“I’m Protestant.”
For Christ’s sake, like that matters. “Then recite the Nicene. Or the goddamn Wheelwrights lineup, whatever works.” I straightened. “Go on. I’m going to look around.”
“What for?”
“For signs of what he’s mixed up in. You don’t just trip and fall and get a spirit in you, you know.” Even Possessors had to spend weeks of effort to worm their way into a human host.
“Ha ha. I suppose you’re not going to help me carry him?”
“Saul will.” I glanced over at my Were again. He nodded slightly, and his jaw was set. I couldn’t think why, until something warm and stinging dropped into my eyes. “Shit.” I touched my forehead, discovered a shallow slice. “I’m bleeding.” I actually sounded surprised.
Avery rolled his eyes. “Hanging around you is a never-ending adventure.”
It’s that way for me too. “Shut up and get this guy locked up before he does anything else.”
Bare fridge, bare cupboards—only a can of refried beans and a paper bag of Maseca, as well as a bottle of vinegar, for some reason. Threadbare clothes, two uniform shirts with the victim’s name embroidered on them. A pair of busted sneakers in the closet. It was like a monk’s cell.
I poked at the remnants of the cot. Was standing, staring at the twisted curlicues of metal and sharp sheared-off ends, when Saul reappeared, closing the door with a slight click. “Anything?”
“Nothing. If he’s a follower, he’s got it well hidden.”
“That wasn’t a Possessor.”
“Nope, it wasn’t. It was an orisha. Or a loa. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. Whatever branch of magic this guy’s into—”
“He didn’t smell like magic.” Saul paced forward, stopped at my shoulder, and looked down at the mess of the broken bed. “Why didn’t it cut the leather?”
“Leather was once living. And it has a greater elasticity when it comes to that kind of load. No, he didn’t smell like magic. And the Twins don’t usually take people without—”
“The Twins?”
“Yeah. You’ve heard of voodoo, right?” I glanced up. He looked blank. I tried again. “Santeria? Candomblé?”
“Santeria? A little. Popular down in the barrio.” A shadow of a grin eased the tension in his face. He hadn’t even had time to smear warpaint along his beautiful cheekbones, we’d been running so hard and fast. “I suppose now isn’t the time to admit I’m behind on my reading.”
This is why Weres run backup—they don’t have the breadth of knowledge a hunter does. They’re busy with their own spirits, their own particular sorceries. They rarely mess around with human magics.
Or human predators.
“Well, forget what you’ve seen in the movies. Voodoo is different. People don’t just make bargains with hellbreed—there’s a bunch of other inhuman intelligences out there. They make contact for all sorts of reasons. We have things spirits want, they have things we want, and everybody trades.”
“Got that. So, voodoo in particular? Santeria? Candomblé?” His pronunciation wasn’t off by much.
“Basically they interact with the same species of intelligence, but not the same groups. There’s some crossover, but they’re like different families. Spirits halfway between us and God, they say.” I had to choose what to tell him, boiling a complex subject down to a few sentences. “They’re not from Hell, and generally a practitioner is safe from being contaminated by a Possessor.” I frowned down at the shattered bed. “Though they’re not immune to physical harm from a hellbreed. Hell generally doesn’t mix with voodoo.” Now I was thinking out loud, good to do with him in the room.
“That’s not what’s bothering you, though.” His fingers touched my hip. He crowded a little closer, his heat wrapping around me. It felt nice.
I let out a long breath. “What’s bothering me is that the loa don’t step in where they’re not invited. At least, not without a good reason. And that was the Twins. At least, I’m reasonably sure it was one of their aspects.”
“Bad news?”
Well, not particularly good news. I shrugged. “We’ll see. If he was mixed up in something, we’ll find out. I’ll pick up the file from Avery and—”
“Dinner first?” It wasn’t like him to interrupt me.
I was tired, my head hurt, and I smelled like death warmed over. “Dinner first,” I agreed, scrubbing at the quick-drying blood on my face with my free hand. “This doesn’t look right. It makes my weird-o-meter tingle like mad.”
“That’s saying something. Come on. Let’s close this up and go home.”
“In a second.” I gave him a squeeze, freed myself, and checked the small bathroom. A bar of coal-tar soap in the ringed bathtub; toothbrush, box of baking soda, and a straight razor in a ceramic mug next to the sink.
The razor was a nice one, antique. Had to be 1920s, if my guess was good. A black scale with mother-of-pearl inlay, and a well-preserved steel, sharp as a suicide’s whisper. I flicked it open, saw the shadow of blue swirling under the surface of the metal. I blinked, and it was gone.
Now that’s interesting. I closed it carefully, dug in my pocket for a Ziploc baggie, and found one. Slid the straight razor in and sealed it. I wonder…
“What have you got there?” Saul said from the door.
“Clue.” I slipped the razor in my pocket, turned. My coat brushed the sink, and the mug clattered down into its rusted bowl, spilling the toothbrush as well. “Shit.”
“Which one? Clue or shit?” It was a pale attempt at humor, but one I appreciated.
“The former, catkin. Come on, I’m hungry.” And I need to work some of these nerves off. Maybe you’ll help me with that.
“Mh.” He let me out of the tiny, tiny bathroom. Hot air soughed through the broken windows. “Sure made a mess.”
“Can’t have an exorcism without breaking a few beds. If he’s clean we’ll figure something out.”
“And if he’s not?”
I didn’t have to work to sound tired. “Then a smashed-up apartment is the least of his worries.”
4
Dust swirled like oil, covering my city in waves. Autumn was moving across the mountains, the nights getting chillier and the days only slightly less hot. Soon the thunderstorms would start rolling in. But for now the far hills were tawny, and the clouds only stayed, threateningly, in the distance.
I hit the ground hard. Drew my knees up and shot my bare feet out, using the momentum to fuel a leap, propelling myself up. Whirled, my hand shooting out; he avoided it with a liquid jump to the side. My hand turned into a blade, chopped down.
He caught my wrist, brown fingers locking, and twisted, pulling back as he dropped into a crouch, swinging his center of gravity down and back. My arm almost yanked out of its socket, his foot smacked into my midriff as he hit the mats on his back, and I flew. Twisted in midair, doubling on myself like a gymnast, and landed a bare half-second before he was on me, a fast hard flurry of strikes and parries. Each one pushed aside, combat like a dance, no more than the barest touch needed to redirect, to score a hit, pulled at the last fraction of a second.
A hunter relies on firepower and sorcery to even the playing field. Still, we never fight Weres, even rogues. They’re just too quick, too powerful, too graceful. They have no corruption, like in a hellbreed, that a human can latch onto and track.
I’ve wondered about that. I wonder about a lot of things, the more I work this job.
I’m harder to hit now, and a hell of a lot harder to hurt. And it was times like this that the bargain seemed a better thing than just a stopgap measure until I could figure out how to send Perry screaming back to Hell.
Hard.
Saul drove me across the length of the sparring room, dying sunlight falling liquid through the windows, sweat on both of us and the sounds of deadly serious mock-combat echoing. I stamped my back foot down hard, dipped, and spun as he advanced on me, taking his legs out from under him. He hit hard. I leapt
and had my fist drawn back, my other hand tangled in his silver-scarred shorn hair.
“Give up?” I asked, sweetly.
A fine sheen of sweat highlighted each plane of his face. He blinked, a cat’s quick flicker of eyelids. “You haven’t won yet.”
I grinned, lips pulling back from teeth. “Wanna keep going? Best two out of three, or should we take this somewhere else?”
“Don’t know if you’re ready.” An answering grin, but his teeth kept well hidden.
Oh, I’m ready. I was ready for more than just sparring.
He heaved up, I pushed him back down. A few more seconds of wrestling ended with me still on top for once, the scar burning against my wrist and hot strength spilling through my bones. “It’s looking like you’re the one not ready, catkin.”
“Just biding my time.” He surged again, I pushed him down and realized my mistake a split second too late as his knees came up, my balance off by a critical fraction. A confused welter of movement, his forehead hit me in the mouth, and we rolled. Judo took over, and I began fighting in earnest. Reflex turned me into a dangerous snake writhing in his arms, but Saul knew how to handle this.
He always did. Or at least, he always had.
Stinging salt, my body suddenly just a welter of reaction. Saul held me down, silver chiming as his head dipped. Smell of leather, of cherry Charvil smoke, the good scent of a healthy male and the dry sleekness of catfur. We became one body with twisting limbs, rolling and seeking advantage, the floor a hard sea we only touched the surface of.
His mouth found mine, and it was no longer tossing on an ocean. It was a softness blooming, nailing me in place. My body loosened, tingles flooding me. It was a far cleaner feeling than the scar’s sick heat. I kissed him with my heart flooding out through the play of tongue and lips. He was purring, a rumble spreading out in waves. Each concentric circle of that purr stroked along my skin.
I broke away to take a breath. He nuzzled down my jawline, his mouth settling lower, just over my pulse. I quieted, the instinct of struggle sliding away.
“Saul,” I whispered.
“Hm?” He nipped, playfully, and I arched.
“I think we should take this somewhere else.” Like a bed. Like our bed.
“Here’s nice.” He nuzzled again. I squirmed in a new way.
“Saul—”
“Shhh.”
I stilled. He inhaled deeply. Let out the breath in a chuff, a warm spot on my vulnerable throat. My pulse strained toward him. I held still as long as I possibly could. Finally wriggled a little bit, and he didn’t immediately move. “What’s wrong?” My wrists, braceleted by his fingers, both throbbed. He was holding me a little too tightly.
“Nothing,” he whispered back. “I just want to hold you.”
Goddammit. I want something else entirely. But I breathed in, the urge retreating low in my pelvis, a dull ache spiking for a moment as bloodflow reversed itself. I’m going to be cranky if this keeps up. “Okay.” I swallowed, my throat moving against his lips. Another slight touch; it became very difficult to throttle my hormones back.
Mikhail had always been on me to control my pulse. I was much better at it than I ever had been, but one whiff of my cat-boy and the hormones started jacking me up again.
As problems went, it was a nice one.
Deep breathing. My eyes closed. The dark behind my lids was safe for once. Pushing the feeling down and away, reasserting control.
It used to be damn near every sparring session ended with us rolling around in an entirely different way to take the edge off. Since Saul had come back from the Rez with his hair cropped, it hadn’t happened. He wanted to be close, and wanted to be held.
I was okay with that. But the no-sex thing was beginning to take its toll.
God, Jill, how selfish can you be? His mom’s dead. For a Were, that’s like the end of the world. I kept my breathing slow and even. He didn’t let go. We stayed that way, knotted together. Frozen.
“I love you,” he finally said against my skin. “Jill?”
“I know that.” And I did. “I love you too, catkin. Just rest for a minute. It’s okay.” I told the persistent tension in the bottom of my belly to go away. I refuse to be dragged around by my clitoris, for God’s sake. Come on, Jill. Rule the body, the body doesn’t rule you.
“I…” Maddeningly, he stopped. We lay like that for another thirty seconds or so, hardwood floor holding me up but not in the most comfortable way.
He levered himself up all in a rush, easing over to the side and ending up cross-legged, sitting and watching me. Something flared in his dark eyes. I watched his face, alert for any sign.
“I’m sorry.” The little bottle of holy water on its silver chain around his neck shifted as he moved again, twitching, and stilled. “I thought…”
“Don’t worry about it.” I pushed myself up on my elbows. My T-shirt was rucked up, muscle moving under my abdominal skin, scars crisscrossing me. I’d put on a little more weight, but not a lot, and most of it more muscle. “Really.”
“Jill…” A helpless shrug. You wouldn’t think he was so much bigger than me, he looked so small and lost right now.
“Hey.” I scrambled, got my knees under me, threw my arms around him. “Hey, don’t. Please don’t. Don’t worry about it.”
“I just… I want to…” I’d never known him to be incoherent before. Quiet, yes. Unable to find the words?
No. That was my job, wasn’t it? To be the one who couldn’t express a single goddamn important thing. I searched for the right thing to say. “I know, baby. Don’t worry so much. It’s only temporary.”
His face fell. “You think so?” It wasn’t like him to sound so questioning. Or so tentative.
“Of course.” I said it far more firmly than I felt. Maybe it wasn’t temporary. Maybe he was just having second thoughts about marrying a hellbreed-tainted hunter. Weres don’t divorce—they just pick their mates and settle down—but Weres didn’t date hunters all that often either, and almost never got hitched to them.
So if this distance between us wasn’t temporary, would he go back to his tribe? As far as they were concerned the fireside ceremony with his mother officiating made me his mate. But… I was an anomaly, and a big one. If he went back to his tribe, I couldn’t see anyone protesting.
Least of all me. I’d commence and finish quiet internal bleeding before I said a peep. He deserved that much from me. If he really wanted to go back, I couldn’t blame him one bit.
God knows you’re not the easiest person in the world to live with, Jill. Buck up. Comfort him.
I held him, stroking his hair, touching the silver charms knotted in with red thread. Rubbed his nape just the way he liked it, scraping with my bitten-down nails. He eased a little and purred again, in fits and starts. “It’s okay,” I repeated. “Really and truly. It’s all okay.”
I don’t know what else I would have said if the doorbell hadn’t sounded loud enough to cut my ears in half. The thing goes off so seldom, I always forget between times that I have it deliberately loud. I like to hear everything scuttling in the warehouse’s walls, down to the smallest insect.
Not that I ever have many insects around, what with sorcery burning all through the paneling and studs, but you get the idea.
I straightened. There wasn’t a quiver or a peep from my hackles. My intuition was quiet, for once. “Huh.”
Which didn’t mean there wasn’t something bad at the door. It could be just a very quiet something bad. Then again, why would anything that valued its life and had mayhem on its mind ring my doorbell instead of just busting in to lay some hurt on me?
“Jill—” Saul made a small movement, like he wanted to catch my wrist.
“Hang on, catkin.” I bounced to my feet and stalked for the door. A convenient table on the way gave me a gun; I checked the magazine as I slipped cat-footed down the hall and toward the front door.
Nothing. Not even a tingle. A series of raps—human, I decid
ed, since they didn’t have the odd too-light or too-heavy edge that meant something else. I slid up to the door.
Breathing. Slightly asthmatic. A human pulse, just a little elevated. I jerked the door open, the locks parting like water.
A skinny Hispanic teenager smelling of Corona and refried beans stood on my front step. He wore 51 colors, a red bandanna knotted around one thin bicep. Beneath the edge of a hairnet keeping his dark, limp hair back, he had a face that belonged on an Aztec codex.
Or at least, his proud, bird-beak nose did. Sallow, pitted skin and a pair of dead, empty eyes showed why he’d never be handsome. I recognized him a split second after I realized what he was standing there for.
He had the look.
Oh, no. Not now. “What the hell do you want?”
Gilberto Rosario Gonzalez-Ayala blinked once. “Hola, bruja.”
“Hello, Señor Gonzalez-Ayala. I repeat, what the bloody blue blazes do you want?”
“Took me a while to find your house.” A ghost of good humor slid through the bottom of his dark, shark-flat eyes.
You’re not packing a .22, are you? I eyed him, taking in the flannel shirt, the torn jeans—and there it was under the stark flatness of his expression.
I knew that look. It was hunger.
Crap. I knew I hadn’t seen the last of this kid. “There’s a reason for that,” I said finally. Behind him, the street was empty. The warehouse is on the wrong side of the tracks, of course. I spent the first half of my life trying to get away from the wrong side, and now it’s where I spend most of my time. I barely have any idea what it’s like over on the decent side of town, unless I’m working a case with its tentacles up among the rich and powerful.
I think that’s referred to as irony.
He kept quiet, watching me. The sun was going down, dusk dyeing the west in bright pink and orange scarves. It was almost time to get ready for the night. Which would mean racking in more ammo and dropping by Galina’s, since she had another load of blessed silver for me. Before that, I had to do some quiet digging, starting with the file on Avery’s victim from the last night—