Lilith Saintcrow: Redemption Alley

“You going to pay for that?” Theron stopped short when I rounded on him. “Jesus, Jill. What’s wrong?”

I twisted the cap free and took down a jolt of colorless liquid courage. “Disappearances on the east side of town. Four women and a man, probably more.” I took another slug, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. The habit of drinking steadied me more than the alcohol would, since I burn it off so quick anyway. “I need every Were in the city running sweeps.” I took a deep breath. “We’ve got scurf.”

Amalia paled and straightened. She was golden-blonde, with a cat Were’s characteristic dark eyes and wide cheekbones. Feathers knotted into her long honey hair fluttered as she pitched her cigarette into the buttcan with a clean economy of motion. Muscle rippled in her bare arm, the sleeves torn off her Cruxshadows T-shirt. She shot Theron one eloquent look.

“You’re sure?” The lean dark Were reached for the vodka. I surrendered it without demur. It was formulaic—I wouldn’t be here unless I was sure.

I pointed to my leg, where the leather was shredded. Underneath, the angry red of clawswipes was visible, with the trademark jagged curl at the end. “I’m pretty goddamn sure, Theron. I need patrols run in every inch of the city. I’m going home to call Leon right now.”

“How many did you tangle with?” Theron passed the vodka over to Amalia, who barely touched it to her mouth to be polite. Most lionesses are teetotalers—when they drink they like to hunt, and not many men can keep up, Were or human.

But what a way to go, eh?

“Just one. New one, vanished last night. I found him this morning. Hadn’t gotten all chewy and bendy yet, and was probably just a random infection. There was no sign of a nest.” But there has to be one, and he would have found it tomorrow night. Ugh. My pulse trembled, came back to regular. “Have everyone be on the lookout, and I’ll drop by Galina’s on my way home. She’ll break out the emergency garlic.”

Amalia made a mournful face. “I hate that.”

“Better than waking up slimy.” Theron actually shivered. It was utterly unlike him—but the Weres have been fighting scurf for longer than anyone. There’s not a single one of them, even a pup, who doesn’t have a scurf scar or two. Of course, they heal faster and better than humans, but still. “The east side of town, you say?”

“Yup. There were disappearances, but nothing out of the ordinary—if you can call anything on the nightside ordinary.” My pager buzzed again, but I ignored it. It didn’t make me jump this time, thank God. “I’ll be digging for the entry point soon. There’s got to be more disappearances I haven’t heard about.”

“Okay.” Theron’s face thinned out, his dark eyes taking on an orange cast in the alley’s shadow. One end was blocked off by another dumpster, and there was a row of castoff plastic deckchairs for smoke breaks near the door to the kitchen. That door was ajar, and I smelled the grill, hot oil and bacon frying.

My stomach gurgled. I turned sharply on my heel, heading for the mouth of the alley. “Put the vodka on my tab, furboy. See you soon.”

“Get your garlic up to date, Jill. And eat something!” He yelled the last, but I was already gone, gathering myself to leap, one hand thudding onto the dumpster’s lid to push me up and over. My boots touched home and I hit the street, up the slope of Mayfair to where I’d parked the Impala. Along the way I stopped right outside the Episcopalian Church— ALL Welcome, its sign said, with a rainbow arching over the words to drive the point home—to use a payphone. I dropped spare change in and dialed.

“Montaigne,” he snarled.

“It’s Jill. Listen, Monty—”

“Where the hell are you?” He sounded about halfway to frantic. “There’s another disappearance on the east side. This time it’s a cop.”

My skin went cold. “Who?”

“A blue named Winchell. Just walked away from his cruiser. We found it locked on Rosales and Fifteenth. He missed his four A.M. call-in.”

I did a few swift mental calculations. That was pretty far away from Percoa, but again in a shabby clutch of industrial buildings and railyards.

Plenty of dark little holes for scurf to live in. If they had a range that big we were looking at serious trouble. “Keep everyone away from the scene. If you have people there pull them back. Stay away and set up a cordon.”

“How big?” A good lieutenant will never question a hunter. In Monty’s case, he’d known Mikhail. And he’d once screamed his lungs out while watching me take down a Trader whose bargain had included a deep, nasty hunger for human flesh—mostly sautéed, with garlic and onions. Monty had a chunk missing from his right buttock, probably the only tender part on him.

After that, there was never a quibble. Most cops are smart enough, after the obligatory orientation, to just do what I tell them. Very few dig their heels in after a brush with the nightside. And word gets passed around, by hook or by crook.

I don’t know, Monty. “Forget the cordon. I can’t answer for anyone’s safety down there. Pull everyone out. If he’s still alive, I’ll bring him to Mercy General.” If he’s still human, that is.

“Jesus Christ, Jill.” He sounded a little pale. “How bad is it?”

You don’t want to know, kid. “Nothing I can’t handle,” I lied. “See you around.”

“Jill—”

“ What, Monty?” The high sharp edge of fear in my voice could be mistaken for irritation. I wasn’t known for having the best temper.

Still, he persisted. “The widow. Do you have anything, anything at all?”

What do you expect, miracles? It would do me no good to say it—I was in the business of providing miracles. “Not yet, Monty. Just hang in there.”

“Jill—”

“Got to go, Monty. Keep everyone out of the way, will you?” I hung up, dropped in another handful of change. Payphones are expensive these days, but nowhere near as expensive as replacing a cell phone, with as many times as I get shot, dumped in water, knifed, electrocuted, thrown off buildings. Pagers are slightly less expensive, and they’re harder to break most of the time.

It rang six times and the answering machine picked up, a passionless recital of the number I’d just dialed. I waited for the beep.

“Leon, it’s Jill. We’ve got scurf. Anyone you can send will be welcome. Call me, I’m dropping by my house tonight to pick up ammo. Yes, I’m up to date on my garlic. Hurry.” A terse message, but it got the job done.

I hung up, and the desire to call Saul shook me with its intensity. I pushed it away and headed for my car.

I parked behind Winchell’s black-and-white on Rosales Avenue. The patrol car was parked neatly at the curb, tires turned out toward the street and doors locked. Its shadow cut knife-sharp toward the sidewalk. It was a little after noon.

Not enough time. Still, that was no reason to be sloppy. I sat for a few moments in the Impala, listening to the engine tick as it cooled, heat shimmering up from the pavement down the road. Dry desert air keeps me from sweating much, and my internal thermostat takes care of the rest. Hunter training is good for that, conserving energy and keeping you from drowning in sweat when you’re wearing leather in the desert. With the windows rolled down I could smell sand and the river, baking stone and the effluvia of concrete canyons and human scrabble.

I could also smell the mineral tang of hosewater and a sharp whiff of cordite.

Cordite? What? I inhaled deeply, passing air through my preternaturally sharp nose. If I took off the leather cuff I could track it better.