Angel Town

  We had Galina to thank. Pissing off a Sanctuary by attempting to burn down her house from the outside is not a good idea, and she’d done something Sancs only keep for emergencies—somehow opening a space down in her vaults for hunters to step through from other Sanctuaries. They’d been flooding into Santa Luz ever since I’d made that frantic phone call to Anya Devi, and with them working from the top and other hunters working from the bottom, as well as Galina’s control over the wrecked physical structure of her house, they’d broken through before dusk.

  It didn’t take a genius to figure out something big was going down, either. With the sky going dark and hellbreed and Traders popping up everywhere and making for the stadium, you only had to have half a brain in your head to figure out where the big event was going down.

  Montaigne was moaning about property damage. Anya filled out the reams of paperwork for a Major Paranormal Incident so we could get government funding. Flash floods had claimed a couple lives, whole sections of the barrio were burned down, the morgue was groaning at the seams from the citywide spree of murder, arson, and other hellbreed fun. Most of the other hunters had only stayed to help deal with the cleanup in the stadium—banefire and yellow tape, just to be sure, and the Lance reduced to cold, metallic ash scraped into an alabaster jar—and headed back to their cities.

  We’re not much on goodbyes. So mostly they just slid out of town after exchanging a few words with me or Devi.

  A few stayed. We’d lost four hunters and six Weres. One of the Weres was Rahel, and, oddly enough, that was the thing I cried over, hunched next to Saul’s bed with my face in my knees, snot slicking my upper lip as I shook and sobbed as quietly as possible. I bit the smooth, unmarked skin on my right wrist where a scar in the shape of a pair of lips had been pressed, where the gem had shivered free of my flesh. I was still stronger and faster than even the average hunter, but there was no mark on me.

  It’s not even the only pattern that matters.

  A bunch of ’breed had escaped through the hellmouth. Things were going to be hopping all over—but at least we’d staved off the big catastrophe. Argoth was no more, and there hadn’t been any other prepared hellmouths.

  Just the one. Just Perry’s lunge toward fleshly incarnation. With me as his linchpin and Argoth’s power behind him, what would he have been able to do?

  What wouldn’t he have done?

  Galina’s house and shop were fully rebuilt in a matter of eighteen hours, growing up from the ground like a mushroom. You can’t keep a Sanc down for long; even if Perry had succeeded in locking her temporarily inside her vault and making her mad. She stalked around muttering for a while, checking every inch of her house and making tiny adjustments while the walls shivered with redgold sheets of cascading energy.

  We all stayed out of her way, except for Theron.

  The dogsbody had vanished. One moment it was there at the stadium, the next…gone. I didn’t mention it to Devi.

  Gilberto was in the barrio with some other hunter apprentices and Leon Budge, helping the Weres rebuild. Mickey’s on Mayfair had gone down in a three-alarm fire—more hellbreed work—but they would rebuild.

  Saul slept through most of it, but every time he woke up I was at his bedside. Devi handled the rest. It was one more thing to thank her for. Every time I tried, though, she just rolled her eyes and waved an absinthe bottle at me, threatening to make me drink until I shut up.

  I shut up.

  When Saul woke, he ate. I carried tray after tray of food up the stairs, watched him fill out bit by bit, listened to his breathing.

  I did not think about Perry. Or about wings. I didn’t sleep much, either. Maybe I was afraid of dreaming.

  Hello? I asked the silence inside my chest. Who am I? Tell me who I am now.

  There was no answer.

  Anya tapped on the door one long, drowsy-sunny afternoon. Saul was sleeping deeply on his side, his hair streaked with tawny lights. I held a finger to my lips and tiptoed to the door. Left it open a crack so I could hear him.

  “You can take the truck,” Devi said bluntly, her bindi glimmering. She pushed a bead-weighted strand of hair behind her ear. “Get out, get away, get your head cleared out. There’s nothing you can do here.”

  I slumped against the wall, one hand on a knife hilt. She was tense, I realized, and I left my fingers fall away. “I’m a liability.” Flatly, daring her to disagree.

  “You need a vacation,” she corrected. “You’ve done enough for a while, and if you keep pushing you’re going to kill yourself. Or Saul. Or both, and I don’t want to deal with that.”

  I moved, restless. Looked at the floor. Our boots were placed just so, both of us braced and ready for action.

  “Mikhail,” I said finally. “He was there.”

  Her chin dipped a fraction, the scar down her right cheek flushing. “Maybe he was. I’m not going to fucking disagree. I’m not even going to speculate who or what those bird-things were. Nobody is.”

  At least, not out loud. Well, thank God for that. But I shivered. “One thing.”

  “Okay.” She didn’t even ask what. Just agreed.

  My heart twisted, I pushed down the pressure in my throat. “The Monde.” My throat was so dry. It was work to get the sounds out. “Burn it. Banefire. Please.”

  “Of course. Jill.” Her hand on my arm, brutally short fingernails digging in. Her duster made a sound, but my arms were bare; I wore only a T-shirt and a pair of spare leather pants. “Perry’s dead. Absolutely dead. He’s not coming back.”

  You promise? Because I wouldn’t put it past him. But she was a hunter, and I looked up. We held each other’s gaze for a long time, possibly an eternity. And I found out, gratefully, that I couldn’t lie to a fellow hunter.

  “I’m afraid either way, Devi,” I whispered.

  She nodded. There was nothing else to say, so she didn’t bother. She just let me fold forward until my head was on her shoulder, and the silent sobbing that shook me was like an earthquake. She stroked my hair, touching the sharp-spined charms he’d given me, and they didn’t bite either of us.

  Misericordia

  We left near dusk, stealing out like a pair of thieves. At least, we would have sneaked out if Galina hadn’t packed everything for us and Theron hadn’t cooked a gluttonous farewell meal, during which Anya stalked in reeking of smoke and nodded at me.

  The Monde was gutted. I didn’t even have to go check.

  She stayed only long enough for a silent beer before vanishing again. Gilberto sucked down a couple beers, too, ate a whole pan of tamales, and informed me he was going to be working in the barrio with the Weres, not to mention training with Devi, until I came back.

  “We still need to discuss you not following orders,” I muttered.

  He actually winked at me, and left with a couple bird Weres who didn’t look at me. They were probably kin of the deceased, but they said nothing.

  Weres don’t talk about their dead.

  I turned the key and the Chevy roared into life. Theron waved, then ducked back inside Galina’s store, the bell tinkling and gleaming as the door closed. I dropped the car into gear, popped the brake, and pulled out slowly even though the street was deserted. Turned left at the bottom of the slight hill, and began threading our way toward the freeway.

  When we reached Miguel and 147th, Saul let out a sigh.

  “We’ll stop over the state line for a snack.” I kept my eyes on the road. “And, you know, if you get tired…”

  “I’m fine, kitten.” Slightly irritated.

  “Here.” I dug in my pocket. The new coat was stiff, and I was hoping I could go for at least a week without it getting ripped or blown off me. We were supposed to be embarking on a vacation, but there were a lot of new hellbreed around.

  Trouble might find us.

  I fished out an unopened pack of Charvils. “Congrats. Galina says you can smoke again.”

  “Thank God,” he said with feeling, grabbing for it, and I surpri
sed myself by laughing. It was a harsh, cracked sound, but it felt good.

  The rearview mirror was alive with reflected sunset, but a shadow flickered in its depths. I stood on the brake and we skidded to a stop, Saul’s right hand slapped down on the dash.

  “Jill?” Quiet, but with a thread of a growl underneath.

  I hit the seat belt catch and hopped out, the gun held low and ready. Scanned the rooftops, every hair quivering, my nape crawling with gooseflesh. Readiness settled over me, and it felt so good I could have cried.

  A long lean shape flickered out of the alley to my right, and I sighed. Eased my finger off the trigger. “Christ.”

  Saul’s door opened. “Is that what I think it is?”

  The dogsbody’s fur gleamed golden. It was rail-thin, and it cringed as it trot-walked up to me, ears back and flat, stubby tail tucked as far as it could go. When it got within twenty feet, its front end came down, and it finished by literally crawling on its belly. The ugly thing heaved to a stop right in front of my boots, and I shut my eyes, listening to its quick wheezing breaths.

  Sweat stood out all over me. I lifted the gun, just a little.

  The dog whined. Softly. Saul was still and quiet, watching.

  I could just bend down, put the barrel against the thing’s domed head, and pull the trigger. Easy, so very easy.

  The dogsbody whined again, and shuddered. Its head was on my boots.

  No, Jill. It was my conscience, speaking loud and clear. You don’t get a chance to practice mercy every day.

  My cheeks were wet. I forced my eyes open. The sun was dying, and the usual wind from the river cut across the buildings, laden with desert sand and exhaust. The dog sighed, its eyes closed.

  I slid the gun back into its holster. Cleared my throat. Still, I sounded choked. “Put the gate down, will you?”

  Saul said nothing. His footsteps were soft, and the screech of the tailgate covered up whatever he might have muttered. I moved my toes and the dog looked up, its eyes wide and dark now. Not blue, and not pale, colorless crystalline. Relief tasted like thin copper; my mouth was full of it. I swiped at my nose with the back of my hand.

  “Get in,” I said harshly.

  The dog hauled itself up. It shambled to the end of the truck and made a graceless clumsy scrabble, its nails clicking on the bed as Saul slammed the gate. It settled down with a sigh, right next to the spare tire, and closed its weary eyes again.

  I got back in and slammed my own door. Saul was a moment behind me. The engine idled; someone had done some tune-up on it. Probably one of the Weres, Devi wasn’t a big car person and Leon held his own truck together with spit and baling wire.

  The click of a lighter sounded very loud in the cab’s hush. Saul inhaled and blew out a cloud of cherry-scented smoke.

  “I’m sorry,” I managed through the rock in my throat. “I can’t—”

  “I always wanted a hound.” Saul grabbed his seat belt. I mechanically followed suit.

  “I…” Everything I wanted to say balled up inside me, and he glanced over. A half smile curled up one corner of his mouth, and the pressure inside my chest eased. How the hell did he do that? Would I ever figure it out? “I thought cats don’t like dogs.” I dropped it into gear again, eased us forward toward Fifth Street and the freeway on-ramps.

  “That’s not a dog. It’s a hound. Completely different.” Saul snorted, took another drag. “Hope it eats Purina.”

  “Yeah.” I braked for the red light on Fifth, we rolled to a stop. Traffic was light here, for once, and if we were lucky we’d be out of town in twenty minutes. “Saul?”

  “Hmm?” He settled further, stretching his legs out.

  “I love you.”

  I’m surprised he heard me, because I couldn’t say it very loud. But his reply was clear and distinct.

  “I love you, too, kitten.”

  By the time we crossed the state line he’d scooted over to the middle seat belt, I had my arm around him, and we drove on into the desert night.

  Finis

  Glossary

  Arkeus: A roaming corruptor escaped from Hell.

  Banefire: A cleansing, sorcerous flame.

  Black Mist: A roaming psychic contagion; a symbiotic parasite inhabiting the host’s nervous system and bloodstream.

  Chutsharak: A Chaldean obscenity, loosely translated as “Oh, fuck.”

  Demon: A term loosely used to designate any nonhuman predator with sorcerous ability or a connection to Hell.

  Exorcism: Tearing loose a psychic parasite from its host.

  Hellbreed: A blanket term for a wide array of demons, half demons, or other species escaped or sent from Hell.

  Hellfire: The spectrum of sorcerous flame employed by hellbreed for a variety of uses.

  Hunter: A trained human who keeps the balance between the nightside and regular humans; extrahuman law enforcement.

  Imdarák: Shadowy former race who drove the Elder Gods from the physical plane, also called the Lords of the Trees.

  Martindale Squad: The FBI division responsible for tracking nightside crime across state lines and at the federal level; mostly staffed with hunters and Weres.

  Middle Way: Worshippers of Chaos, Middle Way adepts are usually sociopathic and sorcerous loners. Occasionally covens of Middle Way adepts will come together to control a territory or for a specific purpose.

  OtherSight: Second sight, the ability to see sorcerous energy. Can also mean precognition.

  Possessor: An insubstantial, low-class demon specializing in occupying and controlling humans; the prime reason for exorcists.

  Scurf: Also called nosferatim, a semipsychic viral infection responsible for legends of blood-hungry corpses, vampires, or nosferatu. Also, someone infected by the scurf virus.

  Sorrow: A worshipper of the Chaldean Elder Gods.

  Sorrows House: A House inhabited by Sorrows, with a vault for invocation or evocation of Elder Gods.

  Sorrows Mother: A high-ranking female of a Sorrows House.

  Talyn: A hellbreed, higher in rank than an arkeus or a Possessor, usually insubstantial due to the nature of the physical world.

  Trader: A human who makes a “deal” with a hellbreed, usually for worldly gain or power.

  Utt’huruk: A bird-headed demon.

  Were: Blanket term for several species who shapeshift into animal (for example, cougar, wolf, or spider) or half-animal (wererat or khentauri) form.

  A Note on Kismet

  Hopefully, after six books, I have once again earned a little leeway to bore you, dear Reader, with a closing word.

  Jill Kismet started out as a “what-if?” character. I was tired of paranormal heroes and heroines who had adversarial relationships with law enforcement. If there were things that went bump in the night, I reasoned, the cops (and other first responders) would be more than glad to have a specialist on hand to deal with them. I asked myself what that specialist might look like, what kind of person would be attracted to that type of job. How they would deal with the stress of the paranormal, what sort of enemies they might face.

  However, when Jill strolled onto the page in Hunter’s Prayer (which I actually wrote first) and began speaking, something much deeper than a “what if?” happened. It’s not the type of work you can put on a business card, she said, and I immediately felt a galvanic thrill along every nerve ending I owned. The more I wrote, the more it seemed Jill had just been waiting for me to sit still long enough to hear her. (I didn’t even know why she’d chosen the name “Kismet” until Flesh Circus.)

  It is very unfair of me to compare characters, though such comparisons are all but inevitable. I’m often asked about Jill and Dante Valentine: if they’re sisters, if they came from the same place. They most emphatically do not. Danny Valentine is a broken character. Jill is not broken—bent a little, maybe, but still whole. I think that is the critical difference between them, though they both have smart mouths and a love of weaponry, as well as a streak of sheer adrenaline-junkie
grade-A crazy.

  Hey, write what you know, right?

  Writing Kismet took me through some pretty dark times. I won’t deny that sometimes, writing a gruesome scene—the clinic in Hunter’s Prayer, the scurf-hole in Redemption Alley, the Cirque itself, at Carper’s graveside, the scrabble out of her own grave—I found solace in the fact that no matter how bad I had it, my character had it worse. I also can’t deny that many of the issues I wrestle with found an expression in her. As I noted in my goodbye essay on the Valentine series, any story about the possible future—or even about an alternate present—ends up saying far more about the writer than anything else. The filter the story passes through shapes it, for good or for ill.

  Oddly, the character who affected me the most over the Kismet series isn’t Jill. It’s Perry.

  If I did not feel physically filthy, if I didn’t crave a hot shower and scrubbing every time he wandered onto the page, I went back and dug deeper and did it again. As much as I loathe him, I ended up pitying him as well. That’s the tragedy of hellbreed—they carry their punishment with them. As Milton remarked, “The mind is its own place, and in itself / Can make a Heaven of Hell, a Hell of Heaven.”

  Human beings are very good at doing this as well.

  Other characters came from different places. Saul was, in my original plans, only on board for one book. He was supposed to be a cautionary tale about how people with itchy trigger fingers and vigilante complexes are hard to have relationships with. Nobody was more surprised than me when the two of them made it work. I am asked many questions about Saul, and I have always wanted to note that if Saul’s and Jill’s genders were reversed, the vast majority of those questions would never see the light of day. They would simply match a number of assumptions and be let go.