Redemption Alley

Control, Jill. It’s just a mouthy little boy. Don’t go off the deep end.

“Not everyone.” Theron showed his teeth again. He was just as on edge as I was. “But they know how to see us down here. Gringos are stupid.”

Gee, thanks. Sour humor took the edge off my temper. “Yeah.” I heard the footsteps behind me and didn’t tense, but my hand did move a bare half-inch, ready to draw and fire if necessary.

They’re civilians, Jill. You can give them a few free shots and you’ll still come out ahead.

But even civilians can get a lucky headshot in. And I had no desire to die again today. I turned on my heel and heard Theron take in a long sharp breath, as if bracing himself.

For a moment I was almost angry. But then, I couldn’t blame him if he was nervous. I was pretty goddamn nervous myself, and hunters are meant to be unpredictable.

The kid standing on the sidewalk couldn’t have been more than fourteen, but his dark eyes were empty as a vacant lot, an emptiness I haven’t seen on many non-nightsiders. Acne pocked his lean face, and I couldn’t tell how long his hair was, since it was slicked down and trapped in a hairnet knotted on his dewy brown forehead. He wore a shining-white wifebeater over a torso all scrawny muscle, and I knew he was carrying just from the way he moved.

He stopped, considering me, and a chill rippled along the edge of my skin. The scar prickled.

Even among normal humans with no scent of the nightside, there are killers.

This one stood easy and hipshot, his dead eyes flicking down my body once, not with a regular man’s ticking-off of breasts, ass, and desirability. No, this young man looked like he was evaluating my ability to interfere with him, and coming to an answer that had nothing to do with my gender.

Score one for a surprise in the barrio, Jill. I eyed him, and my hand eased a little closer to a gun.

He didn’t move. Didn’t even shift his weight, but a line of tension unreeled between us.

His voice had broken, thank God. Because if he’d had a reedy little whine with a Spanglish accent, I’m not sure I wouldn’t have smiled from the sheer lunacy of the juxtaposition. And that might have gone badly.

“You lookin’ for Ay, señora?” A light tenor, not piping. He hooked his thumbs in the pockets of his well-pressed chinos and his mouth turned into a thin line.

Say what? Word travels fast down here. “Pedro Ayala’s dead, señor.” I kept my tone respectful enough and throttled the uneasy smile once again. It died hard, my lips wanting to twitch. “I’m looking to serve whoever did him in.”

A spark of interest died a quick smothered death under his ruler-straight eyebrows. “Why you wa

I took a firmer hold on my temper. Easy, Jill. He’s just a kid. “Why do you want to know?”

His thin shoulders went back and his chin lifted. The sun gilded his thin arms and a chest that stood a good chance of being sunken, and the sullen fury passing over his face was shocking in its intensity—and just as shocking when the emotion fled and he was back to flatline.

Of all things, he unhooked his right hand and offered it to me. “Gilberto Rosario Gonzalez-Ayala.” The words were a monotone. “Ay was mi hermano.”

Brother, huh? My nose itched and the heat, while not enough to make me sweat, was still oppressive. My entire back prickled with vulnerability. “They tell me he was shot in the lungs and drowned, señor.” I kept the words just as flat as his. “Whoever did him is doing others just as bad. Worse, even. I’m going to stop it.” I slowly clasped his hand, careful not to squeeze too hard. Hellbreed-strong fingers can make for a goddamn uncomfortable handshake.

He was under no such compunction, bearing down with surprising strength. His entire arm tensed. “Then you better watch your back, chiquita.”

That’s enough. I doubled the pressure and watched his eyes widen as something creaked in his hand. It sounded like a bone. I tilted my head down, looking over the rim of the shades, and let my lips curl up in a wide, bright, su

It might have been a misstep, but I don’t like threats or veiled warnings. You get them every day in this line of work, and pretty soon the gloss gets worn off. Yawn.

Now those dead dark eyes had lit up, and the change made him boyish. Under the acne and the hairnet, that is. “Ain’t no warning. It’s fact.”

I let him take his hand back. Get into a pissing contest with a hunter, gangboy? Not the best way to stay breathing. “I’m sure of that, Gilberto.” One thing about living in Santa Luz for a long time, my accent was dead-on. “Gracias.”

His thin face wrinkled up into a smile that might have actually been handsome if not for the boils of acne. He would scar badly, this boy, and with those dead eyes…

“Call me Gil, chiquita.” Thin brown fingers flicked, he lit himself a cigarette. “You do who did for Ay, you come down to nuestra casa here. I give you beer.”

Thanks, kid. Like you’re old enough to drink. “I’ll keep it in mind.” Making friends and influencing people among all walks of life, that’s your friendly neighborhood hunter.

“Jill?” Theron, his tone halfway between what the hell are you doing and can we go now please.

“Let’s roll.” I dropped down into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. A faint breath of cherry tobacco lingered in the car—Saul smoked Charvils. Right now I was half wishing for one myself. “Where next, gato?”

“Christ, don’t you start too.” He closed his door with fussy precision. “Go west, we’ll cut across on Antilles. Isn’t that where he got shot?”

“Antilles and Tabasco, the 3100 block. Good idea to check it out, at least. Put your seat belt on.” I buckled myself in and twisted the key in the ignition, the engine roused with a sweet purr that turned a few heads. Sunlight skipped heat off the road, the buildings all leaning tired and sweaty under the assault. I seconded that emotion—one beer was not nearly enough, the way things were going. Go ahead, Theron. Say something. I dare you.

He responded with all the valor of discretion. “Well, that’s not 51-friendly, over there. Put that bandana away.”

We crossed out of 51 territory in ten minutes, and I had a mounting sense of unease, precognition not specific enough to really mean anything. About twelve blocks later I realized the popping, pinging sounds were someone shooting at my car. By then a lucky shot had taken out a tire and the entire contraption—tons of metal—was jigging and jiving like a hellbreed jacked full of silver.

Oh no. No. Skidding, skipping, a flapping noise as the tire gave up the ghost and I struggled against the sudden drag on the steering wheel, time slowing down as if dipped in cold molasses. The engine leapt, straining against inertia, and things got very interesting.

I steered into the skid, mashing the accelerator to the floor to get us out of the firezone if possible, and heard Theron’s coughing roar as the car bucked once more and lifted, physics taking her revenge in a big way. The silvery crinkle of glass shattering married to the crunch of metal folding in ways it didn’t want to. The world blanked out, down was up and up was down, for a long moment. I was picked up, shaken, tossed a few different ways at once, and thrown into that blank spot between normal life and disaster for an endless moment of disorienting darkness—and roared out on the other side in an explosion of too-bright color and sharp pain.

The edged reek of spilled gasoline burst in my sensitive nose. I blinked something wet and warm out of my eyes.

At least I’m right-side-up. Or am I?