Lilith Saintcrow: Fresh Circus

“Upstairs sleeping. I gave him a tranquilizer and set a healing on that arm of his. He seems okay enough.” Her eyes were dark and troubled, and her marcel waves were slightly disarranged, pulled back under another red kerchief. “I was in the kitchen stirring up a batch of bone-ease and all of a sudden it hit me, like I’d known it all along. Listen—”

So Zamba’s slipping and her loa are no longer paying attention to certain things. Or it doesn’t matter now that she’s close to getting what she wants. I made a restless movement. I was two steps ahead but I might not stay that way for long. “I need ammo, I need a place to work, and I need your help.”

“Jill, listen. I think Mama Zamba is—”

“Is Arthur Gregory. He made a deal with the Twins, got a sex change or just dressed like a girl to throw everyone off the scent, and part of the deal was clouding his origins so nobody would guess or find him. It didn’t work completely on you because you’re a Sanctuary, and it didn’t work on Sloane’s files because of the defenses on Hutch’s store and the standard defenses on every piece of hunter paper. I just spanked Zamba a good one this morning, and I’m working on no time and even less sleep. Can you get me some ammo and talk while I’m reloading? I’ll need some other things, too.”

The shop resounded around her, clear air thrumming like a bell for a moment, and I swayed on my feet. I could still smell cotton candy, and the reek of a hellbreed body boiling as it ate through cloth and false hair alike.

Galina folded her arms and examined me from top to toe. “Heavens. Where’s Saul? You look terrible.”

“Thanks. I think Saul left me.” Said that way, it only managed to hurt like hell instead of cripple me.

“Left you?” A vertical crease showed up between her pretty eyebrows. “But—”

“Galina.” I closed the door, the bell jangling discordantly. My arms ached, a low deep fierce pain. I’d probably pulled something trying to keep the cup still, and sorcery tells on the physical body even when you have the power to burn. Come to think of it, my ass hurt too. I would probably be bruised by midnight. “My love life can wait. If Zamba kills who she’s aiming for, there’s going to be heavy-duty problems and I’m too tired to deal with them. I’ve got a plan but I need your help. You can talk and help me at the same time.”

“What do you need?” She was suddenly all practical attention, turning on her bare heel and setting off across the store toward the back counter.

“Rum. Hand mirrors. Florida water. Cigars. A little bit of luck, and everything you now remember about Samuel and Arthur Gregory.” I took a step after her, and paused. “And… you wouldn’t happen to have any live chickens around, would you?”

“I don’t deal in livestock; I send people to Zamba for that. Or used to, anyway.”

Damn. But all of a sudden, a bright idea popped into my head. “Never mind, I can get ’em somewhere else. I’m going to need to use your phone, too. Oh, and cornmeal.” I paused. “And I think I might need some heavy-duty firepower.”

She didn’t even blink. “Like?”

“Grenades. If this all goes south I’m going to need to kill a lot of ’breed really quickly.”

T he sun was still a decent distance above the horizon when I goosed my Pontiac through the rows of parked cars under hoods and blankets of sparkling dust, bumped over a temporary speed bump, and got right up near the front gate. The same female Trader working the admissions booth didn’t even glance up. There wasn’t a single, shuffling soul in sight in the wide dusty strip in front of the booth, and a pall of white biscuit-flour dust hung over everything.

The heat was like oil, and I was glad. I’d washed my face at Galina’s, but I was still grimed with dust as soon as I stepped out into the haze. The Trader in the booth stared as I opened the trunk and shrugged into the first bandolier. On went the belt, heavy with more ammo, and the second bandolier. The weight at shoulders and hips was enough to drive home just how fucking tired I was, and my eyes burned. I blinked away fine grit and picked up the black canvas bag, settled the strap diagonally across my body.

Jesus. I’m loaded up like a burro. I also got the flattish cage out of the backseat, thanking God I’d gotten a sedan and not the two-door coupe. If someone wanted to firebomb this car they had their work cut out for them, GM hadn’t believed in fucking around with fiberglass in the ’60s and this was one of the heaviest, widest mothers they ever built. Plus, the price had been right—it was a heap when I picked it up, but a month or two of heavy work and it was a solid, if not cherry, piece of American metal.

The chickens were okay, three balls of white feathers in a wire cage. Piper hadn’t even asked me why I wanted them. “They’re pecking and clucking, and I can’t get rid of them until Monday,” was what she said out loud. Goddammit, take these fucking things away, was the unspoken message.

And then she’d looked at me when I appeared in the door of her office, and said, “Jesus, Jill. You look awful.”

It’s about to get worse, I thought, and slammed the door. Stuffed my keys in their safe pocket, blew a kiss to my baby, and turned on one slick steelshod heel, stamped for the entrance.

“You can’t leave that there!” the Trader called, her fingernails digging into the pasteboard counter. “Hey!”

My left hand had the cage, and my right actually cramped when I snatched it back from a gun butt. Don’t waste ammo on this bitch, the cold clear voice of rationality said. You’re going to need it later.

I didn’t realize I was staring as her until she blundered backward, the spangles on her shirt sending up hard clear darts of light as she spilled right through the back of the little hutch where she crouched, deciding who could go in and get trapped by the Cirque. Must’ve been a helluva cushy job.

But not right now.

She vanished, and sunlight bounced through the empty booth. A flutter of small paper tickets puffed into the air, settled. I uncramped my fingers, shook them out, and took a deep breath.

Cool and calm, Jillybean. That’s the way to do this.

I waited until I felt the little click inside my head, the one that meant I was rising away, disconnected, into the clear cold place where I could do what I had to without counting the cost. The space where murder was just semantics and the only thing that mattered was the task at hand. Anything else—pity, mercy, compassion—just fucked it up, just tangled the clarity of justice and made everything difficult.

It was a good thing Saul wasn’t here. I couldn’t do this with him around. Not with his quiet dark eyes watching me. And that was part of the problem, wasn’t it? It wasn’t him.

It was me.

But right now I hopped the stile, weighted down and maneuvering the wire cages with one hand. The ram’s heads sparked, gathering the late hot sunlight and throwing it back viciously. I could swear I saw one of the blind snouts move, and the stile clicked once as I landed, a dry ominous sound.

Thou who, I thought. Thou who has given me to fight evil, protect me, keep me from harm.

Usually the Hunter’s Prayer calms me. This time, it was no anodyne. It was a complement to the unsteady ball of rage under my ribs. Because I want to be the one dishing out the harm tonight. Some divine help wouldn’t hurt, if this plan’s going to pull itself off.

It was warm and still inside the Cirque. Balmy, even. The whole place was deserted. Maybe the girl in the booth had been an early-warning system, or maybe she didn’t get the memo that everyone was supposed to be gone. Nothing moved except unsecured tent flaps, and the calliope was muted and limping along through a rendition of the “Cuckoo Waltz,” wheezing and popping, straining like a locomotive going uphill.