Lilith Saintcrow: Redemption Alley

Oh God. Please. I quelled the tremor in my hands by the simple expedient of putting it out of my mind. Whatever was going to happen was going to happen. Nothing to be done about it now.

I stepped toward the dumpster. It was a big green number, half its heavy plastic lid closed and the other half open, resting against the wall of the alley. At the end of the alley’s confined space was a huge rolling door, probably for whoever took out the trash. I scanned the alley again—no, it was a blind hole. No place else to hide.

Don’t let me find anything, God. Please. Cut me a break on this one.

Unfortunately, God wasn’t in a giving mood today. I saw telltale frosting along the metal edge of the dumpster, a fine powdery substance drifting in complicated whorls. And I heard, straining the preternatural acuity of my senses, a faint rustling.

Yup. God’s not in a good mood today, Jillybean. You’ve got a scurf infestation on your hands.

S curf aren’t like Traders or hellbreed. There’s no pattern to their movements, no training, no instinctive predator’s grace. They’re just engines of messy hunger, ravenous and unpredictable.

And contagious.

I emptied two clips into the motherfucker and ended up burying my knife in its side. Brick puffed into dust and the dumpster’s side was stove in, garbage spilling out into the alley, body-sized dents in the walls, and blood everywhere. My blood, which just served to drive the thing into a feeding frenzy.

They can smell it. And even though they like it fresh from the vein, so to speak, they’ll lick it up from concrete if they have to.

In the end, I drove the skinny naked thing out of the alley, my fingers clamped in its throat and its claws tangling in my ribs. He wasn’t fully changed yet, the virus hadn’t turned his bones all the way to flexible cartilage or given him the thick slimy coating that makes scurf so slippery. But his eyes were blank pale orbs without iris or pupil—they don’t need to see —and even though he was newly infected and didn’t have the developed instincts for carnage, he was strong and desperate.

When they’re newly changed, they’re even more unpredictable than usual. It snarled and champed, teeth snapping with a sound like heavy billiard balls smacking together; foam splattered rank and foul, burning the skin of my hand and smoking on my leather sleeve. I cried out, miserable loathing beating frantically under my heart, as we tumbled out into the street and a flood of early morning sunlight.

The scurf screeched, damage runnelling its face and its blind pupilless eyes popping, smears of buttery eyefat glistening down its gaunt cheeks. Thin acrid smoke gushed, pale powdery drifts rising as the thing that used to be Michael Spilham squealed and imploded. The smell was gagging-strong, the reason most hunters don’t like cotton candy or caramel. Burnt candy, sweetness, and bad, all rolled up in one pretty package.

It screamed again, foam splattering in harsh droplets that sizzled where they landed. It took every ounce of hellbreed strength I had to hold the thing down, even as its flesh began to run like plastic clay, stinking and smoking. I held it, held it, and heard far-off traffic under its screams, the sound of the wind in the park trees.

Lord, take this soul into Thy embrace. I couldn’t help adding my own little touch to the prayer— and will You do it quickly, please?

Its throat collapsed into stinking sludge, powder lifting on the wind and sparkling in the sunlight. I coughed, deep and racking, struggling for purchase on the still-moving mass of almost-liquid ooze. Keep it in the sun, ohGod Jill keep it in the sun, for the love of Christ don’t let it go now.…

It squirmed and heaved, almost squirting free. If I lost my grip now it would scurry off into the alley and I’d have another fight on my hands. The longer I fought, the bigger the chance of a bite.

The scurf that had been Michael Spilham collapsed into final true death, and I let out a whispered prayer that was half a sob. Got off lucky. It was only then I realized I was bleeding from its claws, the gouges whittling deeper as acid in the powdery slime exhausted itself. The charms in my hair ran with blue sparks and the scar on my wrist throbbed. The dead body subsided, bubbling into powder, and I scraped both palms on the pavement as I backed away hurriedly, staring at the smear. Lucky, lucky, lucky.

“OhGod,” I whispered, as my left hand grabbed a gun and I cleared leather, pointing it at the stain on the pavement.

That’s the trouble with the damn things. Sometimes scurf just don’t stay dead.

My heart leapt and shivered inside me. I coughed, tasting blood and adrenaline, stripes of fire along my ribs as acid hissed and bubbled in my flesh. There was another clawstrike on my thigh, and one down my back. Hot blood dripped down my cheek. It had damn near taken out my eye.

Lucky. Jesus Christ I’m lucky. The scar pulsed, pulsed under the cuff. The burning bubbling went away, preternatural healing replacing tissue faster than the acid could burn. Most hunters are walking factories of scar tissue, healing sorcery notwithstanding, I should have been glad I don’t need healing spells.

I wasn’t. I almost never am.

After a little while I decided the flood of sunlight was enough to take care of the scurf. Besides, I couldn’t sit here with a gun out all day, could I? I cautiously hefted myself to my feet, and forced myself nearer the bubbling grease spot.

My tiger’s eye rosary bumped against my midriff. The chunk of carved ruby at my throat was warm, humming with power. The scar throbbed. Silver clinked and chimed in my hair. Everything was present and accounted for.

No bites. I’m up to date on my garlic shots anyway, thank God. I stared at the smear for a long time before holstering my left-hand gun. Scurf. What next?

Get going, Jill. You’ve got work to do, and not a lot of time to do it.

Jacinta’s killer was going to have to wait. I headed for the alley to collect my other gun and the dropped knives. My knees only trembled a little, but when my pager went off, buzzing silently in its padded pocket, I almost leapt out of my skin.

Micky’s on Mayfair Hill is the type of restaurant locals like to keep to themselves. Good food, quiet atmosphere, and pictures of silent and classic film stars on the walls. I’m not used to being in Micky’s during daylight, unless it’s just before dawn and I’m tired and bloody. Normally I wouldn’t go around civilians like that—but Micky’s isn’t just the best restaurant on the Hill, where the gay nightclubs rollick and roll all night long.

It’s also the only restaurant on the Hill run by Weres.

I didn’t stop to be seated, just stalked through the tables—very few of them occupied at this hour—and headed for the bar. Two steps down into the dark cavern where it was always dusk glinting off bottles and the jukebox in the corner, and I caught Theron’s eye.

The tall lanky dark-haired Were raised an eyebrow and cocked his head. I went behind the bar for once, without breaking stride, and a bleary-eyed businessman with the perfume of something unnatural hanging on him blinked, shifting uneasily on his stool. Micky’s is where the nightside comes to drink, and if you don’t make trouble you’re welcome here.

If you do make trouble, well… the staff will have you out the door on your ass in seconds flat. Probably minus a few body parts, too. And if I’m around I’ll help.

I snagged a bottle of vodka off the rack and headed for the back door. Theron followed, setting his towel down. He waited until I swept the door open and stepped out into the alley, where Amalia, one of the lionesses of the Norte Luz pride, leaned against the wall and made a slight moue of surprise to see me. I’m sure I wasn’t in my finest form.