Redemption Alley

Chapter Six

Scurf 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.

“You going to pay for that?” Theron stopped short when I rounded on him. “Jesus, Jill. What’s wrong?”

I twisted the cap free and took down a jolt of colorless liquid courage. “Disappearances on the east side of town. Four women and a man, probably more.” I took another slug, wiped my mouth with the back of my hand. The habit of drinking steadied me more than the alcohol would, since I burn it off so quick anyway. “I need every Were in the city running sweeps.” I took a deep breath. “We’ve got scurf.”

Amalia paled and straightened. She was golden-blonde, with a cat Were’s characteristic dark eyes and wide cheekbones. Feathers knotted into her long honey hair fluttered as she pitched her cigarette into the buttcan with a clean economy of motion. Muscle rippled in her bare arm, the sleeves torn off her Cruxshadows T-shirt. She shot Theron one eloquent look.

“You’re sure?” The lean dark Were reached for the vodka. I surrendered it without demur. It was formulaic—I wouldn’t be here unless I was sure.

I pointed to my leg, where the leather was shredded. Underneath, the angry red of clawswipes was visible, with the trademark jagged curl at the end. “I’m pretty goddamn sure, Theron. I need patrols run in every inch of the city. I’m going home to call Leon right now.”

“How many did you tangle with?” Theron passed the vodka over to Amalia, who barely touched it to her mouth to be polite. Most lionesses are teetotalers—when they drink they like to hunt, and not many men can keep up, Were or human.

But what a way to go, eh?

“Just one. New one, vanished last night. I found him this morning. Hadn’t gotten all chewy and bendy yet, and was probably just a random infection. There was no sign of a nest.” But there has to be one, and he would have found it tomorrow night. Ugh. My pulse trembled, came back to regular. “Have everyone be on the lookout, and I’ll drop by Galina’s on my way home. She’ll break out the emergency garlic.”

Amalia made a mournful face. “I hate that.”

“Better than waking up slimy.” Theron actually shivered. It was utterly unlike him—but the Weres have been fighting scurf for longer than anyone. There’s not a single one of them, even a pup, who doesn’t have a scurf scar or two. Of course, they heal faster and better than humans, but still. “The east side of town, you say?”

“Yup. There were disappearances, but nothing out of the ordinary—if you can call anything on the nightside ordinary.” My pager buzzed again, but I ignored it. It didn’t make me jump this time, thank God. “I’ll be digging for the entry point soon. There’s got to be more disappearances I haven’t heard about.”

“Okay.” Theron’s face thinned out, his dark eyes taking on an orange cast in the alley’s shadow. One end was blocked off by another dumpster, and there was a row of castoff plastic deckchairs for smoke breaks near the door to the kitchen. That door was ajar, and I smelled the grill, hot oil and bacon frying.

My stomach gurgled. I turned sharply on my heel, heading for the mouth of the alley. “Put the vodka on my tab, furboy. See you soon.”

“Get your garlic up to date, Jill. And eat something!” He yelled the last, but I was already gone, gathering myself to leap, one hand thudding onto the dumpster’s lid to push me up and over. My boots touched home and I hit the street, up the slope of Mayfair to where I’d parked the Impala. Along the way I stopped right outside the Episcopalian Church—ALL Welcome, its sign said, with a rainbow arching over the words to drive the point home—to use a payphone. I dropped spare change in and dialed.

“Montaigne,” he snarled.

“It’s Jill. Listen, Monty—”

“Where the hell are you?” He sounded about halfway to frantic. “There’s another disappearance on the east side. This time it’s a cop.”

My skin went cold. “Who?”

“A blue named Winchell. Just walked away from his cruiser. We found it locked on Rosales and Fifteenth. He missed his four A.M. call-in.”

I did a few swift mental calculations. That was pretty far away from Percoa, but again in a shabby clutch of industrial buildings and railyards.

Plenty of dark little holes for scurf to live in. If they had a range that big we were looking at serious trouble. “Keep everyone away from the scene. If you have people there pull them back. Stay away and set up a cordon.”

“How big?” A good lieutenant will never question a hunter. In Monty’s case, he’d known Mikhail. And he’d once screamed his lungs out while watching me take down a Trader whose bargain had included a deep, nasty hunger for human flesh—mostly sautéed, with garlic and onions. Monty had a chunk missing from his right buttock, probably the only tender part on him.

After that, there was never a quibble. Most cops are smart enough, after the obligatory orientation, to just do what I tell them. Very few dig their heels in after a brush with the nightside. And word gets passed around, by hook or by crook.

I don’t know, Monty. “Forget the cordon. I can’t answer for anyone’s safety down there. Pull everyone out. If he’s still alive, I’ll bring him to Mercy General.” If he’s still human, that is.

“Jesus Christ, Jill.” He sounded a little pale. “How bad is it?”

You don’t want to know, kid. “Nothing I can’t handle,” I lied. “See you around.”

“Jill—”

“What, Monty?” The high sharp edge of fear in my voice could be mistaken for irritation. I wasn’t known for having the best temper.

Still, he persisted. “The widow. Do you have anything, anything at all?”

What do you expect, miracles? It would do me no good to say it—I was in the business of providing miracles. “Not yet, Monty. Just hang in there.”

“Jill—”

“Got to go, Monty. Keep everyone out of the way, will you?” I hung up, dropped in another handful of change. Payphones are expensive these days, but nowhere near as expensive as replacing a cell phone, with as many times as I get shot, dumped in water, knifed, electrocuted, thrown off buildings. Pagers are slightly less expensive, and they’re harder to break most of the time.

It rang six times and the answering machine picked up, a passionless recital of the number I’d just dialed. I waited for the beep.

“Leon, it’s Jill. We’ve got scurf. Anyone you can send will be welcome. Call me, I’m dropping by my house tonight to pick up ammo. Yes, I’m up to date on my garlic. Hurry.” A terse message, but it got the job done.

I hung up, and the desire to call Saul shook me with its intensity. I pushed it away and headed for my car.