Hunter's Prayer

Chapter Fifteen

This is beginning to piss me off.” I stared at the small brick building. The office on Quincoa—Kricekwesz’s—was closed again, this time at three in the afternoon. “Doesn’t this doctor ever open up?”

Saul lit a Charvil. “You want to go in and take a look around?”

My stomach flipped. I studied the front of the place: windowless because of the chance of projectiles, Family Planning Clinic in gold on the door that had a peephole and an intercom box with the Closed sign hanging from it as well as a UPS NO! stenciled underneath on white-painted bricks. There weren’t any protestors out here, and I supposed that was a good thing. A doctor who did abortions needed to be circumspect and safety-conscious; if he didn’t have a crowd of Jesus freaks out front it meant that he hadn’t pissed off the religious fanatics.

Yet.

I took my time, looking at the roof, the security cameras, the steel door. “Ricky didn’t say anything about needing an appointment.”

“Kind of odd for the doc not to be here.”

“He doesn’t keep night hours either.” I sighed. My mouth tasted sour even through the cinnamon Altoid Saul had given me. My hands were no longer shaking, but I still felt a little… unsteady.

I couldn’t believe something so callous had come out of my mouth. To hell with dead whores. I’m going to hunt myself a Sorrow.

It was exactly the sort of thing a hellbreed would say. Or a Middle Way adept, one of those selfish bastards. I couldn’t believe myself.

“Christ.” I let out a sharp breath. “If I’m going to do any breaking and entering, I want it to be for a good cause. We’ll come back tomorrow. All the doc will be able to do anyway is confirm Baby Jewel wanted to get rid of a career impediment.” Shame twisted under the words as soon as I heard my own voice. “Christ, Saul. I can’t believe what I’m saying.”

His hand closed over my nape, warm and hard. Saul reeled me in as he leaned back against the wall of the alley we’d chosen for surveillance. “Relax, kitten.” He exhaled smoke over my head. “Just take a breath.”

I closed my eyes and leaned against him, my head cradled below his collarbone and shoulder. My cheek rested against his T-shirt, and I pushed his coat aside and breathed him in.

His thumb worked along the tense muscles at the back of my neck. He took another sharp breath in, inhaling the smoke, and blew it out. “She really got to you.”

“Mindfuck central.” I jagged in another breath. God, Saul, what did I ever do without you? But I knew. I worked myself into the ground and killed myself by inches, that’s what I did. Just like every other hunter. “They probably have a dossier on me a mile thick.” And it doesn’t fucking help that I have to visit Lucado again. I hate pimps. Jesus Christ, but I hate pimps. I shoved the thought away. It went without protest, used to being pushed under the rug. I was no longer vulnerable, I was a grown-up, kickass hunter, and I wasn’t going to forget it.

“What do you think the game is?”

“There’s a vanishing possibility she actually knows something.” My voice was muffled in his shirt. He was warm, warm as a Were, a higher metabolism radiating energy. “The trouble is, there’s nothing Chaldean that does this. The demons like to possess, not eat. And the Sorrows don’t use body parts. They like the whole person, bleeding and screaming. After they’ve mindfucked the hell out of them and torn them into little bits and slit their fucking throats and—”

“Jill.”

“What?”

“Shut up.”

I did.

“I need you calm, baby. Nice and calm. You start going off the deep end and your pheromones get all wacked-out, and that makes me real unhappy. ’Kay?”

I nodded, my cheek moving against his shirt. He smelled of spice, woodsmoke, Charvil cherry tobacco, and familiar musk. I don’t want to make Saul unhappy. That’s the last thing I want.

“’Cause I like you nice and sweet, kitten.” His voice rumbled in his chest, not just the words but the sound soothing me. “I like you sleek and I like you purring. I don’t like no fucking Sorrow playing with your head, and we’ll fix it just as soon as we can. But for right now, baby, honey, kitten, Jilly-kiss, you need to calm the fuck down before I give you a dose of calm. Okay?”

“Okay.” I heard his heartbeat, even and unhurried. This was rapidly getting out of hand. “I’m calm.”

“No you’re not.” Amusement in his voice. “But close enough.”

“I could still use a dose.” At least when you’re in bed with me I’m sure you’re not going to vanish.

That thought vanished too, like bad gas in a mineshaft. I couldn’t afford to start on that particular mental path right now.

“Bet you could. Me too.” He moved a little, bumping me, I leaned into him. “Business before pleasure, baby.” His voice rumbled against my ear.

“Who made up that rule?” I am handling this very, very well. All things considered.

“You did. Want to break it?”

Shit. “We’d better get to Hutch’s. I’ve got books to hit before I have to face a few hours with a hellbreed.”

“You want dinner?” Christ, did Saul sound tentative? Why? I wasn’t going to break. I’d handled worse than this. The enemies I didn’t like were the ones that surprised me, that’s all. Once I knew they were in town, it became a clear-cut problem: seek and destroy.

Knowledge is the hunter’s best friend, Mikhail always used to say.

Oh but it hurt to think of Mikhail. Hurt down deep, in a place I shut off from the rest of my life, the place that only bloomed when I was up alone at night with the wind mouthing the corners of the warehouse, low-moaning its song of streetcorners and loneliness. A place that hadn’t shown up too often since Saul had waltzed into my life and first irritated the hell out of me, then worked his way inside my defenses and ended up twined around my heart. Worked in so deep I wasn’t sure where he ended and I began.

The trouble with love is that it leaves you so fucking vulnerable. It’s a weak spot. But without that weak spot, what the ever-living fuck is a hunter fighting for?

“No.” I stepped reluctantly away from the shelter of his warmth. “I’d better not. Hanging around him tends to upset my stomach.” I sighed, rolling my tense shoulders, and blew out a long breath. “Feel free, though. You can hit the stands for a burrito or something while I’m in Hutch’s.”

“You think I’m going to leave you alone in the bookstore with Hutch?” His eyebrow rose, and the world suddenly jolted back into its familiar configurations. “I know how hot he thinks you are.”

Hutch’s was a bust. Hutch hadn’t had time to do more than pull the sources he thought were most likely and skim for translatable passages. The term chutsharak didn’t appear to mean anything at all. Hutch himself turned white when he saw me, showed us into the back room, then closed down and hightailed it. Which meant we spent the better part of the day into the night poking through moldering books and not finding much that I didn’t already know about the Sorrows.

He also hadn’t managed to find anything on Saint Anthony’s spear. Which meant that either Hutch was slipping—or Rourke had lied to me.

Guess which one my money was laid on.

When the time came, Saul drove—my hands were a little shaky. Our first stop was Mary of the Immaculate Conception, and I spent twenty minutes in a back pew with my eyes closed, smelling the peculiar odor of a church. Incense, vestments, ritual wine, the dash of hope, belief, terror, pleading. A familiar mix, comforting and spurring in equal measure.

The beads of the tiger-eye rosary slipped through my fingers as I sat, swaying slightly, the prayer repeating itself inside my head.

Thou Who hast given me to fight evil, protect me. Keep me from harm. Grant me strength in battle, honor in living, and a quick clean death when my time comes. Cover me with Thy shield, and with my sword may Thy righteousness be brought to earth, to keep Thy children safe. Let me be the defense of the weak and the protector of the innocent, the righter of wrongs and the giver of charity. In Thy name and with Thy blessing, I go forth to cleanse the night.

It is the Hunter’s Prayer. Several different versions are extant: Mikhail used to pray in gutter Russian, singing the words with alien grace; I’ve heard it intoned in flamenco-accented Spanish and spoken severely in Latin, I’ve heard the greased wheels of German clicking and sliding, I’ve even heard it chanted in Swedish and crooned in Greek, spoken sonorously in Korean and sworn languidly in French, and once, memorably, spat in Nahuatl from a Mexican vaduienne while cordite filled the air and the snarls of hellbreed echoed around us on every side. Me, I say it in English, giving each word its own particular weight. It comforts me.

Faint comfort, maybe, that hunters all over the word had just said or were about to say this prayer at any particular time. Faint comfort that I was part of a chain stretching back to the very first hunters of recorded history, the sacred whores of Inanna who used the most ancient of magics—that of the body itself, with the magic of steel—to drive the nightside out beyond the city walls. The priestesses were themselves heirs to the naked female shamans of Paleolithic times; those who used menstrual blood, herbs, bronze, and the power of their belief to set the boundaries of their camps and settlements, codifying and solidifying the theories of attraction and repulsion forming the basis of all great hunter sorceries. They had been the first, those women who traced ley lines in dew-soaked grasses, drawing on the power of the earth itself to push back Hell’s borders and make the world safe for regular people.

Faint goddamn comfort, yes. But I’d take it. Each woman in that chain had added something, each man who had sacrificed his life to keep the innocent safe had added something, and all uttered some form of this prayer. God help me, for I go forth into darkness to fight. Be my strength, for I am doing what I can.

When I was finished I genuflected, candles shimmering on the altar; an old woman eyed me curiously as I dipped both hands in the holy water. She looked faintly shocked when I smoothed the water on my hair and the shoulders of my ragged coat, wiping two slashes of the cool blessed water on my cheekbones like Saul’s war-paint. I genuflected to the altar one last time, winked at the old woman, and met Saul in the foyer, where he was absorbed in staring at the stained-glass treatment of the Magdalene welcoming repentant sinners with open arms over the door. He dangled the obsidian arrowhead on its braided leather absently in his sensitive fingers, turning it over and over, smoothing the bits of hair and feathers.

He said nothing, and drove the speed limit all the way out to the familiar broken pavement of the industrial district, where the Monde Nuit crouched in its bruised pool of etheric stagnation.

He pulled up into the fire-zone, reached over, took my hand. Squeezed my fingers, hard. Let go, a centimeter at a time. Another ritual.

He would come into the Monde with me if he could. But a Were in a hellbreed bar like this would only spell trouble, and something told me Perry would love to have Saul on his territory.

That’s exactly the wrong thing to think at a time like this, Jill. I stared out through the windshield. The long low front of the Monde beckoned, its arched doorway glowing with golden light. One hell of a false beacon.

“Stay here until I come get you, kitten. Okay?” If the words stuck in his throat, he didn’t show it.

I nodded. The scar on my wrist was hard, hot, and hurtful, a reminder that Perry expected me. A reminder I did most emphatically not need. The silver charms in my hair tinkled uneasily.

“He doesn’t own you.” Now Saul’s voice was thick. “He doesn’t.”

“I know.” I barely recognized my own whisper. “He doesn’t own me. You do.” You’re the only man other than Mikhail who has ever owned me, Saul. You mean you don’t know that?

“Christ, Jill—”

But I had the door open and was out, the chill of a winter night folding around me. I walked to the door, my bootheels clicking on the concrete; there was a line as usual. Hellbreed and others stared at me, whispering, I reached the door. The bouncers eyed me, the same twin mountains of muscle, their eyes normal except for red sparks glittering in their pupils.

Please, I prayed. Let it be one of the nights he’s bored with me. Let him have other business.

Fat fucking chance. Last night he’d actually left the Monde Nuit and expended serious effort on me. Tonight I was probably going to pay for that.

Probably? Yeah. Like I was probably breathing right now.

I stalked between the bouncers, daring them to say anything; if they turned me away I could go back to the car and blame it on his own fucking security. But no, they didn’t make a single move. In fact, one of them grinned at me, and the thumping cacophony of the music inside reached out, dragged me into the womblike dark pierced with scattered lights, the smell of hellbreed, and the jostling crowd of the nightside come out to have a little fun. The ruby at my throat warmed, and Saul’s hickey pulsed.

Was it shameful of me to hope Perry wouldn’t notice it?

I kept my chin up and a confident swing to my hips as I stalked for the bar. Riverson was on duty again, and his blind eyes widened. He immediately reached for the bottle of vodka.

Not a good sign.

I reached the bar, and he poured a shot for me, slammed it down. “You’re supposed to go straight up,” he shouted over the noise. “He’s waiting for you.”

I winced inwardly. Outwardly, I gave Riverson a smile, picked up the shot, and poured it down. It burned. “Not like you to give free drinks, blind man. But I guess my tab’s still good.”

His mouth pulled down, sourly. His filmy eyes flicked past me, evaluated the dance floor. There was very little he didn’t notice. It used to be that a visit to the Monde would be during daylight, to visit Riverson and hear what he had to say, coming in as a hunter’s apprentice and watching Mikhail’s back. He’d never liked coming in here, even during the day. It was a very last resort, and one he hadn’t had to use too often.

Perry had taken an interest the first time I’d covered Mikhail in this hole. Mikhail had nearly fired on him when he made that first appearance, leaning against the end of the bar and eyeing me.

Stop thinking about Mikhail, Jill. You have other things on your mind.

Of course, that was a losing battle. There wasn’t a day passing by that I didn’t think of him. After all, he’d rescued me, hadn’t he? Better than any other father figure I’d ever had.

He had taken a shivering, skinny little girl in out of the cold, and he had trained me to be strong. Mikhail had pushed me, shaped me, molded me—and held the other end of my soul’s silver cord as I descended into Hell to finish my apprenticeship.

Sometimes I wondered what he’d felt, watching my lifeless body on the altar, holding the silver cord steady with the ruby I now wore pulsing and bleeding in his palm, wondering if I was going to come back. Wondering if I would survive the trip down into the place hellbreed call home.

Or did he not wonder? Did he know he’d trained me as best he could, and given me every weapon possible to use against the nightside? Had it been any comfort to him?

“You should stay away from here, goddammit.” Riverson shook his head, his filmed eyes focusing past me. “You stink of Were.”

“And you stink of Hell, Riverson. Keep your fucking advice to yourself.” I slammed the shotglass back down on the bar, turned again, and walked toward the back as if I owned the place. My tattered coat swung like the fringe on a biker’s jacket.

Feets don’t fail me now.

In the back, the tables were full of hellbreed—playing cards, drinking quietly, murmuring in Helletöng that threaded under the blasting assault of the music thudding through shuddering stale air. Their glittering eyes followed me as I strode through, heading for the slender black iron door at the very back, behind its purple velvet rope.

A chair scraped, audible even under the noise. When one of them half-rose, reaching under his bottle-green velvet coat, I barely blinked. The gun was in my hand, pointed at him; his sharply handsome fine-boned face was a pale dish under the warm bath of electric yellow light. Cigarette smoke wreathed and fumed in the air. Yellow eyes glittered with the preternatural fury of a hellbreed, and a powerful one too.

Well, hello, whoever you are. What’s your goddamn problem, you suddenly got tired of living? I kept the gun trained on him. The scar pulsed, hard and hot, on my wrist.

Give me a reason. Come on, just one little reason. Oh, please. Come on.

My finger tightened on the trigger. I could see the ether gathering, the black bruise of hellbreed swirling around him. I couldn’t believe my luck. If he moved on me, I was well within my rights to shoot him and leave.

Then, out of nowhere, Perry’s hand closed around my right wrist. The scar turned so hot under the leather I almost expected to smell scorching.

He said nothing, his fingers gentle, his bland interested face turned to the hellbreed who stood awkwardly, caught in the middle of pushing himself up to his feet and reaching under his jacket.

Without warning, Perry’s fingers on my wrist turned to iron. He squeezed, I heard bones creaking, and he subtracted the gun from my grip with a negligent twist of his free hand. He leveled the gun, drew the hammer back, and pulled the trigger.

The shot sliced through thumping music, black blood flew. The hellbreed’s head evaporated. The head is one of the surer places to kill a hellbreed—that is, if they’re not actively leaping on you, being spooky-quick fuckers. And my ammo is coated with silver. True silver bullets are a bitch when it comes to ballistics. Luckily you only need enough of the moon-metal to pierce the hellbreed’s shell and render them vulnerable. It poisons them as well; two for the price of one.

Perry replaced the gun in my hand. Then he guided my hand down to holster it, his fingers still on the leather cuff over the scar, swelling up prickling and infected-painful to meet him.

The music swallowed echoes of the gunshot. Nobody moved. The hellbreed’s body slumped to the floor, meat deprived of life, the mess of the head thocking wetly onto the laminate flooring back here in the inner court of the Monde Nuit.

Oh, fuck.

I didn’t know who the ’breed was, or what his problem with me had been—hell, I was obviously a hunter, and he was probably wanted for something. But still, if Perry had wanted to make the point of just what I was here for, he could hardly have written it larger and underlined with neon. I was here because I had business with him, and I was under his protection.

In other words, Perry had done the hellbreed equivalent of a Were leaving a big ol’ hickey on my neck. As if anyone in the room didn’t already know my face.

Except the dead hellbreed in bottle-green velvet, that is.

Perry indicated the door, and let go of my wrist. I swallowed, set my jaw, and stalked forward. My back ran with tingling cold awareness. He’s behind me. Behind me. Oh God he’s behind me.

The door opened, a slice of blue light widening. I stepped behind the purple velvet rope, saw the stairs going up. My skin chilled all over.

Christ. I wish Saul was here.

No, no I don’t. I’m glad he’s nowhere near here. That means he’s safe.

Behind me, Perry’s soundless step filled the air as the iron door swung shut. “A little touchy, aren’t we, my Kismet?” His tone was even, interested, calm. “I wonder why.”

Let the mindgames begin. I swallowed. “Lots of people trying to kill me lately.”

“Not in my house.” He didn’t sound amused, for once.

“You can never tell when a hellspawn’s going to get funny ideas.” I kept my pace slow. This counted toward the two hours. Every moment I spent in the Monde counted toward the two hours.

God, get me through this.

“No. You never can.” The soft, meditative tone was new, and gooseflesh began to swell on my back. I was glad I had my coat on. “Are you wondering what I’ll ask of you tonight?”

“Safer not to wonder. Bound to be unpleasant.” I reached the top of the stairs, pushed the wooden door wide. It squeaked a little on hinges I suspected he left unoiled on purpose.

“If you relaxed a little, you might like it.” There was a chilling little laugh. “But tonight, you’re going to sit down and have a drink with me.”

Oh, Christ. “What are we drinking?”

“Whatever you like. And I am going to have your full attention, Kiss. It’s been too long.”

Not for me. I stepped into the room, my boots sinking into plush white carpet.

The room was large, and music from below thudded faintly through the floor. At the far end in front of a sheet of tinted bulletproof glass the bed stood—pristine, swathed in white, and loaded with pillows. The wet bar at the other end, to my left, gleamed with chrome and mirrors; artful track lighting showed the Brueghel on the far wall next to the bank of television monitors, some showing interior views of the Monde, others showing satellite feeds of news channels. The walls were painted white. The smell of hellbreed floated thick and curdled on still air.

On the expanse of white carpet, two chairs: recliners in white leather. Which brought up the inevitable choice. Did I sit with my back to the door so I could pretend to watch the television images of death, destruction, and hellbreed dancing, or did I sit with my back to the bulletproof glass and have Perry be the only focus for my eyes?

Choices, choices.

“Sit down, take it off. What do you want to drink?” He moved to the bar, and I swallowed dryly again. He was being far too polite.

Wonder if I should put a new strategy into play? Make him dictate every damn move. It was worth a try. “Where should I sit?”

“Wherever you like, my dear Kiss. Just take that idiot cuff off. I like to hear your pulse.”

I reached down, unbuckled the leather, and slowly drew it off. Tucked it in my pocket. Air hit my skin again; the scar tightened deliciously, and I choked back rising panic. What was he going to make me do to him this time? The whip again, or would it be the flechettes?

And would I enjoy it? He liked the pain. And sometimes, dear God, I liked making him bleed.

If there was a valley of darkness for hunters, that was it. You can’t live with the violence, blood, and screaming for long without getting a taste for vengeance. Every time I made Perry bleed it felt suspiciously close to justice.

It felt good.

“Sit down,” he said in my ear, hot too-moist breath brushing heavily and condensing on my skin. I gave a violent start, whirled away, my hand closing around the butt of my right-hand gun. I had to work to make my fingers unloose as Perry cocked his head, the light shining off his blond hair. He held two brandy snifters, an inch of glowing liquid in each. “Oh, come on, Kiss. Tonight’s not a night for those games. If you would only relax a little, we could be such good friends.”

“You are not a friend.” My hands curled into fists. “You’re a hellbreed. Hellspawn. Just one step up from a goddamn arkeus, that’s all. One more type of vermin.”

He shrugged, then held out the glass in his left hand. “And yet you keep coming back.”

“I made a bargain. One that allows me to hunt more effectively.” My fingers avoided his, I took the glass like it was a snake. The silver ring on my left hand spat a single white spark, reacting to his closeness, the carved ruby at the hollow of my throat gave a single reassuring pulse of clean heat.

The spark didn’t seem to upset him, as usual. “Mikhail warned you about me.” He pointed at the chairs. “Sit.” Incredibly, he chose the seat with its back to the bulletproof glass, settling down and bringing the bowl of the glass to just under his nose. He inhaled, his eyes half-closing.

Almost purring with pleasure, as a matter of fact. He looked tremendously pleased with himself.

Why the fuck is everyone talking about Mikhail now? The ring warmed on my left hand. My chest tightened. “He did.”

“What did he say?”

I swallowed memory, set my back teeth against it, and got ready to lie. He told me you wanted me for reasons of your own, and I’d best remember that. And that a woman always has the edge in this situation. I believed him. I always believed him. “That nothing you could give me was worth what I’d end up paying for it.” I settled gingerly into the other chair. My heart beat thinly. I still believe him.

“You didn’t listen to him.”

“I evaluated the benefits and risk of the bargain.” I’m still alive, aren’t I? And still playing patty-cake with you. Still coming out ahead by a slim margin, I’d say.

Just don’t mention how slim.

“Just like a Trader.” He looked, of course, amused. And generous, so early in the night’s games. He could afford to be.

“I’m not a Trader. I’m a hunter. And one day, Pericles—”

“Spare me.” His blue eyes turned dark and thoughtful. I began to feel very uneasy. This wasn’t like the usual visit; he would normally be asking me slip the cuffs on him by now, strapping him into the iron frame. “I find I like you threatening me less and less, Kiss.”

“Get used to it.” Silver burned against my neck; it was the chain the ruby hung on. And my left ring finger, the burning spreading up my wrist. My earrings were beginning to get warm too, the silver and steel of my jewelry turning against me as I sat in the hellbreed’s office with the scar uncovered.

His smile was gone. Instead, he studied me with an interested, somber expression for the first time since our initial meeting. It was a good thing I was already sitting down, my knees were weak.

I was also starting to sweat.

He swirled the liquid in the glass once, precisely, and eyed me. “Oh, I am used to it. I console myself with the thought that eventually, you’ll beg me. It’s only a matter of time.”

I decided to go on the offensive. Strobe lights flickered against the huge window behind the bed, red and green drenching the white coverlet. The television monitors buzzed, throwing out blue light. On one, grainy footage of a prison riot played. On another, bombs dropped from a plane’s sleek silver belly into a verdant green jungle, giving birth to bursts of liquid orange flame. “What are you, Perry?”

“Just a humble hellspawn. Your most respectful servant, Kiss.” He smiled, a thin curve of thinner lips. His tongue flicked once, briefly visible, shocking-wet red. With the cuff off, I could almost see the overlapping scales.

I am beginning to think you aren’t so humble. You did, after all, produce hellfire in the blue spectrum. Maybe you’re not a hellbreed. Maybe you’re a full-fledged talyn instead of an arkeus? But no. You’re physical. You’re real. I know that. “I know better. You don’t serve, Perry. You like to think you’re the one pulling all the strings. Even mine.”

“There now.” The smile widened. He took a small sip of his brandy, exhaling with a small, satisfied smile. His eyes hooded, glowed bright blue like gas flames. “I told you, you’re coming along quite nicely.”

All right, you son of a bitch. “I saw Melisande Belisa today.” I drew in a deep, smooth breath. “She sends her regards.”

That wasn’t quite true, but if I could distract Perry with the news that the Sorrows were in town I might buy a few minutes without him poking at the inside of my head.

His eyes flickered, but he didn’t take the bait. “I find it extremely unlikely that she mentioned me. It was only a matter of time before her path would cross yours again.”

My mouth was dry. I badly wanted to bolt the brandy, restrained myself with an effort of will. Sweat slid down the channel of my spine, a cool tickling finger. “You knew she was in town. That’s why you were following me. Keeping an eye on your investment.”

An eloquent shrug, giving me nothing. “You’re playing blind.”

Aren’t I always, when it comes to you. “What do you know about this? Dead teenage hookers and something bullets don’t even dent, something hellfire doesn’t even touch?” Though the hellfire may have touched it; I couldn’t see. I was hardly a disinterested observer at that point.

“Tonight is not for business.” His tone had cooled. Point one for me.

He knows something. My pulse abruptly slowed. “That’s part of the bargain, Perry. Your help on the cases I’m working.”

“And your part of the bargain is time spent with me, in the manner I choose. Which you are violating, by the way.” The silken reminder closed around my throat.

My temper broke with a brittle snap. “What is it this time, Perry? Am I supposed to whip you until you bleed? Or cut you until you feel like you’re real? Or—oh, here’s a thought. Maybe I should just beat you up. Give you a black eye and mar that unpretty face of yours. We could probably sell tickets. I’m sure all your fucking hellspawn friends downstairs would love to see you taken down a peg or two again.”

He lifted the snifter. “I could simply send a pair of mercenaries to remove your little pussycat from the land of the living. That would, in fact, please me a great deal.”

My fingers tightened on the glass. It was suddenly difficult to talk around the lump of dirty ice in my throat. “You leave Saul out of this.”

He barely raised an eyebrow. “I allow you your regrettable taste for bestiality. You will do me the honor of living up to your part of our bargain.”

You son of a bitch. “Bestiality would be if I was fucking a hellspawn. You’re not human.”

“Can you call yourself human, after the things you’ve done? Not to mention the punishment you’ve meted out to one uncomplaining, passive hellspawn who has done nothing but aid you? Or the countless souls you’ve sent screaming back to Hell?”

I took refuge in sarcasm. “I do love my work.”

“But you don’t, Kiss. You don’t like causing pain. You don’t like it when you have to kill. You don’t like it when you have to—”

“I like it just fine,” I interrupted. This is the only part of the goddamn job I hate. This, and looking at dead innocents.

“They were all pregnant, Kismet.”

The breath left me in a walloping rush. “What?” I sounded about ten years younger, and breathy as Marilyn Monroe to boot.

He blinked, both blue eyes suddenly much darker than usual. Almost black, indigo spreading and swelling through the whites. And in the back of each was a glimmer of light, a pinprick of infinity. “There is much more to this than you think. And I am warning you, my dearest little whore of darkness, tread carefully. My protection may only extend so far in this matter.”

Holy fucking shit. I rocked up to my feet, the glass dropping from my hand and spilling its cargo of liquor onto the pristine carpet. “Are you telling me what I think you’re telling me?”

“I am telling you it is possible that I can only protect you so far.” He lifted his own glass, carefully. He looked far more immaculate than usual, his cheekbones seemed a little higher, his eyes still indigo, swelling through and staining the whites. Almost… well, if he hadn’t had Exorcist eyes, he might have looked almost handsome. “Though I have made it adequately clear that you are mine, there are… extenuating circumstances.”

Yours? If you think so, you’ve got another think coming, Pericles. But there was a more important point to be addressed. “Extenuating circumstances? Like what—like you know what’s going on? Like you’re involved?” I was repeating myself. Goddammit. I’d dealt with so many hellbreed. Why did this one give me so much trouble?

He took another sip, totally unmoved. And yes, friends and neighbors, he was changing shape right before my eyes. Still recognizably Perry, but much handsomer, higher cheekbones and his mouth ripening, his eyebrows subtly remodeling. Was the blandness a front, or was this the lie? “You have an hour and forty minutes left to give me, Kismet. I suggest you rein in your impatience.”

An hour and forty minutes. My hand curled around—not a butt of a gun. No, it was a knife I went for. Was he trying to make me so angry I attacked him? I can make him bleed, but I can’t make him tell me.

Not when I’d just gone and given away how interested I was in the whole deal.

The reek of spilled brandy filled the air, fuming. I eased my hand away from the knife, felt the scar on my wrist go hard and hot, infection pressing against the skin, stretching before the bursting of pus. Perry’s lips thinned even more, turning up into a facsimile of a smile. His eyes turned depthless, with the sparks of infinite darkness dancing far, far back.

His face finished transforming from bland to sharply handsome, bladed cheekbones and perfect proportions, subtly wrong but still… attractive. In a graceful, hellbreed sort of way; the type of beauty that wormed into the apple and ate it from the inside out. Giving a blush of tubercular crimson to the fruit before the blood started to cough up.

I dropped down into the chair and stared at him. One hour, forty minutes. God help me. “If you want anything out of me at all, you had better start talking, Pericles.” Even as it left my mouth I knew it was the wrong thing to say.

“I could speak to you all night. For example, I could begin to extol the virtues of your mouth and move to your eyes, which are charming in their mismatched splendor. Perhaps I could quote from the Bible. I’m told there is some wonderful poetry in there when one overlooks the rape, pillage, plunder, and murder.” The smile touching his lips didn’t resemble anything human at all. “Then again, that might appeal to you, hunter.”

I crossed my legs and closed my eyes. Deepened my breathing. He waited, but when I didn’t respond I heard cloth shifting, as if he’d moved.

I breathed deeper, deeper. Relaxed, one muscle at a time. One of the wonderful things about being a hunter: you take your sleep where you can get it, and unless you learn to relax in a dangerous situation you don’t last long.

Perry didn’t see it as a gift, apparently. “You can’t escape me that easily. I have your time.”

Fine. But it’s time I’m going to be spending feigning sleep. I settled myself more comfortably, loosened every muscle. Saul. The hickey on my throat burned, a different fire than the scar on my wrist. A cleaner fire.

Not going anywhere, kitten. Saul’s voice scratched at the inside of my head, the roughness of his hair under my fingers. Was he right now driving into the barrio, parking my car in some hideous little spot and going into a bar or some little dive to dig for information on the little bit of knotted leather and arrowhead?

I relaxed. Perry wouldn’t kill me, and even if I couldn’t fall asleep completely I could give a go at faking it. It was a new strategy, I could give it a try.

Then he touched me.

The contact slid against my cheek, warm skin; he traced the arc of my cheekbone. Then his fingertips slid over my lips, trailed against my jaw, and brushed down my throat.

Christ, stop it. Make him stop. Please make him stop. I clamped down on control, heartbeat, respiration, everything. Tension invaded my body. The scar turned liquid, a traitorous outpost on my own flesh.

He’d never done this before.

Another, softer touch brushed my lips. There was no stink of rot, but the breath was too hot and humid to be human, and condensation prickled at the corners of my mouth.

He sipped my breath, and the scar exploded on my wrist, spilling fire through my veins. I heard my own voice, crying out weakly as I spilled off the chair and onto the floor. The riptide of sensation drifted away.

My hips tilted up. My heels dug into the ground, the scar burned again. No, not again, please not again, please—

“This does not have to be so difficult,” he whispered against my damp cheek. Was he crouching over me? A brushing, feathery sound filled the air.

Tears slid down my face. The scar pulsed. Oh, Christ. Christ help me. Still a whore. Once damned, always damned.

The whisper continued, as the scar pounded another hot acid-burning tide of pleasure through my nerves. “All you must do is give in. I can be forgiving. I can wrap you in silk, I can make your life a series of delights, little one. I can be so kind, if you would simply let me. If you would only bend just the smallest bit and let me turn you, just a fraction. Just a hairsbreadth. Not so much at all. You are already so very, very close.”

I’ve already turned all I can. I gasped, heard an agonized moan. Like a woman in the throes of love. Or death. As a new strategy, Perry, this one sucks. I was being fucked better than this when I was fifteen years old.

The moan sent a hot curdled wave of shame through me. My voice. It was my own voice. I braced myself against the welter of sensation spilling from the scar’s puckered little mouth. “Fuck… you,” I gasped. “Hate you.” My voice caught, I gasped again.

“Oh, Kiss. My poor, poor Kismet.” His breath was against my cheek now, loathsome oily moisture dewing my skin. The scar began to throb harder, the darkness behind my eyelids bursting with fireworks as the ragged leather of my coat rasped against the carpet. “Why do you force me to be so cruel to you?” His hands tensed against the front of my coat. My head fell back, the ruby at my throat hissing a blood-red spark. Perry hissed back in the shapeless grumble of Helletöng. “Shall I show you what you’ve been missing?”

My hand curled around the knifehilt as he lifted me, the silver ring turning hot against my skin. Hard to think past the spill of desire, the flare of heat as the scar was brushed with a random curl of air, it smashed through me again and my hips tilted, body convulsing with poisoned delight. Fingers clamping down, oiled metal leaving the sheath, I slashed with all the strength I could find and felt flesh part like water.

Fell. My head hit something—a bedpost. He’d thrown me, weightlessness and a jarring crash. The impact rang in my head for a moment until I shook it free and hauled myself to my feet. The crotch of my leather pants was warm, too warm, the sodden material of my panties rasped against delicate tissues and I bit back a curse. Turned on just like the whore I was.

No. The whore I had been. Now if I fucked someone, I meant it. I wasn’t a working girl anymore.

Not anymore. Not now.

Not since I’d killed the man who’d turned me out. Not since I’d descended into Hell and been pulled back by the first man to ever rescue me, the man who had knelt in front of my death-altar with his hand knotted around the ruby, our mixed blood dyeing the gem and dragging me back into the light. The first man and only man who had seen not just tits and ass but my anger, my talent, my strength, my reflexes.

My ability to become a hunter.

I gasped, gathering myself. Hoped like hell Mikhail was right and that I had the advantage here.

It sure as shit didn’t feel like it.

Perry lifted his bloody fingers to his mouth and delicately licked, his tongue flickering coal-red along thick black fluid. The cut was low on his belly, I’d scored a good hit. “Another sweet nothing, from you.”

I lifted the knife. Got my balance back. My head rang. “You do that again, you son of a bitch, and I’ll kill you.”

“Kill me, and your strength is effectively reduced by a few orders of magnitude.” He touched the wound on his stomach again. Thinning black ichor slid down his trouser leg. I’d cut through his suit, ruined another fine shirt. “I’m the devil you know. You should treat me better.”

“I don’t care if I go back to being a human hunter,” I flung at him, getting my balance and my bearings. “You do that to me again, Pericles, and I will kill you.”

“I’m only trying to be nice.” His smile widened as he licked his fingers clean of blood. “Wouldn’t you like me to be nice? I can be very, very nice to you.”

If you only knew how many times I’ve heard a man say something similar. “Sit the fuck down.” I pointed the knife at the chair. “Now.”

He did, very slowly. I decided it was safer if I got away from the bed. My hands shook, but the knife was steady. Or at least, I hoped it was steady. I took an experimental step. Another. Kept going until I could see his profile, and the glass of brandy spilled on the carpet.

It was time to get back to business. He wouldn’t be satisfied with just that exchange, but I might get something out of him nonetheless. “They were all three pregnant? How the fuck do you know?”

He closed both eyes, settled back in the chair. “Ah, now I have your attention. The sum of your regard. The sunshine of your—”

“Stop fucking with me, Perry. What do you know about this?” I licked my lips, wished I hadn’t. The scar gave a small twinge, another jolt of pleasure sinking through my bones.

“I know they were all pregnant.” He said it like it meant nothing. He did hear all sorts of things, and I would have to check, but it was a damn good clue.

If I could follow it. And if he wasn’t lying.

“And?” How do you know anything about this case at all, Perry? How deep are you in? And what the fuck is that thing that nearly killed me?

“And nothing more, my dearest whore, unless you pay me.”

Oh, God. “In what coin?”

“You know what I want.”

Rage rose. The knife did shake, perceptibly, as my grip tightened on it. “If you are involved with these murders, Perry, I will—”

“What? Kill me? You’ve made that threat already. Don’t be boring. If I were involved, would I tell you anything? Besides, there are some things even I will not stoop to profit from. But you should beware. My protection, as I’ve said, may only extend so far.” His voice dropped intimately, like a hand between my legs. “But you could have all my protection, and so much more besides.”

Some things you won’t stoop to profit from? There’s a short list. I took a deep breath. Christ, Saul. Come back soon. Please come back soon.

“Sit down,” Pericles said softly. Almost kindly. “No more of this, tonight. Though I do love to hear you whimper.”

“Go to hell.” It wasn’t very creative, but I was kind of at the end of my leash. This was far worse than any other encounter I’d had with him. He’d been watching me for a while, and hellbreed were masters at finding out what made people tick and taking them apart, piece by piece.

Seducing them.

“Oh, no. I like it here ever so much better. Sit down, my dear. In a little while I’ll fetch another drink.”

My breath turned harsh in my throat. But he kept his eyes closed, the black blood stopped soaking through his clothes, and the scar didn’t erupt on my wrist. He tilted his head back against the white leather of the recliner. Resting. As if he was satisfied.

Christ, Perry. What happened to you? You kept trying to make me react by making me hurt you, and now you pull this? The thought that he might have figured out a way to make me react the way he wanted was chilling, to say the least. It meant I would have to find a whole new way to relate to the bargain I’d made, a whole new way to deal with him.

Like I don’t have enough problems.

Or maybe he was just moving in on me because I was vulnerable, because this case was bothering me more than I wanted to admit. I lowered myself down in the chair opposite him, the knife’s blade throwing back colored light. Blue from the TV screens, red from the glare in the bulletproof window, gold from the track lighting.

“One day.” His voice was very quiet, very soft, and almost human. “One day, Kiss, you will have to face just how much like me you can become before you give in.”

“You can’t turn me, Pericles.” But my throat was dry as sand. I knew better. If he kept getting better at pushing me, things might get sticky.

I’d have to kill him.

“I don’t have to. You’ll turn yourself, given enough time. Now be quiet. I want to listen to you breathe.” All semblance of life left him, draining away until he was only an icon painted on the white leather of the chair, a black-splashed icon with his arm clamped against his side. The silver content in my knife must have hurt like a mad bastard even as it healed.

For the first time we sat there, Perry and I, and he didn’t speak. Neither did I. And when the two hours were up I left. I made it to the iron door at the bottom of the stairs, buckling the leather cuff on, before I started to run. I had promised Saul, yes.

But I couldn’t stay there a single moment longer.