Night Shift

Chapter Twenty-three

Harp shook her head. "I don't believe it. It's not possible."

What's that Sherlock Holmes thing about the impossible? "It's only a theory." I gulped another mouthful of scorching amber alcohol. The smell of chicken frying wafted under the green oily curtain of rain and the ozone of lightning strikes. "You've got to admit, it fits better than anything else we've got. It also explains why Navoshtay's hot to trot out here and drag her home personally. I hear he's big into experimentation."

We were at the breakfast bar. Saul moved around the kitchen, each step graceful as a dance. He'd shed his coat, and I tried not to watch the movement of muscle under his black T-shirt.

Harp knocked back her glass of Jim Beam and frowned into the dregs. "Experimentation." She shuddered, mussed feathers quivering in her glossy hair. "Someone should kill that son of a bitch."

Yeah, someone should. But right now he's further down on my list than you'd think. "It's been tried. Several times. Not very successfully, I might add."

"Why is he experimenting? And for what? A hybrid? Assuming that's even possible, genetically speaking." Dominic set his beer down, stretched his hands out with fingers interlaced, stretching. His ponytail lay tame against his neck, raveling down his back now that it was free of the leather thongs.

"There's legends about Were females raped by 'breed." My mouth felt dry and clumsy, even mentioning it. "It could be Navoshtay's looking to find the truth of those legends."

"There is no truth to them." Harp moved, a sudden sharp twitch like an irritated cat. "Besides, we're human. They're not."

"Still…" Dominic drummed his fingers on the counter, thoughtfully. "Navoshtay's a sadist. Who knows what his real reason is for this… experiment? Assuming it is one, and we're not just going down the garden path."

"Who knows why hellbreed do anything?" I muttered, staring into my glass. My eyes weren't focusing properly. Exhaustion weighed down every limb.

"Hunters." Harp didn't sound mollified. If anything, she was sharper than ever.

If we knew that much, we wouldn't have people vanishing into the nightside. "Even the best hunter can only make an educated guess, Harp. Don't ride me." I reined in the flare of irritation. She didn't mean a word of it, she was just frustrated and probably as tired as me.

That got through to her. She sighed, leaning forward and resting her chin on her hand. I could smell the sharp iron-tang of dissatisfaction mixed with her peppery female musk. "I'm sorry. I just… we had him, and he slipped through our fingers. More people are going to die, and all I can do is sit around and wait. ?

"A rogue Were runs on instinct. He shouldn't be this hard to predict or catch." Saul set a plate in front of me, and another in front of Harp. "Eat, both of you. Don't sharpen your claws on each other, they'll wear down."

I stared at the wheel of food in front of me. Fried chicken, new potatoes with rosemary, a small mountain of greens, and actual biscuits. I could smell the iron in the greens, craving waking up behind my palate. I'd lost a lot of blood.

Dominic made a small sound of pleasure as Saul handed him a plate.

Everyone blessedly shut up, which gave me a moment to think. We've got a rogue who isn't behaving, really, like a rogue should. We have a hellbreed covering his tracks and trying like hell to keep him away from Navoshtay—not that I blame her. I wouldn't want my worst enemy trapped in one of Arkady's games.

Well, maybe Perry. That would be nice, and I would sleep a whole hell of a lot better. The colors on the plate blurred together as my eyes narrowed, both of them trying to pierce through time and matter to find the pattern, catch the rhythm and anticipate my opponent's next move.

Opponent? No. Prey.

Still, something was bothering me.

You're doing my father's dirty work… He's mine. Odd words for a hellbreed. Clarke swore she was pregnant, and swore he had it on good authority.

Pregnant with what? Another one of her father's experiments? Dark stories were whispered about Navoshtay, even darker than usual horror tales hunters like to swap. Most hunters are men, and love to bullshit endlessly over brewskis.

Stories about New York's oldest hellbreed were always whispered, though. Even Mikhail had referred to him as "one scary motherfucker, milaya." Nobody wanted to talk much about Navoshtay. I was frankly surprised Clarke had called me back so soon.

If there's something a hunter won't talk directly about, you know it's bad news. Something a hunter won't mention unless it's daylight and the doors are bolted is the worst news around.

Pregnant with what?

Do I really want to know?

And who lured me down to Galina's, and why? Why is Navoshtay here to pick up his bastard daughter himself? And last but certainly not least, why is she protecting the Were? That's what she's doing. It's the only way her actions make any shit-for-sense. The kaleidoscope of events shifted this way and that as I tried to figure out what the pattern was—or even where the blank parts in the pattern fell enough to give me a glimpse of the underlying cause of this whole huge mess.

Saul's voice broke my trance. "Jill? You don't like it?"

"Huh?" I surfaced, blinking irritably. My skin crawled with sweat, the residue of rain, and dried blood. I suddenly wanted a hot shower and a long uninterrupted thinking-session.

"I thought you'd probably like the chicken." He leaned on the counter, his dark eyes level with mine because he was bending down, hunching his broad shoulders. The silver bracelet lay tangled in one of his braids, winking wickedly at me, as if it knew a secret. "You look a little pale, kitten."

"Oh. No, I was just thinking."

The silver glittered, sharp darts of light. Why was he wearing it?

"About what?" he persisted.

Well, if you want to hear it out loud I might as well It might help me think. "About how this doesn't add up, any of it. All I have is one question after another, and the deeper I get the more weirdness crops up. By now I should be getting some answers, not more goddamn questions. Which can only mean one thing."

He nodded, took a hit off his beer. A Corona, and he'd even rubbed the mouth of the bottle with a slice of lime. He'd make someone a fine wife someday. "What's that?"

"It means I'm barking up the wrong trees. It also means someone's lying to me." I picked up my fork, took a mouthful of butter-drenched potatoes. My God Weres can usually cook, but this is really good.

"Do you know who?"

I wish. The pattern still refused to make sense. "No. But I know what about."

"What about, then?" Soft, logical, reasonable, as if he'd done this before, giving me the questions to help me shape everything inside my head out loud.

I began with the central question. "About what exactly is going on between Cenci and this Were. Who doesn't even have a name yet, and that's another thing that bothers me. His kin should be looking for him too. You said the first murder was out in Massachusetts, but I'm willing to bet it wasn't. Harp, I need you to get on the horn with your boss and get them tracking all the kills following a certain profile."

"You really think we've been off-base?" Harp took a gigantic bite of fried chicken. She must have been hungry, and Weres need more protein than the rest of us.

My brain settled into functioning again. It was going to be a short-lived burst of productivity—I needed some rest in the worst way. "I don't think you've been off-base. I think you've been misled. Navoshtay's capable of hushing some things up on the state level but might not have his pretty fingers inside the Martindale Squad. Though I wouldn't put it past him. If there's something he doesn't want us to find out, it's going to be in New York. Have them liaise with Clarke and see what they dig up, and for God's sake give the hunters out there some protection while they do it."