Night Shift

Chapter Fifteen

Galina held up a handful of thin silver bracelets, her soft green cat-tilted eyes troubled under her dark bangs. She looked like a thirties film star, between her paleness and the marcel waves in her sleek hair. "You want to try these, Jill?"

I swept four hinged copper cuffs off the counter and into my largest pocket, laying down a fifty-dollar bill. Eyed the chiming bracelets speculatively. They were blessed, I could see the clean blue glow running just under the surface of the silver, spilling out into the ether. "You think they might hold up better? The copper's taking a chunk out of both of us."

Westering sunlight fell through the high windows of the small shop. Galina lived up on the second floor, and very rarely left these four walls. Sanctuaries are tied to their particular houses; it's the bargain they make. They finish their training, settle, and drive roots in deep; a Sanctuary's house is well-nigh invulnerable. If they're caught out in the open, several nightside species consider them a tasty snack.

For all that, the local Sanctuary is where hunters, Weres, and other nightsiders go for supplies—silver, icons, bullets, other things—and gossip. Name it, and your local Sane can get it for you. If your credit's good, that is—and if you haven't been too irritating lately. And lots of Weres or hunters will smack you down hard if you're caught messing with a Sane.

Sancs have a lot of discretion once the Order finishes training them, and if you start trouble inside one of their houses you'll be on your ass in seconds flat. The sorcery they use is weak out in the world, but inside the confines of their own Houses, Sanctuary's will is law.

Sancs most often die old in bed after a few hundred years. Hunters don't.

Galina shrugged, her smile flashing for a moment as the sun picked out highlights in her hair. Saul had busied himself in the corner, playing with the Were toys—drums, claw-shaped knives, feathers and other bits for making amulets and fetishes.

"If it'll help you with that thing, I'll import it until the cows come home. But I get these—" The silver chimed in her hand, responding as the walls of her house creaked a little, fluxing in answer to her smile. " — from Mexico; they're cheap and readily available. I can even make them, if I have to. They might corrode less easily, too."

The glassed-in counter between us was full of little trinkets: Saint medals—Anthony, Jude, and Andrew, as well as George and Catherine—all specially blessed by Father Guillermo over at Sacred Grace, who had a dispensation from the Vatican to use some of the… ah, older blessings. Small stuffed alligators yawned, and a collection of rock-crystal scrying orbs glittered under the golden light.

Galina is slim and even smaller than me, her short stature belied by the shifting cloak of red-gold energy that is a Sanctuary's trademark. She wore the traditional gray, a tunic-top and a pair of bleached jeans, but was as usual barefoot. A silver pendant with the mark of the Order—a quartered circle inside a serpent's curve—winked at her throat.

I took one of the thin hinged bracelets. If I wear more than one to cover the scar, it'll make a hell of a lot of noise when they tap together. But if it works, I might have her make me a cuff. "Well, let's see." I snapped it shut over my wrist, held my hand out, and shook it a little to make the bracelet fall against the scar's ridged pucker.

An amazing jolt of pain leveled me to my knees, Galina's short blurt of surprise echoing uneasily against the walls. The defenses on the building sprang into humming alertness, but I could have cared less, my arm was on fire, as if I'd just stuck it in an oven and the flesh was crisping all the way down to the bone. I fell over, scrabbling at the silver with my other hand, but the hinge had locked, silver ground against the scar and I let out a sharp cry as the pain spilled down my chest, reaching for my heart with clumsy clawed fingers.

Abruptly the pain receded, hot thick tears squirting out of my eyes. I exhaled, blinked, and found myself flat on the floor, Saul Dustcircle crouching next to me. His fingers locked around my wrist, the silver bracelet—

curled like paper in a hot fire—was busted open in his other hand.

"Jesus," I whispered.

His eyes were very dark, and they held mine for a moment. He didn't ask a single question, just turned my wrist up and looked at the scar, his eyebrows drawing together.

Shame boiled up inside me, hot and vicious. Galina arrived, having vaulted the counter; she slid her arm under my shoulders and helped me sit up. "Christ, Jill, I'm sorry, I'm so sorry, my God, are you all right?" The defenses settled back into their humming, and I was grateful for that. Triggering a Sanctuary defense would make the pain from my arm seem like a cakewalk.

"F-fine." I tried to yank my wrist out of Saul's hand. His fingers bit down, a Were reflex, but I tore free, dispelling the urge to examine my arm and make sure I wasn't burned. My nerves twitched and screamed. "That was interesting." The words rode a breathy scree of air.

"Are you okay? Do you need to sit down, a glass of water, anything?" Galina was close to tears, her eyes glimmering and pale now. "I didn't think it would do that. Honest, I didn't."

Jesus, Galina, I know. "No worries." I sounded shaky even to myself, took a deep breath. "At least now we know silver won't work to cover it up. What'd you do to that batch?"

"I blessed it using a Greek invocation to Persephone. An old one I dug up out of some of Hutch's books." She was even paler than usual, helping to haul me to my feet and trying ineffectually to dust me off. "Are you really all right?"

Saul rose gracefully, holding the bracelet. It had twisted into a tight little corkscrew and sang a thin little note of stress before it stopped quivering. I didn't blame it, I felt the same way.

Goddamn. Well, let's call that an experiment and chalk it up to experience. All hail Jill Kismet the scientist.

I shook my hands out. The pain had vanished, leaving me weak-kneed and a little sweaty. "Fine. It was just a jolt, that's all." And I hope nobody finds out about this, because having someone do that to me for torture would be unpleasant at best. "I'll stick with the copper for now. We'll think of something."

"I'm sorry." She really was contrite. Galina was a gentle soul, when all was said and done. It was why she was a Sanctuary. The Order is concerned with preservation and peace; it's a pity so few pass the entrance tests. Human nature, I guess.

"Don't worry." A sudden idea struck me. "Can you bless all the silver for my bullets like that? It's heap powerful mojo."

Her sleek hair brushed forward over her shoulders as she nodded. "I can do that. How much do you need?" She didn't mention what any fool could see: I was wearing my ammo belt and bandolier, preparing for serious trouble tonight.

If she'd seen the trunk of my Impala, she might have been even more worried. I thought about it for a second. Took a shaky breath in, my heartbeat finally smoothing out. "Enough to refill my ammo belt. I'll stop by tomorrow if I have time." Translation: if I'm not getting shot at, or dealing with another crisis. I gauged the fall of sunlight. Near dusk. In another forty-five minutes it would be night.

The thin taste of copper laid itself over my palate again, my body reacting both to the pain and to trouble coming. I was going to throw myself into something dangerous and potentially deadly tonight, and my animal instinct was having a difficult time with the thought. Dumb idiot body, getting all worked up before the fun started.

Going out to torch hellbreed holes is just asking for trouble. But sometimes asking for trouble heads off even deeper trouble up the road.

"All right." Her eyes moved past me, to Saul. "Anything you need, sir?" Her tone was polite, and I thought I caught a twinkle in her eyes. Theron and some of the others from the barrio were regular visitors; the Order and the Weres are old friends. Back when the churches both Catholic and Protestant used to hunt the furkind—not to mention the feathered and scaled—the Order was doing its best to protect them. European Weres had caught the worst of it, but those in the New World have suffered enough to remember in different ways.

On other continents Weres had—and have—different problems.

"Leather. A strip this long—" His hands shaped the air. "And these." He laid a handful of stuff on the counter. Probably meant for amulets, and Galina nodded, patting my shoulder.

"I'll ring you up in a moment. Are you sure you're okay, Jill?"

Don't sound so worried, kiddo. I do this for a living, remember? I've been trained. "Peachy keen." I tried not to sound sarcastic, turned away. When she got this soft and worried I felt an acutely uncomfortable need to reassure her, and always ended up sounding like an idiot. Safer just to change the subject. "I'll wait out in the car."

"Be safe," Galina called after me. I made a noise of assent—what can you say, to something like that? I couldn't be safe if I tried.

I didn't even know if I wanted to. I was, in my own special way, as much an adrenaline junkie as Avery. Or even more. Hard not to crave the jolt of staring down death or the feeling of skating the edge of terror and coming out on top, once you've tasted it.

The bell on the door's crossbar tinkled as I stepped outside the safety of her shop, taking in the street with a quick glance. My Impala sat at the curb obediently, her orange paint gleaming. My baby.

Dustcircle came out a few minutes later, carrying a small bag. He settled into the passenger's seat as I roused the engine. "Nice lady."

"Just don't start any trouble around her, and she stays that way." I shifted into first and pulled away from the curb. "Find everything you needed?"

"Yup." He paused as I accelerated, heading up Fairville. I'd catch Fifteenth and drop down toward Plaskény Square.

My first stop of the night. My heart thudded once under my ribs, settled back into its regular rhythm.

"Mind if I smoke?" He dug in his pocket and came up with a pack of Charvils. The smell of cherry tobacco reached my nose. It was oddly pleasant, especially since he'd stopped looming over me.

"Knock yourself out. Just roll down the window." I redid the upholstery in here, I don't want it reeking.

"Can I ask you something?"

Depends on what you ask, furboy. "Ask." I hit my turn signal, eased us around a corner.

"What happened to your teacher—Tolstoi, right? He was famous."

"Harp didn't tell you?" My heart leapt up into my throat, my palms suddenly slick. "He fell in love and she killed him." He fell in love with a Sorrow, she stole his amulet and tore his throat open. If I ever get the chance, I'm going to kill her. "The Weres gave him a pyre. He deserved it."

The pause was uncomfortable. I shifted, ramming the clutch, and opened my mouth again. "He was the only man who ever thought I was worth a damn."

Shut up, Jill. He doesn't need to hear that. He's just a visiting Were. Stop it. I reached forward, twisted the radio knob angrily, and got lucky. They were playing Jimi Hendrix, and I turned it up, accelerating, the sound of music and wind through the windows sweet enough to drown the lump in my throat.

Mostly.

The Diablo was a hellbreed hole on Plaskény, a long, low vaulted basement at the bottom of a flight of dusty, narrow, filth-drifted stairs. I poured a thin tidal wave of vodka on the bar before smashing the bottle, a nice theatrical touch. The screaming had stopped, but there were still moans and little clicking sounds from the arkeusI'd

just finished mostly dismembering. The clicks dissolved into a gurgle, and a titanic stink rose.

One more hell-thing dead, more or less.

Most of them were dead, draped over chairs, dissolving on top of tables. The dance floor was chaos, and my shoulders hurt. So did my face, I'd taken a shot right on the cheek that could have broken a human hunter's neck. My shirt was torn, and my long leather trench had ragged claw marks in it. It was just one rip short of the dustheap.

Burning a hellbreed hole is never easy, especially for just one hunter. The only good thing about it was I didn't have to watch where my shots went, eventually they'd hit someone who deserved it. When I used to do backup with Mikhail we'd have to be careful not to clip each other—but working with your teacher is like working with a telepath who anticipates, and if you're a good student you get to the point where you can anticipate too.

Or at least stay the hell out of the way.

I held the gun steady on the bartender, a thin ragged hellbreed with a shock of piebald hair and a twisted upper lip. Despite that, he was attractive, in a worn sneering way, with that aura of the exotic 'breed carry. He eyed the gun and opened his mouth to say something—

— and I half-turned, lashing out behind me, the whip flicking, striking with a crackle across the face of a slick little female 'breed sneaking up on me through the wreckage. She collapsed, screaming, holding her face. If she lived she'd be scarred by the silver.

Hot nasty satisfaction spilled through my veins like wine-fumes. I was grinning madly, blue sparks crackling over the blessed silver tied in my hair, charms chiming a sweet counterpoint to the violence.

"Spread the word." I turned back to the bartender. The gun didn't waver. I used to use baby Glocks, being cursed with smaller wrists than a man. No more. I like the big ones, my bones can handle recoil a lot better now. "Whoever's hiding this New York chippie 'breed is on a one-way track back to Hell. I want her, and I want her yesterday. Got it?"

He made a thin whining sound as the whip returned, wrapping itself neatly in my fist. My fingertips tingled. I ached to pull the trigger—someone had hit me with a chair, crunching my leg and almost cutting my throat with a broken bottle. Most of the hellbreed in here I'd just wounded and put down to bleed out, but that one I'd killed.

The hammer rose back as I squeezed the trigger, delicately, gently. It clicked into the up position. "I am not going to tell you again." My voice was deadly soft. My ribs ached—having a couple 'breed pummel you will do that. It had taken a ridiculous amount of ammo, but I'd wanted the first one messy enough to make a statement. Enough of them had escaped to spread the word that I was on the warpath.

It had certainly been messy enough to satisfy. A chaos of blood and screaming, the music pounding through it all until a stray shot had thankfully knocked out a vital connection in the DJ's booth. Then just screams and shouting, and hellbreed cries.

And death.

The bartender scrambled away and fled toward the shattered front door. I hadn't been particularly subtle.

Red and purple light flickered, random reflections cast by the blastball hovering over the dance floor. The rest of the place was wreckage.

It had taken me only fourteen and a half minutes. Give or take. There's something about working overtime and double semiautomatics that makes a girl capable of kicking serious ass.

I filled my lungs. My fingers prickled, the heat becoming uncomfortable. The scar pulsed wetly, thrumming with the force I'd pulled through it. Hey, I could afford it; I was paid up through the month.

Don't think about that, Jill. I flicked my fingers.

Vodka on the bar ignited with a wump!

A thin pale-blue flame smeared like oil. Banefire. It would spread to brackish flammable hellbreed blood and more spilled liquor, and this place was a firetrap anyway. I spent a few moments examining the shell of etheric energy on the concrete walls—the concrete would keep the fire from spreading, but this flame would consume every trace of hellbreed, cleansing the entire interior and leaving a thin coating of inimical-to-hellspawn blessing behind.

Thank you, God. I did not want to burn down more than I needed to.

I turned on my heel, the ragged strips of my coat fluttering. Under its protection, I was mostly whole. I hadn't lost much blood tonight.

Yet. This is only your first stop. Don't get cocky.

The place began to smoke and flame in earnest. I strode up out of the fire, up the steps past the subterranean iron door hanging by one hinge, stepping over the pool of ick that used to be a burly hellbreed grunt bouncer, finally out into the night's cool sweetness. The bartender had fled, and I faintly caught the echo of his running feet, heading north and veering to the west.

Probably heading for the Monde. Happy birthday, Perry. I sighed, rolling my shoulders in their sockets, as something detonated behind me and the flames started to lick and sizzle in earnest. Banefire doesn't sound like real flame. It sounds like whispery, papery voices screaming behind you, like a cold sweat in the middle of the night. It is a flame of cleansing, not like the black twisting fire a hunter can call upon to fashion levinbolts.

The scar throbbed aching tension against my wrist. Mikhail's ruby warmed the hollow of my throat. I crossed the street, heels clicking since I didn't have to be quiet at all tonight.

Dustcircle leaned against the hood, smoking one of his cherry cigarettes. He smelled of tension, musk, and sleek electric fur on end. Seeing the bartender blunder up out of the hole and into the night must have been worrisome.

His eyes flicked past me to the doorway. My back prickled. If any 'breed came out now they'd be angry but wounded, and not much of a threat.

That's pride talking, Jill. Even a half-dead 'breed is dangerous. Do not get cocky.

"How many were down there?" He asked it so calmly I almost didn't believe the tense thrumming coming out of him, the Were version of a fidget. Not quite a growl, but certainly more than a purr.

"I stopped counting at twenty." I fished my pager out and checked it. No calls, and it was early still. "I've got lots to do tonight, Dustcircle. You want to get in the car?"

He remained where he was, staring across the street. I restrained the urge to look back over my shoulder.

He took his sweet time examining the twisting blue shadows of banefire. Finally, he spoke. "Were you kind to them?"

I almost went slackjawed in amazement. Kind to them? They were hellbreed. Spoilers and corruptors, sorcerous maggots, predators.

After a moment, I understood. When Weres kill, they do it swiftly. They don't play with their prey.

Unless they're rogue, gone berserk and violating the oldest of Were taboos.

Thou shalt not eat people.

It irked me that he'd even asked. What did he think I was? "I've killed more 'breed than you can possibly imagine," I told him, flatly. "Not a single one of them was ever what I'd call happy, and I put them down as quick and clean as I can. You can call that kindness if you want. I like to think I'm being kind to the innocents they prey on. Get in the car."

He did.