Night Shift

"I'm sorry." She really was contrite. Galina was a gentle soul, when all was said and done. It was why she was a Sanctuary. The Order is concerned with preservation and peace; it's a pity so few pass the entrance tests. Human nature, I guess.

"Don't worry." A sudden idea struck me. "Can you bless all the silver for my bullets like that? It's heap powerful mojo."

Her sleek hair brushed forward over her shoulders as she nodded. "I can do that. How much do you need?" She didn't mention what any fool could see: I was wearing my ammo belt and bandolier, preparing for serious trouble tonight.

If she'd seen the trunk of my Impala, she might have been even more worried. I thought about it for a second. Took a shaky breath in, my heartbeat finally smoothing out. "Enough to refill my ammo belt. I'll stop by tomorrow if I have time." Translation: if I'm not getting shot at, or dealing with another crisis. I gauged the fall of sunlight. Near dusk. In another forty-five minutes it would be night.

The thin taste of copper laid itself over my palate again, my body reacting both to the pain and to trouble coming. I was going to throw myself into something dangerous and potentially deadly tonight, and my animal instinct was having a difficult time with the thought. Dumb idiot body, getting all worked up before the fun started.

Going out to torch hellbreed holes is just asking for trouble. But sometimes asking for trouble heads off even deeper trouble up the road.

"All right." Her eyes moved past me, to Saul. "Anything you need, sir?" Her tone was polite, and I thought I caught a twinkle in her eyes. Theron and some of the others from the barrio were regular visitors; the Order and the Weres are old friends. Back when the churches both Catholic and Protestant used to hunt the furkind—not to mention the feathered and scaled—the Order was doing its best to protect them. European Weres had caught the worst of it, but those in the New World have suffered enough to remember in different ways.

On other continents Weres had—and have—different problems.

"Leather. A strip this long—" His hands shaped the air. "And these." He laid a handful of stuff on the counter. Probably meant for amulets, and Galina nodded, patting my shoulder.

"I'll ring you up in a moment. Are you sure you're okay, Jill?"

Don't sound so worried, kiddo. I do this for a living, remember? I've been trained. "Peachy keen." I tried not to sound sarcastic, turned away. When she got this soft and worried I felt an acutely uncomfortable need to reassure her, and always ended up sounding like an idiot. Safer just to change the subject. "I'll wait out in the car."

"Be safe," Galina called after me. I made a noise of assent—what can you say, to something like that? I couldn't be safe if I tried.

I didn't even know if I wanted to. I was, in my own special way, as much an adrenaline junkie as Avery. Or even more. Hard not to crave the jolt of staring down death or the feeling of skating the edge of terror and coming out on top, once you've tasted it.

The bell on the door's crossbar tinkled as I stepped outside the safety of her shop, taking in the street with a quick glance. My Impala sat at the curb obediently, her orange paint gleaming. My baby.

Dustcircle came out a few minutes later, carrying a small bag. He settled into the passenger's seat as I roused the engine. "Nice lady."

"Just don't start any trouble around her, and she stays that way." I shifted into first and pulled away from the curb. "Find everything you needed?"

"Yup." He paused as I accelerated, heading up Fairville. I'd catch Fifteenth and drop down toward Plaskény Square.

My first stop of the night. My heart thudded once under my ribs, settled back into its regular rhythm.

"Mind if I smoke?" He dug in his pocket and came up with a pack of Charvils. The smell of cherry tobacco reached my nose. It was oddly pleasant, especially since he'd stopped looming over me.

"Knock yourself out. Just roll down the window." I redid the upholstery in here, I don't want it reeking.

"Can I ask you something?"

Depends on what you ask, furboy. "Ask." I hit my turn signal, eased us around a corner.

"What happened to your teacher—Tolstoi, right? He was famous."

"Harp didn't tell you?" My heart leapt up into my throat, my palms suddenly slick. "He fell in love and she killed him." He fell in love with a Sorrow, she stole his amulet and tore his throat open. If I ever get the chance, I'm going to kill her. "The Weres gave him a pyre. He deserved it."

The pause was uncomfortable. I shifted, ramming the clutch, and opened my mouth again. "He was the only man who ever thought I was worth a damn."

Shut up, Jill. He doesn't need to hear that. He's just a visiting Were. Stop it. I reached forward, twisted the radio knob angrily, and got lucky. They were playing Jimi Hendrix, and I turned it up, accelerating, the sound of music and wind through the windows sweet enough to drown the lump in my throat.

Mostly.

The Diablo was a hellbreed hole on Plaskény, a long, low vaulted basement at the bottom of a flight of dusty, narrow, filth-drifted stairs. I poured a thin tidal wave of vodka on the bar before smashing the bottle, a nice theatrical touch. The screaming had stopped, but there were still moans and little clicking sounds from the arkeusI'd

just finished mostly dismembering. The clicks dissolved into a gurgle, and a titanic stink rose.

One more hell-thing dead, more or less.

Most of them were dead, draped over chairs, dissolving on top of tables. The dance floor was chaos, and my shoulders hurt. So did my face, I'd taken a shot right on the cheek that could have broken a human hunter's neck. My shirt was torn, and my long leather trench had ragged claw marks in it. It was just one rip short of the dustheap.

Burning a hellbreed hole is never easy, especially for just one hunter. The only good thing about it was I didn't have to watch where my shots went, eventually they'd hit someone who deserved it. When I used to do backup with Mikhail we'd have to be careful not to clip each other—but working with your teacher is like working with a telepath who anticipates, and if you're a good student you get to the point where you can anticipate too.

Or at least stay the hell out of the way.

I held the gun steady on the bartender, a thin ragged hellbreed with a shock of piebald hair and a twisted upper lip. Despite that, he was attractive, in a worn sneering way, with that aura of the exotic 'breed carry. He eyed the gun and opened his mouth to say something—

— and I half-turned, lashing out behind me, the whip flicking, striking with a crackle across the face of a slick little female 'breed sneaking up on me through the wreckage. She collapsed, screaming, holding her face. If she lived she'd be scarred by the silver.

Hot nasty satisfaction spilled through my veins like wine-fumes. I was gri

"Spread the word." I turned back to the bartender. The gun didn't waver. I used to use baby Glocks, being cursed with smaller wrists than a man. No more. I like the big ones, my bones can handle recoil a lot better now. "Whoever's hiding this New York chippie 'breed is on a one-way track back to Hell. I want her, and I want her yesterday. Got it?"

He made a thin whining sound as the whip returned, wrapping itself neatly in my fist. My fingertips tingled. I ached to pull the trigger—someone had hit me with a chair, crunching my leg and almost cutting my throat with a broken bottle. Most of the hellbreed in here I'd just wounded and put down to bleed out, but that one I'd killed.