Fresh Circus

“That’s not what’s bothering you, though.” His fingers touched my hip. He crowded a little closer, his heat wrapping around me. It felt nice.

I let out a long breath. “What’s bothering me is that the loa don’t step in where they’re not invited. At least, not without a good reason. And that was the Twins. At least, I’m reasonably sure it was one of their aspects.”

“Bad news?”

Well, not particularly good news. I shrugged. “We’ll see. If he was mixed up in something, we’ll find out. I’ll pick up the file from Avery and—”

“Di

I was tired, my head hurt, and I smelled like death warmed over. “Di

“That’s saying something. Come on. Let’s close this up and go home.”

“In a second.” I gave him a squeeze, freed myself, and checked the small bathroom. A bar of coal-tar soap in the ringed bathtub; toothbrush, box of baking soda, and a straight razor in a ceramic mug next to the sink.

The razor was a nice one, antique. Had to be 1920s, if my guess was good. A black scale with mother-of-pearl inlay, and a well-preserved steel, sharp as a suicide’s whisper. I flicked it open, saw the shadow of blue swirling under the surface of the metal. I blinked, and it was gone.

Now that’s interesting. I closed it carefully, dug in my pocket for a Ziploc baggie, and found one. Slid the straight razor in and sealed it. I wonder…

“What have you got there?” Saul said from the door.

“Clue.” I slipped the razor in my pocket, turned. My coat brushed the sink, and the mug clattered down into its rusted bowl, spilling the toothbrush as well. “Shit.”

“Which one? Clue or shit?” It was a pale attempt at humor, but one I appreciated.

“The former, catkin. Come on, I’m hungry.” And I need to work some of these nerves off. Maybe you’ll help me with that.

“Mh.” He let me out of the tiny, tiny bathroom. Hot air soughed through the broken windows. “Sure made a mess.”

“Can’t have an exorcism without breaking a few beds. If he’s clean we’ll figure something out.”

“And if he’s not?”

I didn’t have to work to sound tired. “Then a smashed-up apartment is the least of his worries.”

Chapter Four

Dust swirled like oil, covering my city in waves. Autumn was moving across the mountains, the nights getting chillier and the days only slightly less hot. Soon the thunderstorms would start rolling in. But for now the far hills were tawny, and the clouds only stayed, threateningly, in the distance.

I hit the ground hard. Drew my knees up and shot my bare feet out, using the momentum to fuel a leap, propelling myself up. Whirled, my hand shooting out; he avoided it with a liquid jump to the side. My hand turned into a blade, chopped down.

He caught my wrist, brown fingers locking, and twisted, pulling back as he dropped into a crouch, swinging his center of gravity down and back. My arm almost yanked out of its socket, his foot smacked into my midriff as he hit the mats on his back, and I flew. Twisted in midair, doubling on myself like a gymnast, and landed a bare half-second before he was on me, a fast hard flurry of strikes and parries. Each one pushed aside, combat like a dance, no more than the barest touch needed to redirect, to score a hit, pulled at the last fraction of a second.

A hunter relies on firepower and sorcery to even the playing field. Still, we never fight Weres, even rogues. They’re just too quick, too powerful, too graceful. They have no corruption, like in a hellbreed, that a human can latch onto and track.

I’ve wondered about that. I wonder about a lot of things, the more I work this job.

I’m harder to hit now, and a hell of a lot harder to hurt. And it was times like this that the bargain seemed a better thing than just a stopgap measure until I could figure out how to send Perry screaming back to Hell.

Hard.

Saul drove me across the length of the sparring room, dying sunlight falling liquid through the windows, sweat on both of us and the sounds of deadly serious mock-combat echoing. I stamped my back foot down hard, dipped, and spun as he advanced on me, taking his legs out from under him. He hit hard. I leapt and had my fist drawn back, my other hand tangled in his silver-scarred shorn hair.

“Give up?” I asked, sweetly.

A fine sheen of sweat highlighted each plane of his face. He blinked, a cat’s quick flicker of eyelids. “You haven’t won yet.”

I gri

“Don’t know if you’re ready.” An answering grin, but his teeth kept well hidden.

Oh, I’m ready. I was ready for more than just sparring.

He heaved up, I pushed him back down. A few more seconds of wrestling ended with me still on top for once, the scar burning against my wrist and hot strength spilling through my bones. “It’s looking like you’re the one not ready, catkin.”

“Just biding my time.” He surged again, I pushed him down and realized my mistake a split second too late as his knees came up, my balance off by a critical fraction. A confused welter of movement, his forehead hit me in the mouth, and we rolled. Judo took over, and I began fighting in earnest. Reflex turned me into a dangerous snake writhing in his arms, but Saul knew how to handle this.

He always did. Or at least, he always had.

Stinging salt, my body suddenly just a welter of reaction. Saul held me down, silver chiming as his head dipped. Smell of leather, of cherry Charvil smoke, the good scent of a healthy male and the dry sleekness of catfur. We became one body with twisting limbs, rolling and seeking advantage, the floor a hard sea we only touched the surface of.

His mouth found mine, and it was no longer tossing on an ocean. It was a softness blooming, nailing me in place. My body loosened, tingles flooding me. It was a far cleaner feeling than the scar’s sick heat. I kissed him with my heart flooding out through the play of tongue and lips. He was purring, a rumble spreading out in waves. Each concentric circle of that purr stroked along my skin.

I broke away to take a breath. He nuzzled down my jawline, his mouth settling lower, just over my pulse. I quieted, the instinct of struggle sliding away.

“Saul,” I whispered.

“Hm?” He nipped, playfully, and I arched.

“I think we should take this somewhere else.” Like a bed. Like our bed.

“Here’s nice.” He nuzzled again. I squirmed in a new way.

“Saul—”

“Shhh.”

I stilled. He inhaled deeply. Let out the breath in a chuff, a warm spot on my vulnerable throat. My pulse strained toward him. I held still as long as I possibly could. Finally wriggled a little bit, and he didn’t immediately move. “What’s wrong?” My wrists, braceleted by his fingers, both throbbed. He was holding me a little too tightly.

“Nothing,” he whispered back. “I just want to hold you.”

Goddammit. I want something else entirely. But I breathed in, the urge retreating low in my pelvis, a dull ache spiking for a moment as bloodflow reversed itself. I’m going to be cranky if this keeps up. “Okay.” I swallowed, my throat moving against his lips. Another slight touch; it became very difficult to throttle my hormones back.

Mikhail had always been on me to control my pulse. I was much better at it than I ever had been, but one whiff of my cat-boy and the hormones started jacking me up again.

As problems went, it was a nice one.

Deep breathing. My eyes closed. The dark behind my lids was safe for once. Pushing the feeling down and away, reasserting control.