hours because of it.

  Someone else could be dead right now, or dying. Or several someones." My voice rose a little, I took a deep breath and contained myself. "I might have to move quickly tonight, Harp. He won't be able to—"

  The country Were in question decided to pipe up. "I can keep up," Dustcircle said dryly. "Believe me, I don't want to tangle with any hellbreed. I'll leave them strictly to you, and stay out of your way. Now if you'll excuse me, I think the pot roast needs attending."

  Pot roast? Just what did they put in my fridge ? I folded my arms and glared back at Harp. But she had a point.

  Hellbreed I could handle—hopefully. A berserker Were gone over the edge and looking for meat I might not be able to take without losing some serious blood. If I ran across them both together a little backup might be nice.

  I really wanted to leave the country boy at home. But part of being a hunter is being allied with Weres, and the idiot had apologized. I'd be rude and stupid if I kept this up, and while I don't mind being the first, the second can get you killed.

  "Fine." I gave in. "You're right. Backup's far from the worst idea when it comes to something like this. But still, it bothers me. Why would a hellbreed be cleaning up after a rogue? It just doesn't make sense."

  "Unless she's not cleaning up, she's somehow directing him." Harp leaned back on her hands, looking relieved.

  Dominic let out another gusty sigh and began to purr, the throaty rumble shaking dust out of the couch. He was relaxing.

  I restrained the urge to pat his belly like a cat's, touched a knife-hilt instead. "If she was directing him, she'd have picked better targets. Killing cops in a hunter's town is just asking for trouble, and none of the victims have any nightside ties at all."

  "There is that." Dominic sighed.

  The phone shrilled, and I let out a curse, striding into my bedroom to pick it up. '"Lo." I stared at the fall of sunshine through a skylight, my abdominal muscles tightening as if expecting a punch. I was still sore as hell. The scar's channeling of etheric energy meant I healed a lot faster then even the ordinary hunter, but I never felt quite right while my body was knitting itself back together. The food helped, but the sheer animal part of the body doesn't bounce back s
o easily from a wound that could have been mortal.

  Each time you get close to death the body gets a little nervous.

  "Jill." It was Monty, again, and my back went cold and prickling with gooseflesh. But he had good news—sort of—for once. "Saddle up. The rookie's awake. You want to talk to him?"

  Chapter Fourteen

  Luz General rose like a brooding anthill. It isn't a Catholic hospital like Sisters of Mercy, but it's still an old building, and the ER doctors there know me. Eva and Benito usually brought their exorcism cases here to be checked out afterward, but they were probably in bed at this hour.

  "You scared the shit out of Forensics." Monty didn't mince words, running his hands back through his thinning hair. The bags under his eyes could give mine a run for their money. "You were bleeding pretty bad. What the fuck happened?"

  You're better off not knowing, Monty. "Do you really want me to tell you?" I matched his stride as we set off down the corridor. Harp and Dominic would finish dinner and head out into the barrio once dark fell, to gather the Weres and start hunting.

  Behind me, Dustcircle's footsteps were almost soundless. Whatever Monty thought of a big man in a brown leather jacket who looked like Crazy Horse in white-man drag shadowing li'l ol' me, he didn't say a word. I was oddly, pointlessly grateful. It's good to work with normal people who might not understand but don't actively fear you.

  It reminds you of what you're fighting and bleeding for every night on the streets.

  Monty sniffed. "Guess not. The Psych Department is earning its cookies on this one, that's for damn sure. I had to send four of the techs in for trauma counseling."

  "Seeing the unexpected does tend to knock the wind out of them. Sorry."

  "It wasn't you. It was the goddamn werewolves."

  "Cat Weres, Monty. Your pop culture is showing." My trenchcoat made a slight whooshing sound as we turned a corner. Fluorescent light coated the walls and linoleum floor. It was unforgiving glare, harsh and institutional. Or maybe the smell of Lysol and suffering in the air made it that way.