Lilith Saintcrow - Redemption Alley

I didn’t think he would, but my muscles were limp as wet noodles, the skin over them throbbing as if I had the mother of all sunburns. I could have gotten up to fight, but it would have taken gunfire and some screaming. The entire conscious surface of my brain retreated from the glare of sunlight, seeking a deep dark hole to hide itself in, to wrap itself in velvet unconsciousness until it got over dying twice in less than two hours.

The bite on my calf lost its pulsing heat, the feeling of infection retreating along a map of veins.

“Someone’s trying to kill her,” Theron was saying. “Maybe more than one someone.”

This is news? I wanted to say, but darkness closed over me, my brain finally having enough and shutting off. The party was over.

I came to on my couch, a huge orange naugahyde monster that was actually pretty respectable once Saul got around to slipcovering it with some cream linen he’d found on sale. The warehouse creaked and settled, singing its usual greet-the-dawn production number.

Darkness was kind, but I had to open my eyes. As soon as I did, Theron’s face loomed over me, and I smelled bacon, Were, and a hot griddle.

“Just stay where you are.” His eyes glowed orange in dimness. Gray dawn edged up through the skylights and the lights in the kitchen were on, sharp yellow blocks throwing shadows into the living room. A single lamp burned at the far end of the couch. “I thought I heard you. It’s five A.M., nobody else has died, we’re running sweeps. Your ass stays on that couch, Jill. Clear?”

I blinked. My lips were cracked and dry, I licked them before I could speak. “How many—” How many did we lose?

“Two down. The scurf swarmed your body; we had a hell of a time with it.” He nodded shortly, turned on his heel, and stalked toward the kitchen. “Saul called,” he said over his shoulder.

Oh, Christ. “What did you tell him?” It was hard work to pitch the words loud enough, my throat was dry as desert glass. I felt feverish, my body fighting off the viral infection. But I was conscious and talking, and if Theron hadn’t killed me I wasn’t in any danger of getting chewy and bendy.

Or at least, so I hoped.

“What did you want me to do, lie? He’d skin me.” Dishes clattered, steam hissed. “We’re supposed to look after you, hunter.”

Blankets slid aside as I gingerly levered myself up. I felt like I’d been drawn and quartered, then sewn back together all wrong. Jesus. What the hell is going on? “He doesn’t need to be worrying about me, Theron. I can take care of myself—”

“You got bit, Jill. You’re fighting off the infection, but it was close. How many times have you almost-died recently?” It wasn’t like him to interrupt me. An egg cracked, and the sizzling was bacon, I was sure of it. “What the hell’s going on?”

Scurf. And people trying to murder me as if I was a normal human being instead of a hunter. “I wish I knew.” Guilt pricked under my skin—two Weres, probably with families, dead because I hadn’t been fast enough to kill a hellbreed popping up in the middle of a scurf hole. I would have asked Theron who, but it would be rude—they don’t speak much of the dead, and they especially don’t often name them.

I could have asked Saul. If he’d been there, what might have happened?

Theron made a short sound of almost-annoyance. “Well, start at the beginning. What’s been going on?”

Where do I begin? “There was a Trader that burned down a warehouse. An arkeus I killed the other night—last night? Or something. The scurf, those disappearances have only been going on for a week or so.” And Perry called. And Monty. My brain refused to work just right. What was a hellbreed doing there?

“Anything else?”

“A friend asked me to look into something.” Dried blood crackled on my clothes. I held up my hands, tendons standing out under pale skin, the cuff dyed with blood and noisome fluid on my right wrist.

“Like what?”

“Some murders without a nightside connection. So far all I have are three bodies and nothing else.” There was a small pile of silver charms on the coffee table, tangled in red thread. They’d probably fallen out when the hellbreed hit me, or gotten torn off in the heat of battle. I did feel like handfuls of my hair had been ripped out. I almost never get my hair cut. Saul sometimes trims it for me, but I was probably rocking the punk look right about now. The back left of my skull was tender, and I could feel the scab there when my face moved. My neck ached, a vicious dull pain.

Goddamn. Sonofabitch hit me hard enough to knock me out of my hair. That’s a first. I almost wished I hadn’t killed him, though you can’t second-guess things like that in the heat of battle.

What the hell was a ’breed doing there during the day? And in a scurf hole?

“I didn’t know you did murders without a nightside connection.”

“ All the murders I personally commit have nightside connections, Theron. Don’t burn my bacon, Saul bought those pans.” I tried to lunge up to my feet, sank down on the couch with an internal curse, holding my head. Dehydration pounded in my brain like a padded hammer rolled in glue and ground glass.

“Why he cooks on copper bottoms I will never understand, not when there’s perfectly good stainless steel around. There’s orange juice on the table, Jill. Drink the whole thing, it’ll help with the headache.”

“How do you know I have a headache?”

“You’re usually much nastier than this. Not up to your usual speed right now.”

I half-groaned, spotted the glass pitcher Saul usually made ice tea in. There was a clean glass set right next to it, which told me Theron had washed dishes. “Fuck you, Were.”

“Nice try, but doesn’t have your usual snap. Drink something, will you?”

I poured myself a huge dollop of orange juice, couldn’t resist. “Where’s the bourbon?”

He was having none of it. “Do the non-nightside murders have anything to do with someone using plain lead to kill you?”

“I don’t know, Theron. The bigger mystery is a fucking hellbreed in the middle of a scurf nest.” Not to mention the nest was in a place where no scurf would build it, and… Jesus. It made my head hurt to think about it.

No assumptions, milaya . Never assume. Mikhail’s voice, the injunction repeated so many times it was worn into memory like a groove on a record. Shortest way to get ass blown off sideways.

“So more than one person is trying to kill you.”

“Christ, I’d hope so. If this is only one enemy I’m going to turn in my hunter’s union card.” The banter came naturally, punctuated by the sounds of cooking; it was so much like home I could have cried.

“You guys have a union?” The sizzling ended, and he came out of the kitchen with two plates. Fragrant steam rose. I’d never had any of his cooking before, but Weres—especially Were males—are very domestic. It was likely to be good.

Missing Saul rose like a hand clamped around my throat. I took a long draft of orange juice, acid stinging my chapped lips and dry tongue. It took a physical effort to stop before I drank myself sick on it, but I put the glass down only three-quarters empty. “Of course not. Did you make any coffee? How long have I been out?”

He set a plate down in front of me. “I’ll go turn the coffeepot on, and you’ve been out about fourteen hours. Missed a whole night of fun and games, cleaning up scurf stragglers and all.”