Lilith Saintcrow - Hunter's Prayer

“Hell, kitten, I knew that when I met you. It’s part of your charm. You’re a hunter. Being nice would be a weakness. Right?”

He sounded so sure.

Is mercy a weakness, Saul? Doesn’t killing like that make me worse than what I hunt?

“Right?” he prodded, moving slightly to bump my hips with his.

I wish I was as sure as you sound, catkin. I swallowed the stone in my throat. “Right. You bet.”

“So let’s get this visit to that goddamn hole out of the way so we can get out of town. Okay?”

I firmed my jaw, set my shoulders, and gently slid away from him. He let me. I touched the handle of the bullwhip. “Okay.”

But I sounded more like a scared teenager than a hunter. He didn’t mention it, just picked up the duffel with spare weapons and ammo in it and motioned me toward the door. “Let’s go, then.”

Oh, Saul. Thank God for you.

T he Monde was just getting ready for the night. Outside, winter sunlight was slanting thinly toward the end of the day, cold breath of wind coming not from the mountains but off the river, filled with a chemical tang.

There was a new bouncer at the door, daytime muscle, but he just nodded and let me by. Food for thought—or maybe, even as drawn and haggard as I was, I looked like nobody to mess with.

Riverson, his gray-filmed eyes widening, was at the bar. The charms in my hair shifted and rang as he reached behind him for the vodka bottle. The air turned hot and tense, the few hellbreed having crawled out of their holes before dusk suddenly stilling, several Traders clustered around a table near the dance floor looking up, disturbed by this new feral current.

I passed the bar for once and headed for the back, for the iron door behind its purple cord. I heard Riverson call my name.

“Kismet! Kismet! ”

Sounded like he was trying to warn me. Nice of him, really, considering we hated each other.

I stepped behind the purple velvet and reached for the doorknob. It was unlocked, as usual. I twisted it, pushed it open, and went up the stairs, stopping halfway to lean against the banister and try to calm my racing heart.

What are you doing, Jill?

Only what I have to, I replied. Only what I must.

And Mikhail’s voice, barely a whisper. Head high, guns out, milaya. Meet what chases you.

I pushed the creaking wooden door at the top open and the room hove into sight: white carpet, pristine, no sign of spilled brandy or blood. The glimmer of glass and chrome that was the bar. The other two doors, neither of which I ever wanted to see what lay behind. The bed, perfectly made, as always.

The two chairs, facing each other.

Perry stood straight and slim in front of the bank of television monitors, his hands clasped loosely in front of him. His back was to me, and I could see he’d gotten a haircut. A nice, short, textured cut, the latest thing for boys this season. Nothing but the best.

He wore, for once, jeans and a pale ash-gray sweater instead of a suit. A pair of dark leather engineer boots. Blue light from the monitors touched his hair, picked out paler highlights in the blond.

I closed the door behind me. Waited.

“It is not safe for you to be here,” he said finally, very softly. Static blurred across the monitors, they cleared up. On one satellite feed, Court TV was just getting underway with a serial killer’s trial. On another, explosions ripped through a Jerusalem restaurant in slow motion. There were more explosions on the third, some Eastern European country purging again, riots in the streets.

I took a deep breath. “Three things.”

He waited. The trembling started, I leaned against the door. Stop it, Jill. Just stop it. You planned what you were going to say. Do it quick. The scar pulsed under the new cuff, sweating.

Push him off balance, Jill. “First of all, thank you. For saving my life.”

He didn’t move. His shoulders were absolutely straight. More static fuzzed across the monitors, moving in an oddly coherent pattern; a cold breeze touched my cheek. Spoiled honey and dusty feathers. The air behind him shimmered like pavement on a hot day; the shimmer swept back and forth, combing the air.

Double or nothing, Jill. Do a mindfuck of your own. Make your teachers proud. “Second of all… I owe you an apology, Pericles. I should have listened to you about Belisa. I should have let you kill her. It… what I did to you wasn’t right. I’m sorry. For shooting you in the head and for not listening to you. You didn’t deserve that.”

The static drained away. The silence in the room was now shocked, as if I had walked into a high-class party and started yelling obscenities. A murmur slid through the air, circling; the shimmer behind him died down.

His shoulders were still straight, but some essential quality of murderous rigidity had drained away. I waited.

“Surprising.” His tone was flat. “But not entirely unexpected.”

Holy fucking shit. It worked. I peeled myself away from the door, cautioning myself not to get too cocky. Next came the trick of the week, if I was good enough to perform it. “What do I owe you?”

His laugh made the glasses rattle uneasily at the bar, the hanging material over the bed billowed as if caught in a breeze. Glass bottles of liquor groaned, chattering against their shelves. “More than you can comfortably repay, Kiss. More than you can ever repay. I have angered an Elder for your sake, though I was well within my rights. You are mine. ”

I don’t think so, Perry. “The deal was that you would help me in my cases in return for a slice of my time. That hasn’t changed.”

Another fluid, almost Gallic shrug. “If it pleases you to think so, by all means, continue.”

Now for the sting. I braced myself and tossed my dice. “There’s just one thing.” My right hand rested on the butt of a gun, a new Glock 9 mm. I wouldn’t need to draw it. At least, I hoped not. I was in no condition to deal with him if he got nasty.

But I’d certainly give it a go if this went south.

“What?” This was a snarl, more glass rattling. The windows looking down over the empty dance floor flexed in their frames.

“How much did she take you for? Belisa, I mean. How deep in their venture did you have your tentacles?”

Silence.

A warm bath of satisfaction started at my toes and worked its way up. I guessed right. You fucking hellbreed bastard. God damn you.

It had become clear to me in a blinding flash while I stood shaking in the shower trying to scrub the smell of the Nameless off my skin yet again. Just before I’d shot him in the head, Perry had spoken that name, the name of my dead self. A name he could have had no fucking way of knowing unless he’d chatted cozily with someone who had taken a peek at Mikhail’s private papers.

Someone like Melisande Belisa, who had put the information in the Sorrows file for Inez to read too and taunt me with.

I’d suspected, of course. A Trader known for slaving showing up in the Monde when I’d blown all his other boltholes, Perry trailing me before he should have known I was in serious danger, his warning that his protection might only extend so far—which by itself would have meant nothing, since he liked to pretend he knew everything going on in the city. But with everything else, it added up to a pretty picture.

A damning picture. Not to mention him finding her with a minimum of fuss, and her only showing up with a black eye and tender ribs.

Just to make it look good.

I continued, surer of myself now. My arms and legs stopped shaking. “She crossed you, didn’t she. They moved into town and I was kept busy chasing my tail on other cases, but you didn’t know Inez’s big plan was to have me in the starring role when her lord and master came calling. That’s also why you intervened when it came to Elizondo, he was a bit player but you couldn’t have him talking to me.” I swallowed dryly. “How much, Perry? How much did you lose on the deal?”