Lilith Saintcrow - Redemption Alley

Shit. “Anyone call? Other than Saul, that is?”

“Your pager buzzed once or twice. Otherwise, quiet as a mouse.”

I spotted said pager on the table, scooped it up, and blinked through the layer of blurring closing over my eyes. The plate held scrambled eggs, crispy bacon, and a mountain of grits holding up a pat of butter. It looked good. “Thanks.”

“I’m running backup on you until this is over.” His lean dark face didn’t change, but his eyes flashed orange before settling back into their ordinary darkness. “Saul’s request. So don’t argue.”

“What exactly did you tell him?” Monty had paged me twice, Carp once, and the last number sent a cold finger tracing down my spine.

Goddammit.

The Were shrugged. “I told him you were fine, and sleeping, and that we have scurf. Told him you were playing everything by the book and there was no need to worry, but I’d keep an eye on you. He asked me to not just keep one eye but both on you, since you have—and I quote—a habit of getting yourself beaten to a pulp. He calls it your particular brand of charm.”

“I do love my work,” I muttered, and set the pager down, exchanging it for the plate. Everything else could wait. I was hungry. “Did you mention coffee, or not?”

“I did. I didn’t tell Saul someone tried to assassinate you.” One shoulder lifted, dropped, Theron’s particularly ambiguous shrug added to a raised eyebrow. “If he finds out, we’ll both be in dutch. So you’d better get cracking.”

I couldn’t answer, I had a mouth full of grits. But I glared at him, and Theron snorted, set his plate down, and went to turn the coffeepot on.

Damn Weres.

My eyes snagged on the pager again. But first things first.

I peeled up the remains of my trouser leg and looked at my calf. There was an angry red chunk taken out of the muscle, already scabbed-over. It looked nasty, but the flesh around it wasn’t inflamed. There was no telltale blue network of viral spreading around its edges. It was just a bit of missing meat, about the size of a mouth, and I couldn’t tell which shape the final scar would take. It was healing far slower than anything else, and the scab on my head was still throbbing as I chewed.

I pushed the shredded leather down, smoothed it over my leg. Let out a heavy, only half-relieved sigh. Took another bite, ignoring the way it turned to ashes in my mouth. The orange juice started going down easier once I had some food in me.

Why would Perry be calling me now? Especially now, with someone trying to kill me and scurf in town? It was too neat a coincidence not to be suspicious, coming from him.

And with a hellbreed bursting in on a bunch of scurf. A skunk-haired ’breed who didn’t look familiar. Well, I didn’t know every hellbreed in town. That would be impossible.

But still.

I weighed the idea of going into the Monde Nuit to ask Perry a few questions—preferably up close, personally, with a few silver-loaded bullets—and shivered. Took a huge bite of bacon, chewed mechanically, and sighed as the coffeemaker started to gurgle and Theron came out. He didn’t make his bacon like Saul did, but it was still crispy and good, and he’d added cheese to the eggs.

“There’s more when you’re finished with that plate,” he said, settling himself on the couch and picking up his own plate. “Want to tell me what’s really going on?”

“If I knew, I would. Whoever’s bringing in scurf probably wants to kill Weres as well as me.”

“Things have been awful quiet lately. I should have known that would change.” He stretched out his long legs and got down to the serious business of eating. “Eat up, Kismet. When are you gonna slow down and start eating properly?”

“Why waste time on that when I could be killing hellbreed?” I shoveled in another mouthful of grits. I also waited for him to get the last word in, as usual, but he didn’t.

Jesus. Miracles do happen.

M onty was out of his office. I left a message on his voicemail and dialed Carp’s cell, popping the last bit of buttered toast in my mouth as I dropped down to sit on my bed, taking a deep inhale of the mixed smell of hunter, leather, and Were that reminded me again of Saul. My hair dripped. I’d taken a few minutes to reattach all the loose charms, braiding some in with red thread, tying others close to the scalp, and shaking my head to hear the reassuring jingle.

It rang twice. “Carper,” he snarled, the sound of open car windows roaring behind him.

“It’s Jill. You bellowed?”

A full five seconds of silence, and the wind-noise cut down. He must have rolled up his window. “I need to see you. Somewhere private.”

Well, miracles never cease. “I’m a married woman, Carp. What’s up?”

“No shit, Kismet. It’s serious, and I need to see you. Now.” Did he actually sound nervous? It wasn’t like him at all.

I juggled everything in my head, sighed. “Is it a case?”

“It’s the Kutchner case.”

My heart gave a bounce, my innards quivered, and I let out a short sound that might have been a curse if I hadn’t swallowed the last half of it with my mostly chewed toast. Now this is really too much, Carp. Goddammit. “Where?”

“You know Picaro’s, on Fourth?”

It was downtown, a little hole-in-the-wall bar. I was going to have to wear my replacement trenchcoat. “I can be there in half an hour. Care to drop me a clue?”

“Not without seeing you. Try to be inconspicuous.”

I’m a hunter, Carp. I could be standing right next to you and you wouldn’t know, if I wanted it that way. “I’m bringing a friend.”

“Come alone.”

You know, I would if people weren’t trying cut me in half with machine-gun fire or sic scurf on me. A shiver of reaction cooled along my skin, the scar a hard quiescent knot. “Can’t. Don’t worry, it’s one of my people.”

“Fine.” Bad-tempered as usual, he hung up, but not before I heard the click of a lighter and a sharp inhale.

I hope he’s not driving, smoking, and juggling a cell phone. I laid the phone back in its charger. “What the hell is going on?”

The empty air of my bedroom gave no answers. I heard Theron humming as he did dishes, rattling and clinking and sounding so much like Saul tears rose in my throat again.

Jesus. How was it possible to miss someone this much?

I touched the soiled leather of the cuff. He’d left me three, each custom-made with snapping buckles, fitting close to the wrist. This was the last one. I wondered if he’d thought he was going to be home sooner.

Two Weres were dead. Someone had tried to kill me, or kill them. A whole mess of old, contagious scurf— and a hellbreed. Which was like seeing a snake in a beehive—something you don’t expect at all.

What did it mean?

I don’t know. But I’m damn well going to find out.

To get into Picaro’s, you have to go down two flights of stairs from a plain door on the blank side of a skyscraper set in a hill. The main part of the bar doubles as a restaurant, a dim little hole with frayed carpet, sticky-tabled red vinyl booths, and stained-glass lamps hanging everywhere.

Picaro’s main claim to fame is their two-dollar drink specials, and large cheap breakfasts you can nurse a hangover on. Of course, they’re nothing compared to a Were’s cooking, but you take what you can get.

I was actually even contemplating a second breakfast as I slid into the booth opposite Carper, my replacement trench creaking as it folded. There were deep shadows under the deet’s blue eyes, and he’d taken off his tweed jacket. An actual tweed jacket, for Christ’s sake. He looked like an English professor in mufti, except for the shoulder holster and the flat oily stare of a cop who’s seen too much. He was also scruffy, sandy stubble standing out on his chin and the flat planes of his cheeks. Carp’s face is built like a skewed skyscraper, all angles that should work together but don’t. He’s handsome in the untraditional way of a character actor.