Redemption Alley

Chapter Twelve

I came to on my couch, a huge orange naugahyde monster that was actually pretty respectable once Saul got around to slipcovering it with some cream linen he’d found on sale. The warehouse creaked and settled, singing its usual greet-the-dawn production number.

Darkness was kind, but I had to open my eyes. As soon as I did, Theron’s face loomed over me, and I smelled bacon, Were, and a hot griddle.

“Just stay where you are.” His eyes glowed orange in dimness. Gray dawn edged up through the skylights and the lights in the kitchen were on, sharp yellow blocks throwing shadows into the living room. A single lamp burned at the far end of the couch. “I thought I heard you. It’s five A.M., nobody else has died, we’re ru

I blinked. My lips were cracked and dry, I licked them before I could speak. “How many—” How many did we lose?

“Two down. The scurf swarmed your body; we had a hell of a time with it.” He nodded shortly, turned on his heel, and stalked toward the kitchen. “Saul called,” he said over his shoulder.

Oh, Christ. “What did you tell him?” It was hard work to pitch the words loud enough, my throat was dry as desert glass. I felt feverish, my body fighting off the viral infection. But I was conscious and talking, and if Theron hadn’t killed me I wasn’t in any danger of getting chewy and bendy.

Or at least, so I hoped.

“What did you want me to do, lie? He’d skin me.” Dishes clattered, steam hissed. “We’re supposed to look after you, hunter.”

Blankets slid aside as I gingerly levered myself up. I felt like I’d been drawn and quartered, then sewn back together all wrong. Jesus. What the hell is going on? “He doesn’t need to be worrying about me, Theron. I can take care of myself—”

“You got bit, Jill. You’re fighting off the infection, but it was close. How many times have you almost-died recently?” It wasn’t like him to interrupt me. An egg cracked, and the sizzling was bacon, I was sure of it. “What the hell’s going on?”

Scurf. And people trying to murder me as if I was a normal human being instead of a hunter. “I wish I knew.” Guilt pricked under my skin—two Weres, probably with families, dead because I hadn’t been fast enough to kill a hellbreed popping up in the middle of a scurf hole. I would have asked Theron who, but it would be rude—they don’t speak much of the dead, and they especially don’t often name them.

I could have asked Saul. If he’d been there, what might have happened?

Theron made a short sound of almost-a

Where do I begin? “There was a Trader that burned down a warehouse. An arkeus I killed the other night—last night? Or something. The scurf, those disappearances have only been going on for a week or so.” And Perry called. And Monty. My brain refused to work just right. What was a hellbreed doing there?

“Anything else?”

“A friend asked me to look into something.” Dried blood crackled on my clothes. I held up my hands, tendons standing out under pale skin, the cuff dyed with blood and noisome fluid on my right wrist.

“Like what?”

“Some murders without a nightside co

Goddamn. Sonofabitch hit me hard enough to knock me out of my hair. That’s a first. I almost wished I hadn’t killed him, though you can’t second-guess things like that in the heat of battle.

What the hell was a ’breed doing there during the day? And in a scurf hole?

“I didn’t know you did murders without a nightside co

“All the murders I personally commit have nightside co

“Why he cooks on copper bottoms I will never understand, not when there’s perfectly good stainless steel around. There’s orange juice on the table, Jill. Drink the whole thing, it’ll help with the headache.”

“How do you know I have a headache?”

“You’re usually much nastier than this. Not up to your usual speed right now.”

I half-groaned, spotted the glass pitcher Saul usually made ice tea in. There was a clean glass set right next to it, which told me Theron had washed dishes. “Fuck you, Were.”

“Nice try, but doesn’t have your usual snap. Drink something, will you?”

I poured myself a huge dollop of orange juice, couldn’t resist. “Where’s the bourbon?”

He was having none of it. “Do the non-nightside murders have anything to do with someone using plain lead to kill you?”

“I don’t know, Theron. The bigger mystery is a fucking hellbreed in the middle of a scurf nest.” Not to mention the nest was in a place where no scurf would build it, and… Jesus. It made my head hurt to think about it.

No assumptions, milaya. Never assume. Mikhail’s voice, the injunction repeated so many times it was worn into memory like a groove on a record. Shortest way to get ass blown off sideways.

“So more than one person is trying to kill you.”

“Christ, I’d hope so. If this is only one enemy I’m going to turn in my hunter’s union card.” The banter came naturally, punctuated by the sounds of cooking; it was so much like home I could have cried.

“You guys have a union?” The sizzling ended, and he came out of the kitchen with two plates. Fragrant steam rose. I’d never had any of his cooking before, but Weres—especially Were males—are very domestic. It was likely to be good.

Missing Saul rose like a hand clamped around my throat. I took a long draft of orange juice, acid stinging my chapped lips and dry tongue. It took a physical effort to stop before I drank myself sick on it, but I put the glass down only three-quarters empty. “Of course not. Did you make any coffee? How long have I been out?”

He set a plate down in front of me. “I’ll go turn the coffeepot on, and you’ve been out about fourteen hours. Missed a whole night of fun and games, cleaning up scurf stragglers and all.”

Shit. “Anyone call? Other than Saul, that is?”

“Your pager buzzed once or twice. Otherwise, quiet as a mouse.”

I spotted said pager on the table, scooped it up, and blinked through the layer of blurring closing over my eyes. The plate held scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and a mountain of grits holding up a pat of butter. It looked good. “Thanks.”

“I’m ru

“What exactly did you tell him?” Monty had paged me twice, Carp once, and the last number sent a cold finger tracing down my spine.

Goddammit.

The Were shrugged. “I told him you were fine, and sleeping, and that we have scurf. Told him you were playing everything by the book and there was no need to worry, but I’d keep an eye on you. He asked me to not just keep one eye but both on you, since you have—and I quote—a habit of getting yourself beaten to a pulp. He calls it your particular brand of charm.”