Flesh Circus

It’s not disrespectful. It’s because sometimes you have to laugh to keep from screaming, crying, or throwing up. “Might as well. This turned out bigger than I thought it’d be. I thought I could save you guys some work.”

Sullivan wheezed and the Badger chuckled. “You kidding?” she got out, between snickers. “If we wanted less work we wouldn’t have chosen this job.”

“Very fu

“Animals?” Sullivan’s pale face twisted up. The short buzz of his coppery, receding hair glittered again as he hunched his shoulders. “Shit.”

“Sorry.” And I was.

“Well, you didn’t kill ’em.” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “Should we go over Piper’s scenes too?”

I nodded. Saul moved briefly behind me, a restless movement utterly unlike him. “Please do. Oh, and see if you can dig up who this house actually belongs to. I’d like a legal name, DOB, everything.” I don’t know nearly enough about Zamba. That’s going to change.

“That means you have a hunch.” The Badger nodded. “Don’t worry, I won’t ask—I know I don’t want to know. I’ll page you as soon as we have something.”

And bless her thoroughgoing little heart, she would have the full report from chowder to cashews—or as close to it as it was humanly possible to get. “Good deal. Thanks.” I eased past both of them—the Badger stood stolidly and Sullivan flinched back. He covered it well, though, turning to look down at the garden.

“Huh,” he said. “Go figure.”

“What?” I glanced down at the belt of jungle greenery, uncomfortably reminded of Lorelei’s backyard.

“Plants are dying. Looks like someone did a lot of work on the yard, though. You’d think, a place like this, they wouldn’t have stopped watering before they died. Or are the bodies old?”

“Not too old.” Especially the ones that were trying to kill me about half an hour ago. But they didn’t need me to lay that little thought in their heads. “See you.”

Sullivan sighed. “See you, Jill. Try not to trip over any more dead ’uns tonight.”

“Shut up, Sully. It’s our job.” The Badger sounded long-suffering, as usual, and she herded him inside the house.

What a pair.

Saul drifted beside me as I made my way down the cracked, zigzagging walk. “Car’s this way.”

I nodded, let him take the lead. Sullivan was right, the garden was just in the first stages of dying. Plants were drooping, but not browned and crispy yet.

I stopped, turned, and looked back at the house, its windows blazing with golden light now. A hose was coiled up next to the porch’s listing sneer.

Hellebore. Feverfew. Foxglove. Wormwood. Mugwort. Bindweed. American ginseng under a rigged-up canvas canopy. Some succulents, but not many, and the rest of the plants were useful, in one way or another, to a rogue herbalist or kitchen witch.

Or a voodoo queen.

The zombies were relatively fresh. So were the bodies. Rigor mortis doesn’t last that long. Bellies were distended on the goats downstairs, but that happens… I’d need an autopsy to be reasonably sure of time of death.

But the garden, though. Things wilt fast out here in the desert, but if things were normal out here at Mama Zamba’s—if normal could be the word applied to the biggest wheel in the voodoo community in my town—the garden should be in tiptop shape for a little while after she was dead.

So what had kept her so busy her garden didn’t get watered? She had people to do it for her.

But those people were dead.

The zombies were too juicy and the human bodies were too fresh. It just didn’t add up. Unless the reigning queen of the voodoo scene had had something more than gardens on her mind lately—and on the minds of her followers.

Her newly dead followers.

“What are you thinking?” Saul finally asked as I stood staring at Zamba’s garden like I was hypnotized.

“I don’t quite know yet,” I admitted. “It’s more and more likely Zamba’s involved instead of a victim. I think we should get some breakfast, since dawn’s coming up.”

“And then?”

I tested the hypothesis in my head. I just didn’t know enough to see if it explained everything. “And then we’re going to visit Galina again. If she hasn’t gone through her diaries yet, I’ll wait while she does. I’ve got a theory, but I can’t figure one thing out.”

“That one thing would be?”

“Why a voodoo queen has it in for the Cirque. You’d think if she hated hellbreed she’d find some closer to home to murder.”

Chapter Seventeen

Micky’s on Mayfair was just the same as it always is around dawn—almost deserted, clean as a whistle, and staffed with Weres. Some of the waistaff are humans, true, but the greater percentage including the owner are from the Santa Luz prides, packs, and flights.

Amalia, a lioness of the Norte Luz pride, greeted us at the door. “Jill, nice to see you. Dustcircle.” She nodded, and Saul nodded back. “A table? Or is it business?”

I must have looked grim, and realized I was dirty and disheveled. They do usually see me in this state, but I’d been thinking so hard even my nose had shut off.

“A table,” Saul said as I cast around vainly for something to wipe off with. “Does Theron have any towels lying around?”

“I’ll check.” She gri

No wonder humans hunted them, during the bad old days of the Inquisition. The only thing humans hate more than ugliness is actual beauty.

Theron, a lean dark Werepanther, actually came out from the bar to greet us, wiping his hands on a white cloth that had seen much, much better days in the bleach bucket. His long fingers danced with it, refolding it so the holes didn’t show. “Hey, Saul. Glad to see you back.”

“Theron.” Saul gave him an answering grin. “How’s bartending?”

“Good work if you can get it.” Theron’s dark gaze flicked past to me, and his forehead furrowed. “Jill.”

“Hey. Sorry, I smell. Got a spare towel?” As usual, I sounded more truculent than I really was. They were just so pretty. Amalia’s face was flawless, not a pore in sight, and neither of the two males would ever lack for female attention.

It made me wonder what the hell Saul was doing with me. Not for the first time, and a question I was mulling over more and more lately.

“You bet.” But Theron stayed where he was, looking first at Saul, then curiously at me, the line deepening. “Um…”

“She’s hungry.” Saul folded his arms, and a hint of gravel poured through the bottom of the words.

It was so unlike him my jaw threatened to drop. But Theron just shrugged, Amalia tipped me a wink and a salute, and both of them disappeared, leaving us to seat ourselves.

“What was that?” I poked him on the shoulder when he didn’t respond. “Saul?”

He gave me a single dark glance, hitched one shoulder up, and dropped it. I sighed and considered folding my arms, but Saul set off for our regular booth along the back wall and Theron showed up again, carrying a stack of damp washcloths.

“Here you go.” The Werepanther gave me a meaningful look. I raised my eyebrows, my hands full of warm, sopping wet cloth. “You guys want a beer?”

“Might as well.” I wiggled my eyebrows and pointed my chin at Saul’s retreating back. What’s up with him? Help me out here.