Night Shift (Jill Kismet), page 16
He wasn’t sleeping anymore.
His eyes were flat with beastshine in the dim light, and he crouched on the slope of mounded bodies. He was halfway between his animal form and human, neither one nor the other, and as a result . . . well, most Weres are beautiful and graceful in their human forms, and just as beautiful in their animal forms. The state in-between is never someplace they linger, and it is just as graceful as the rest of them—but subtly wrong. Wrong like a nonhuman geometry. Wrong like a note no human instrument can produce.
Wrong like a hellbreed’s face, when they drop the mask of humanity.
Wrong like something spoiled, gone rotten, all a Were’s power and glory thrown away for the lust of the hunt and the consummation of murder. That’s what going rogue means.
I stared into the rogue’s eyes for a long moment, the bizarre insanity of its gaze terrible because of the near-humanity of its suffering.
Then it leapt for me, and I had no time to jump free. A hunter takes on hellbreed, that’s true. But a Were gone rogue, gone berserk, is different. Just like for a Were, taking on a Trader is one thing, but fighting a full-fledged ’breed is something else.
Rogue Weres move with the speed that pulls muscle free of bone, a thoughtless scary speed married to weight and momentum that isn’t trackable like a hellbreed’s tearing through space. On most hunts, Weres run backup for hunters.
On a hunt for a rogue, hunters most definitely run backup for other Weres. Because if we don’t, we tend to catch flak and die.
He collided with me, his claws out, the impact so immense I didn’t even feel my ribs snap as I was flung against the concrete wall and into momentary, star-filled black unconsciousness.
20
Shouts. Screams. The coughing roar of a Were in a rage. Cold concrete against my spinning, motionless body. A shattering sound, another scream, I was picked up and tossed again, bones snapping as I hit another unforgiving surface.
The pain crested over me in a wave, and I yanked instinctively at the scar, flesh scorching as for one vertiginous moment I pulled on every erg of etheric energy available to me. The print of Perry’s lips on my flesh turned molten with sick heated delight, and I flung my hand out as the rogue came for me again, a bolt of pure power boiling up into the orange spectrum at its edges as it streaked through the potential-path in the air and smashed the rogue ass-over-teakettle into the knot of Weres suddenly crowding into the cellar’s dinginess.
The lightbulb broke, smoking dustmotes of glass peppering the air. Sparks hissed and flew, the ruby at my throat singing a crackling note like a crystal wineglass stroked just right before it shatters. Agony raced down my arm, exploded in my chest, tore itself through my belly and detonated in my left leg, where the femur had snapped.
—ohgodohgodgetupJillgetUP—
I pulled on the scar again. Did Perry feel it, wherever he was?
Right then I didn’t care, and it hurt too much for me to feel the queasiness that thought called up.
Bones melded together, all the pain of weeks compressed into a single moment as the scar hummed to itself, chuckling a bass note that sounded so much like Perry my skin turned to ice, great drops of sweat standing out and soaking what was left of my blood-soaked clothing. I coughed, a jet of bright blood from my lungs mixing with fluid as my rib cage snapped out to its proper dimensions, jagged ends of broken ribs sliding free of delicate tissue.
—hurts it hurts, ohGod, it hurts—I tried to get up, to fight, to strike back at the thing hurting me. To meet the pain head-on, to smash at it, batter it away.
Yet another personality quirk, and maybe the one that made Mikhail choose me. I keep fighting long past the point any sane person would throw up their hands and quit.
Snarling. More screams, shaking the house. Dirt pattered down. An explosion of noise, snapping wood, a high chilling wolf-cry of agony. The noise was incredible.
Get up, milaya. Mikhail’s voice boomed and caromed through my head, echoing through a corridor of memory turned into a Möbius strip by agony. Get on your feet, and fight.
I made it to hands and knees. Felt for a gun with my left hand. My right was so hot I was afraid it would detonate bullets in the clip. A stupid fear, but I wasn’t thinking straight.
A burst of fresh air blasted through the cellar, gray light flooding in. Shapes danced, the close thick reek suddenly returning all the stronger for the brief moment of freshness. Shadows fled out against the square of light.
I coughed, my eyes watering. Tears flew, and blood sprayed from my lips. Losing a lot of the red stuff, Jill. Just think, the Red Cross could follow you around and make a killing. Get it, make a killing? Arf arf.
Over that hysterical wash of panic, another thought, tolling in my head like a bell. Get up. Get up and fight.
“Jill.” A familiar voice. Someone approaching, crouching down over me.
The gun came up, my shoulders hitting the wall. My boots scrabbled in blood. My blood, thick and slippery on the cracked concrete floor. Heaving breaths echoed as I shuddered on the knife-edge of murder. Move. Fight back. Kill.
The Glock pointed straight between Saul’s eyes, less than an inch from his skin. I drew in huge gasping breaths, my fingers aching to clamp down on the trigger. Adrenaline sang in my mouth, pounded in my blood.
He didn’t even blink. “You okay?” Looking past the gun like it wasn’t even there. Like I wasn’t crazed with fear and about to snap, sail right over the edge and fill him with silverjacket lead. A shot at this range would kill him, even if Weres aren’t allergic to silver.
And oh, I ached to shoot something. Anything. When you live from one violent fight to the next, it becomes a habit. A need to pull the trigger, an instinctive, life-saving reflex. The animal in you clamors to strike out with claws, teeth, anything at hand.
He must have seen the murder in me. There was no way he could miss it.
Saul’s eyes held mine for what seemed like eternity. Behind him, more swirling shapes coalesced. Other Weres. I heard a gasp, a murmur, and someone swore in a low fierce tone.
“It’s okay, kitten.” Saul’s voice was even, soothing. “Everything’s under control. It’s all fine. It’s all right.”
My thumb came up. Clicked the hammer all the way back, eased it gently down. The small sound was very loud. The scar throbbed, full and flushed with wet poison heat. I heard a low sob, recognized too late it was my own voice.
Saul’s fingers curled over the gun, pushed it aside. As if it was the most natural thing in the world, he took my shoulders and pulled me away from the wall. His arms folded around me, his purring rumble shaking through my bones again. “Easy,” he whispered. “You okay? Say something.”
My lips were cracked, my throat desert-dry. I heard another greased-skid muttering rumble of thunder in the distance.
I just got kicked around by a rogue Were. That’s twice in twenty-four hours I should be dead. Dead. Even with the bargain, I would be dead. Rotting. Gone.
In Hell, probably. Almost certainly. That’s where hunters end up, in Hell.
Or so the Church said. No Confession, no Communion, and no Heaven for those of us who come face to face with the nightside. The murders we commit and the foulness we witness remain with us even after death; it is a point of doctrine from 1427 onward. It hasn’t ever changed, despite hunters’ petitions.
Sometimes I wonder about that.
A shiver passed through me, muscles locking like a seizure. I pulled myself together with an effort that chilled fresh sweat on my skin. “Fuck,” I whispered. “Where did he go? Where is he?”
Saul’s weight shifted slightly, his arms tightening as soon as I spoke. “He bolted south. There’s a full pack of Weres after him, Dominic went with them.” His mouth twisted down for a moment, and my brain slammed into overdrive.
What’s he doing here? He should be chasing the rogue. “Go.” My lips were numb. “You’re a tracker. Go.”
An electric current bolted from his eyes to mine, something surfacing in his and shooting straight through my veins like a jolt of recoil. I almost flinched, the feeling was so strong. He should have gone after the rogue that killed his sister, but he’d stayed here to make sure I was all right.
Why?
I didn’t know, and I didn’t care. For that one moment, someone looked into my eyes and saw past every wall I’d ever built to protect myself. And I could swear I saw past every wall he’d ever built in his head too, and that something in me—something deep and buried, something bruised and battered but still strong—recognized him.
Knew him. Somehow.
What the hell?
“I’ll be back.” He rose in a swift wave, letting go of the gun, and was gone through the shattered door into the backyard, his shadow briefly made of black paper against the grayness of a thunderlit dawn. The air swirled with electricity.
I shut my eyes. Storm coming. Probably hit this afternoon, I can feel the pressure shifting.
Why did he do that?
The shrieking, gibbering animal part of me didn’t care. Blood soughed in my veins, and my skin crackled with drying sweat and other slick drying fluids. I heard my pulse, clear and strong.
I was alive.
This is getting surreal even for me. And that’s saying something.
“What the fuck is going on?” Harp’s voice was loaded with a growl of its own, somehow all the more chilling because of the soft clear femininity of the tone. “Kismet? Care to clue me in?”
I heard my breath, harsh and jagged, leaned my head back against the freezing concrete of the wall. “Jon Clarke called from New York. He told me Navoshtay had trapped a Were for his own amusement, damaged him. But Navoshtay’s daughter set the Were free and fled with him.” My throat was raw, I tasted blood with the words. “We’ve got a major paranormal incident shaping up. God knows what she wants that Were for. And I’ve got a goddamn ’breed capable of a psychic nuke looking to make this more difficult than it has to be.”
That was only half of what Jon had told me, but I knew better than to open my mouth about the rest of it.
That’s bullshit, Jon. I’m surprised at you. The sick thump under my breastbone wouldn’t stop hatching thin traces of nausea.
I have it on the best authority, Kismet. Somehow, Arkady’s daughter bred with a rogue Were. She’s pregnant, and her daddy’s after her.
What authority do you have it on? I’d persisted. Too many stars were moving into alignment, and the constellation they were making was disturbing, to say the very least.
The best authority, Kiss. Watch your ass out there. There’s no telling what will happen if this situation gets out of control.
The trouble was, it was already out of control. Were don’t like hellbreed, and hellbreed don’t like them. But Jon wouldn’t tell me this if it wasn’t true. Hunters don’t lie about this sort of shit.
Even a little white lie can kill a hunter, and there are too few of us as it is.
I should have been screaming in fear or sobbing with the snapback reaction of passing too close to death and clawing my way through once more. I should have been pushing myself to get up, clean myself off, and do something to stop this immense clusterfuck-in-progress.
Instead, I was thinking of Saul Dustcircle’s eyes, and feeling the electricity that went through me at the memory of his skin on mine.
He knew me. Or for one brief, endless second he had seen right through me. It was the same thing. He had somehow recognized what I was, down at the bottom of my soul.
And he had still held me.
Get up, Jill. Get back on the horse. You don’t have time for this.
Not while there were people dying and a rogue on the loose. Everything else could wait.
Cleaning up wasn’t as bad as I’d feared. Most of the forensic techs had been in the front yard, poking at a suspicious patch of grass dying under the weight of a viscous, rapidly decaying fluid that might have been oil. I couldn’t figure out what the liquid was, even after scanning it with my blue eye. It reeked of hellbreed and death, blackening the grass underneath. The techs took samples, but I didn’t think they’d get anything. Hellbreed tissues break down quickly once they’re damaged, and this stuff seemed no exception.
The rest of the cops hadn’t seen the rogue shatter out of the cellar, or the collection of changed and unchanged Weres streaking after it.
Thank God for small favors.
The bodies in the cellar were being untangled by Forensics, gently and thoroughly. I couldn’t see the cavalcade of blue rubberized bags going out the front door, but I heard it each time a coroner’s van started up and the picture-flashes started popping. My skin would run with gooseflesh and I would repeat the promise to myself.
I will avenge you, whoever you are. I will grant you vengeance on the thing that did this to you. I left the copper cuff off, paying my penance with each eyewatering puff of stench striking across my sensitive nostrils.
I could even tell myself the hot water slicking my cheeks was just from the smell.
Harp leaned against the wall inside the shattered cellar door. I sat on the steps going up to free air and a day overcast with the promise of thunder, yellow-green stormlight drenching my shoulders from behind. She had settled into immobility, her eyes lambent with the weird light.
Mike Foster detached himself from the organized hive of activity and crossed over to us, peeling off his latex gloves. “You okay?” His sleek ponytail wasn’t mussed, but his eyes were haunted, with dark circles to rival my own growing underneath.
“What’s the count?” That wasn’t what I meant. What I wanted to say was, did you find the children? Tell me you didn’t.
“Thirteen.” His eyes met mine, spoke for a long moment. “Two of them . . .” He didn’t have to finish the sentence.
I made a slight movement, closed my eyes. The worst thought of all returned—that there had been dust on the counter and the dishes, and bills from last month on the table.
I should have known. I should have somehow saved them.
Mike sighed. “I think we’ve got everyone. We’ll ID them if we can, there’s no clothes or anything hanging around. That’s weird.”
Not so weird if a hellbreed is cleaning up afterward. It’s like them to minimize the information you can get from a scene. “Not so weird.” I hauled myself wearily to my feet. “Buzz me if you need me, ’kay?”
I wanted to howl and beat my head against the concrete. I wanted to take off blindly running south, after the rogue and the hunting pack of Weres trailing him. Hopefully he had already been brought to bay and dispatched.
Hopefully.
I rocked forward, standing up and opening my eyes. Foster, at the bottom of the steps, flinched as he met my gaze. The silver chimed in my hair, tinkling sweetly as leather creaked.
“Jill—” He stopped abruptly, tried again. “Be careful, okay? This is bad. The bodies, they’ve been . . .” His eyes cut over to Harp, and the sharp stink of human fear cut through the reek of death for a moment.
“Savaged,” Harper said flatly. The feathers in her hair fluttered as she made a swift movement of distaste. “Chewed up. You’ll find muscle mass gone and organs missing, as well as splintered bones.”
Mike winced. His watch glittered as he reached up, raking his fingers through his glossy hair. “I wish your friends wouldn’t tell me these things.” He directed it at me.
I wish Pepper was back on duty. She had a higher tolerance for this sort of thing. Still, I couldn’t blame Mike. This would bother any reasonable human being.
Should I be glad or upset that “reasonable” doesn’t describe me? I almost shot Saul, and nothing I’ve done has turned out right on this job. I should have picked up on this long before now.
I reached out, blindly. Mike’s hand met mine, and I squeezed briefly, gently. The scar pulsed on my wrist, sensing human flesh and high emotional distress. I reined myself in with a physical effort, more sweat slicking the waistband of my leather pants. Things would start chafing if I kept this up.
There was something in my throat, a difficulty like talking through mud. “Sorry, Mike. Give a call if you need me, and see the psych boys for some downers if you have to. Okay?”
“It’s not me I’m worried about, Jill. It’s you. You’re looking a little worn out.”
I wonder why. I made a face, freeing my fingers from his. “So they tell me. When the nightside slows down, I will too.” I turned on my heel and was gone up the steps before he could respond.
Harp matched me step for step, and she waited until we were in the backyard before her fingers closed around my arm. “Jill.”
I stopped, staring across the yard at the greenbelt behind the house. There were bushes back there, and a screen of trashwood trees. Dusty greens and grays ran together in front of my eyes, and I was suddenly sure it would be a good place to watch the house from. I caught no breath of being watched, but you don’t live long as a hunter without checking the terrain.
Harp’s fingers didn’t loosen. She could break my arm without half trying, with a Were’s strength.
Of course, I could heal in moments and repay her with interest.
What am I thinking? She’s my friend, and she’s a Were. I’m too close to the edge if I’m even thinking like this. But the engine in my head didn’t stop turning over the probabilities, evaluating every single living thing around me.
When you can’t turn that machine off, it’s time to get some rest. Unless, of course, you can’t rest because the bodies are piling up.
Harp didn’t shake me, but I got the idea she wanted to. “What’s going on?”
I tried not to feel relieved. “I wish I knew. I only have half the pieces of the—”
Her face went through frustration, a flash of anger, and settled on impatience. “No. I mean with you and Saul.”
Dammit. I suppressed a guilty start, knew she would feel it anyway. “Don’t know there either. You’re the one who sicced him on me. Besides, he thinks I’m tainted.”
Good one, Jill. Why did he swap spit with you, then? And so nicely, too. I felt the flush creeping up my cheeks again, couldn’t stop it. Cursed inwardly.
