Night Shift

Wrong like a hellbreed's face, when they drop the mask of humanity.

Wrong like something spoiled, gone rotten, all a Were's power and glory thrown away for the lust of the hunt and the consummation of murder. That's what going rogue means.

I stared into the rogue's eyes for a long moment, the bizarre insanity of its gaze terrible because of the near-humanity of its suffering.

Then it leapt for me, and I had no time to jump free. A hunter takes on hellbreed, that's true. But a Were gone rogue, gone berserk, is different. Just like for a Were, taking on a Trader is one thing, but fighting a full-fledged 'breed is something else.

Rogue Weres move with the speed that pulls muscle free of bone, a thoughtless scary speed married to weight and momentum that isn't trackable like a hellbreed's tearing through space. On most hunts, Weres run backup for hunters.

On a hunt for a rogue, hunters most definitely run backup for other Weres. Because if we don't, we tend to catch flak and die.

He collided with me, his claws out, the impact so immense I didn't even feel my ribs snap as I was flung against the concrete wall and into momentary, star-filled black unconsciousness.

Chapter Twenty

Shouts. Screams. The coughing roar of a Were in a rage. Cold concrete against my spi

The pain crested over me in a wave, and I yanked instinctively at the scar, flesh scorching as for one vertiginous moment I pulled on every erg of etheric energy available to me. The print of Perry's lips on my flesh turned molten with sick heated delight, and I flung my hand out as the rogue came for me again, a bolt of pure power boiling up into the orange spectrum at its edges as it streaked through the potential-path in the air and smashed the rogue ass-over-teakettle into the knot of Weres suddenly crowding into the cellar's dinginess.

The light bulb broke, smoking dustmotes of glass peppering the air. Sparks hissed and flew, the ruby at my throat singing a crackling note like a crystal wineglass stroked just right before it shatters. Agony raced down my arm, exploded in my chest, tore itself through my belly and detonated in my left leg, where the femur had snapped.

— ohgodohgodgetupJillgetUP—

I pulled on the scar again. Did Perry feel it, wherever he was?

Right then I didn't care, and it hurt too much for me to feel the queasiness that thought called up.

Bones melded together, all the pain of weeks compressed into a single moment as the scar hummed to itself, chuckling a bass note that sounded so much like Perry my skin turned to ice, great drops of sweat standing out and soaking what was left of my blood-soaked clothing. I coughed, a jet of bright blood from my lungs mixing with fluid as my ribcage snapped out to its proper dimensions, jagged ends of broken ribs sliding free of delicate tissue.

— hurts it hurts, ohGod, it hurts—

I tried to get up, to fight, to strike back at the thing hurting me. To meet the pain head-on, to smash at it, batter it away.

Yet another personality quirk, and maybe the one that made Mikhail choose me. I keep fighting long past the point any sane person would throw up their hands and quit.

Snarling. More screams, shaking the house. Dirt pattered down. An explosion of noise, snapping wood, a high chilling wolf-cry of agony. The noise was incredible.

Get up, milaya. Mikhail's voice boomed and caromed through my head, echoing through a corridor of memory turned into a Mobius strip by agony. Get on your feet, and fight.

I made it to hands and knees. Felt for a gun with my left hand. My right was so hot I was afraid it would detonate bullets in the clip. A stupid fear, but I wasn't thinking straight.

A burst of fresh air blasted through the cellar, gray light flooding in. Shapes danced, the close thick reek suddenly returning all the stronger for the brief moment of freshness. Shadows fled out against the square of light.

I coughed, my eyes watering. Tears flew, and blood sprayed from my lips. Losing a lot of the red stuff, Jill. Just think, the Red Cross could follow you around and make a killing. Get it, make a killing? Arf arf.

Over that hysterical wash of panic, another thought, tolling in my head like a bell. Get up. Get up and fight.

"Jill." A familiar voice. Someone approaching, crouching down over me.

The gun came up, my shoulders hitting the wall. My boots scrabbled in blood. My blood, thick and slippery on the cracked concrete floor. Heaving breaths echoed as I shuddered on the knife-edge of murder. Move. Fight back. Kill.

The Glock pointed straight between Saul's eyes, less than an inch from his skin. I drew in huge gasping breaths, my fingers aching to clamp down on the trigger. Adrenaline sang in my mouth, pounded in my blood.

He didn't even blink. "You okay?" Looking past the gun like it wasn't even there. Like I wasn't crazed with fear and about to snap, sail right over the edge and fill him with silverjacket lead. A shot at this range would kill him, even if Weres aren't allergic to silver.

And oh, I ached to shoot something. Anything. When you live from one violent fight to the next, it becomes a habit. A need to pull the trigger, an instinctive, life-saving reflex. The animal in you clamors to strike out with claws, teeth, anything at hand.

He must have seen the murder in me. There was no way he could miss it.

Saul's eyes held mine for what seemed like eternity. Behind him, more swirling shapes coalesced. Other Weres. I heard a gasp, a murmur, and someone swore in a low fierce tone.

"It's okay, kitten." Saul's voice was even, soothing. "Everything's under control. It's all fine. It's all right."

My thumb came up. Clicked the hammer all the way back, eased it gently down. The small sound was very loud. The scar throbbed, full and flushed with wet poison heat. I heard a low sob, recognized too late it was my own voice.

Saul's fingers curled over the gun, pushed it aside. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, he took my shoulders and pulled me away from the wall. His arms folded around me, his purring rumble shaking through my bones again. "Easy," he whispered. "You okay? Say something."

My lips were cracked, my throat desert-dry. I heard another greased-skid mutter rumble of thunder in the distance.

I just got kicked around by a rogue Were. That's twice in twenty-four hours I should be dead. Dead. Even with the bargain, I would be dead. Rotting. Gone.

In Hell, probably. Almost certainly. That's where hunters end up, in Hell.

Or so the Church said. No Confession, no Communion, and no Heaven for those of us who come face to face with the nightside. The murders we commit and the foulness we witness remains with us even after death; it is a point of doctrine from 1427 onward. It hasn't ever changed, despite hunters' petitions.

Sometimes I wonder about that.

A shiver passed through me, muscles locking like a seizure. I pulled myself together with an effort that chilled fresh sweat on my skin. "Fuck," I whispered. "Where did he go? Where is he?"

Saul's weight shifted slightly, his arms tightening as soon as I spoke. "He bolted south. There's a full pack of Weres after him, Dominic went with them." His mouth twisted down for a moment, and my brain slammed into overdrive.

What's he doing here? He should be chasing the rogue. "Go." My lips were numb. "You're a tracker. Go."

An electric current bolted from his eyes to mine, something surfacing in his and shooting straight through my veins like a jolt of recoil. I almost flinched, the feeling was so strong. He should have gone after the rogue that killed his sister, but he'd stayed here to make sure I was all right.