Lilith Saintcrow: Fresh Circus

Now that I had his ID I had a fighting chance of finding whatever ’breed he’d Traded with and serving justice on him, her, or it. I headed back, sliding and slipping, for the tunnels that would take me to the surface. It hadn’t been a long or particularly grueling hunt, physically. No, this one had just hurt inside.

God, I hate the kid cases. The cops agree with me. There’s no case that will drain you drier or turn you cynical faster.

It took me a good twenty minutes to retrace the route I’d tracked him along. When I finally found my entry point—a set of metal rungs leading up to an open manhole, welcome sunlight pouring down and picking out bits of rust on each step—I looked up, and a familiar shadow moved at the top.

“Hello, kitten,” Saul called down. I started climbing, testing each rung—that’s the price of greater strength and endurance, a muscle-heavy ass. And I hadn’t precisely climbed through, just dropped into the manhole after my quarry, hoping I didn’t hit anything on the way down.

I wish that wasn’t so much business as usual.

“Hey,” I called. “How’s everything up in the daylight, catkin?”

“Quiet as a mouse.” He laughed, and it sounded so good I almost hurried up. Exhaustion dragged against my shoulders. “Smells like you had a good time.”

“The fun just never ends.” Crumbling concrete held a spider-map of veins right in front of my nose. I kept climbing. “He’s bagged.”

“Good deal.” Tension under the light bantering tone—he hadn’t wanted to stay topside, but I’d needed him up there watching the manhole in case the Trader doubled back.

Or at least, that’s what I’d told him. He didn’t make any fuss over it, but his tone warned me that he was an unhappy Were, and we were probably going to have a talk about it soon.

There were other things to talk about, too. Big fun.

I reached the top, skipping a rung or two that didn’t look sanguine about holding me, and Saul put a hand out. I grabbed and hung on, and he pulled me easily out of the darkness. He magnanimously didn’t mention how bad I must have smelled. “You okay?”

My boots found solid ground. It was a dead-end street down near Barazada Park, the spire of Santa Esperanza lifting into the heat haze. Blessed sunlight poured hot and heavy over me, just like syrup. In the distance the barrio weltered.

“Fine.” I paused for a moment. “Not really.”

He reeled me in. Closed his arms around my shoulders and we stood for a moment, me staring at his chest where the small vial of blessed water hung on a silver chain. No blue swirled in the vial’s depths.

He pulled me even closer, slid an arm around my waist, and I could finally lay my head down on his chest. We stood like that, his heartbeat a comforting thunder in my ear, for a long time. The rumble of his purr—a cat Were’s response to a mate’s distress—went straight through me, turning my bones into jelly. It didn’t stop the way I was quivering, though, body amped up into redline and adrenaline dumping through the bloodstream.

When the shakes finally went down I let out a long breath, and immediately felt bad about smearing gunk on him. He didn’t seem to mind much—he never did—but I felt bad all the same.

“Want to tell me about it?” He didn’t try to keep me when I eased away from him. He just let go a fraction of a second later than he had to.

I sighed, shook my head. “It’s over. That’s all.” A flood of sunlight poured over the dusty pavement, the drop-off at the end ending in a gully that meandered behind businesses and the chain-link fence of a car dealership.

“Good enough.” His hands dropped down to his sides, and he studied me for a long moment before turning away. The manhole was flung to the side—I hadn’t been particularly careful at that point, I just wanted to get at the motherfucker. It was bulky, but he got his fingers under it and hauled it around, and I fished my pager out of its padded pocket, the silver in my hair chiming in a hot draft. “Who’s calling?”

The number was familiar. “Galina. Probably got another load of silver in.” Christ, I hope it’s not more trouble.

“Least it’s not Monty.” The manhole cover made a hollow, heavy metallic sound as he flipped it, gauging the force perfectly so it seated itself in its hole like it had never intended to come loose.

“You’re such an optimist.” The smile tugging at my lips felt unnatural, especially with the stink simmering off my clothes and the sick rage turning in small circles under my heart. The scar twinged, the bloom of corruption on my aura drawing itself smaller and tighter, a live coal.

He smiled back, crouching easily next to the manhole cover. The light was kind to him, bringing out the red-black burnish in his cropped, charm-sprinkled hair, and the perfect texture of his skin. He tanned well, and a fine crinkle of laugh lines fanned out from his eyes when he grinned. They smoothed away as he sobered, looking up at me.

We regarded each other. He of all people never had any trouble meeting my mismatched gaze. And each time he looked at me like this, dark eyes wide open and depthless velvet, I got the same little electric zing of contact. Like he was seeing past every wall I’d ever built to protect myself, seeing me.

It never got old. Or less scary. Being looked at like that will give you a whole new definition of naked. It’s just one of the things about dating a Were that’ll do it.

We stood there, oven heat reflecting off the concrete, each yellowed weed laid flat under the assault of sunlight. Finally my shoulders dropped, and I slipped the pager back in its pocket. “I’m sorry.” The words came out easily enough. “I just…”

“No need, Jillybean.” He rose fluidly, soft boots whispering as he took two steps away from the manhole. I was dripping on the concrete, but drying rapidly.

“I don’t mean to—”

“I said there was no need.” He glanced at the street over my shoulder. The Pontiac crouched, parked cockeyed to block anyone from coming down here, a looping trail of rubber smeared on the road behind it. I’d been going at least seventy before I stood on the brakes. “You really wanted this guy.”

I really want them all, sweetheart. The words died on my lips. And each time I kill one, the itch is scratched. But it always comes back. “Kids.” Just one word made it out.

“Yeah.” He scratched at his ear, his mouth pulling down in a grimace. Weres don’t understand a lot of things about regular humans, but their baffled incomprehension when faced with kid cases is in a league all its own. “You must be hungry. We can stop for a burrito on the way to Galina’s.”

In other words, you haven’t eaten in a while, shame on you. Come on, Jill. Buck up.

I took a deep breath, squared my shoulders. “Sounds like a good idea. That shack on Sullivan Street is probably still open.”

The pager went off again. I fished it out again, my hair stiffening as it dried. Ugh.

This time it was Avery. It never rains but it pours. “Shit. On second thought, maybe we’d better just go. Avery probably needs an exorcism, and I can call Galina from his office afterward.” I stuffed the pager away and turned on one steelshod heel, headed for the Pontiac.

“Dinner after that?”

“Sure. Unless the world’s going to end.” Adrenaline receded, leaving only unsteadiness in its wake. I made sure my stride was long and authoritative, shook out my fingers, wrinkled my nose again at the simmering reek drifting up from my clothes.

He fell into step beside me. “You know, that sort of thing is depressingly routine. How about calzones, at home? I’ve got that dough left over.”