Those Who Fight Monsters Part 8

This particular hole was painted, velvet-swathed, and curlicued like a baroque French bordello. Crimson and glaring yellow, the dance floor white and black squares like a chessboard. The bar was a huge twisted thing of metal and old dark-stained oak, bottles ranked glowing behind it against a mirrored wall.

And it was crawling with Traders. Not too many full *breed. The beautiful d.a.m.ned were startled, gem-bright eyes opening wide and dark velvet mouths opening. Moving fast, boots thudding the floor, I shot a Trader between the eyes as he snarled at me, and cut a path straight for the iron door set near the back.

There's always a door, and it's always made of that dark, dark iron. There's always a red velvet rope in front of it, like it's some sort of VIP lounge, but there's never a line. Two guards, dumb slabs of muscle with submachine guns. I was on them before the one on the right could even raise his, killed him first, took the one on the left with a leaping dropkick, knocking the barrel aside so he sprayed the oncoming Traders with hot lead. That worked so nicely I put him down hard and grabbed the submachine gun, recoil jolting all the way up my arms as I fired controlled, two-shot bursts into the crowd of Traders. Kicked the door, the scar chuckling on my wrist as barbwire heat poured up my arm, swept down my chest. The iron made a hollow boom and sagged, I kicked it again and I slid in crabwise, still shooting until the gun ran out of ammo. I chucked it at one of the Traders, it clocked him right on the forehead with a sound that would have been funny if it had been in another situation.

Wow, these things do a lot of damage. Won't help with the breed, though. Speed it up, Jill.

The long hall stretched in front of me. Doors on either side, each as anonymous as the next. But thanks to Narcisa, I knew which one I was aiming for.

The one at the end.

The one standing ajar, slowly opening as I pelted down the hall, whip jangling and right hand flashing down to my belt, grabbing what I wanted with a swift jerk and snapping it away.

Everything now depended on speed.

I hit the slowly-opening door going full throttle, it snapped away from the hinges and I rode it like a surfboard, my boots gripping its surface. The shock of landing was broken by something kind-of-soft; I still used it to push off and landed on the table. It was a long dinner-affair with wrought-iron candelabra at even intervals, I kicked one off as I pounded down the table. h.e.l.lbreed scattered - the movers and shakers of the local community, gathered here to carve up a helpless city like a big fat roast.

Narcisa had told me enough to guess what they were aiming at. With the city's hunter out of commission, they would have free rein until another hunter could be found. We are so few.

At the far end, something white hung from the ceiling, a shape against the black wall. Two arms, stretched up and clasped in leather cuffs, and a pale body topped with a shock of black hair. Stripes of blood, dried and fresh, marred the paleness. Bruises glared.

The squealing behind me ratcheted down into a growl. I didn't stop, just tossed the grenade back over my shoulder and leapt off the end of the table, over the empty twisted monstrosity of an iron chair at the head. Hit the wall, fingers digging into leather restraints and my knees slamming into concrete. My other hand swept with the knife, leather parting like water. We swung, and the metal pins driven into the ceiling gave with a shriek.

That's the price of h.e.l.lbreed-enhanced muscle and bone. A heavier a.s.s. I didn't need to cut the leather he was hanging from anyway - my weight would have torn it free - but I'm glad I did.

It pays to be sure. Almost-sure can get you killed.

BOOM.

The impact would have crushed me against him if we hadn't already been falling. I twisted, hoped I wasn't going to break any of his bones, took the shock of the landing on my right side. Silver nails driven in through my ears, a warm gush from my nose, a rib snapped but my arm wasn't broken. I knew this because I was already hauling him up. Smoking silver-laced shrapnel peppered the walls, and every single h.e.l.lbreed in here had taken a full shot.

Move fast, Jill. Move now.

He was limp laundry. Deadweight hefted up over my shoulder, and now I had to get us both out. I couldn't stop to check his pulse, but if he was dead I could at least make sure he got a burial or a pyre - the Weres would know what he preferred. And afterward I could serve vengeance on every single h.e.l.lbreed in this room. They don't heal quick after their hard sh.e.l.l is breached with silver, and I'd marked everyone in here with that handy little grenade. I had two more of them, too.

Now it was just time to get out of here.

I found out I was yelling. "Holding the line, Slade!" My voice sounding oddly m.u.f.fled because I was half-deaf from the shock of the grenade. "Holding the f.u.c.king line!"

And I guess it was my night for miracles. Because as I headed for the hall, my right hand flashing down to get another grenade and my legs pumping, the scar burning as it burrowed in toward bone, he stopped flopping bonelessly against my shoulder. He twitched, and kept moving a little, helping as much as he could while in a fireman's carry. I also heard, through the ringing deadness in my ears, that he was yelling.

G.o.dd.a.m.n.

Slade's house was full of Weres. They were repairing his door, cleaning up the mess I'd made in his sparring room, and just generally setting things to rights. One of them, a lithe tawny werecougar, was in the kitchen humming while he cooked something that smelled really good. That's Weres for you - there's no event on earth they won't serve munchies for.

I hadn't even asked any of their names.

Slade coughed. I eased him back down on the bed and lowered the gla.s.s of water. Even healing sorcery takes a toll on the body, and he'd been in bad shape. But internal bleeding was stopped and as long as he had a day or so of rest and quiet, he'd be all right. I ran my smart eye over him again, critically, seeing the thin fine lines of blue sorcery humming in his flesh.

"Jesus," he whispered when he finished hacking. "I got to quit smoking."

I snorted. He didn't smoke, but the bravado was necessary. When you get torn down and carried out of a h.e.l.lbreed hole during a firefight, completely naked and yelling, the humor becomes a need instead of a luxury.

"Narcisa." His face screwed up under its mask of bruising. Two of the lioness Weres had helped me sponge-bathe him, rumbling the deep throbbing noise they use when one of their own is badly hurt. It's their own peculiar kind of healing sorcery, and he'd needed all he could get. "Female, h.e.l.lbreed, black hair-"

"I got her." In your dining room, as a matter of fact. "She's not going to hunt any hunters again."

"Good deal." He thought for a couple of seconds. "Moroc, too? Head h.e.l.lsp.a.w.n ... brown and green, likes to ... wear velvet ... like f.u.c.king Lord Fauntleroy? Was by the door ... when you busted in..."

I considered telling him to take it easy. Knew he wouldn't anyway. "I don't know. I think the door landed on him. Grenade might've got him."

"Grenade." A shadow of a smile on his tired, bruised face. "Knew you'd..." Trailed off.

"Of course you did." My face felt like stone. I'm a hunter, Slade. Of course I came when you called. And if you'd been dead, I would have cleaned out that hole and done my best before I had to go back to my city. "I'm holding the line, Slade. Rest."

"They were going ... going to ... with my city-"

With him out of the way, the h.e.l.lbreed could do what they liked. Hunters are stretched thin, for all the Church and the authorities do their best to help. It's not everyone who can do this sort of thing. It's not the kind of job you can apply for or put on a business card.

Because really, there's such a thin line between them and us. We have to be like what we hunt in some ways.

But we hold that thin fine line. I don't know if it makes us truly better. I do think it makes us different.

At least, I hope it does. If it doesn't, it means every hunter commits murder every night for nothing. I refuse to believe that. For every one we kill, a victim lives. Maybe even more than one.

Does one balance out the other?

It has to. I have to believe it does. We all have to believe it does.

"Your city's safe." It had been a long time since I even tried to sound soothing. "You're back on the job. The Weres will stay here. You should be ready to get ornery tomorrow night at the latest."

On the outside, helped with sorcery, yes. I didn't want to ask what he'd suffered after Narcisa got hold of him. To be stripped of your weapons and at the mercy of the h.e.l.lbreed we hunt, to know your city and the innocents that depend on you are vulnerable and unprotected ... Jesus.

He nodded. Sagged back into the pillows. I smoothed the coverlet down over his chest. The scar was flushed and full under its copper carapace.

"You look good, Kiss."

I made a face. Don't call me that. "Mayhem suits me."

His face changed a little, and I thought he was going to thank me. To stop him, I dug in one of my pockets. "Oh, hey." I tried to sound casual. "These are yours. Some of them, probably."

The charms dripped from my fingers onto his nightstand, chiming sweetly. They didn't run with blue light or sparks - there was no contamination in the air for their blessings to react to. The scar was covered, but I was still careful when I dug the second handful of them out. I didn't know what blessed silver would do to a h.e.l.lbreed mark.

"Yeah." He coughed again, a little, but it was an embarra.s.sed noise instead of a hacking. "Can't believe I got trapped. Won't happen again."

I shrugged. There was nothing I could say. "You have a line on who..." Who betrayed you? I didn't need to finish the question.

"Yeah. Ebersole. One of my contacts. G.o.dd.a.m.n h.e.l.lbreed. Seduced a good cop."

This time I didn't need to shrug. Not such a good cop, if it ended up with a hunter hanging like a side of beef. The *breed hadn't killed him right away because they wanted to play.

"You need me to hang around?" I fished out the last lone charm - a silver wheel, red thread and a strand of blond hair clinging to it. I wondered what other hunter had been betrayed into Narcisa's clutches, and if he or she knew that they were avenged.

It probably wasn't any comfort.

"Nah. From here ... it's all mop-up." He closed his eyes. His throat worked as he swallowed. "You probably got stuff boiling ... at home."

"As always." But I lingered for a few more moments. "Slade..."

Are you really going to be all right?

But that was a fool's question. None of us were all right. If we were, we wouldn't be working this job.

"Huh?" He was struggling to stay awake. Which meant the crisis was over. He'd wrap up the leftovers tomorrow night. I would have to wash the blood off me before I got back on a plane, though my coat and pants would flop around, torn. And at home in Santa Luz there were things to attend to.

Who knew? I might be the one calling, next time.

"Nothing." I waited until his breathing evened out and he fell into unconsciousness. The bruising was shrinking visibly, healing sorcery humming to itself as it worked. I don't use it much myself nowadays, the scar takes care of most of that.

Mikhail told me striking a bargain with that h.e.l.lbreed was a good idea. I hoped like h.e.l.l it was true. I hoped there was a difference between me and a Trader. Even if I'd just done ... what I'd done, looking for Slade.

We all have to believe we're different.

Hunters don't say goodbye. Superst.i.tion, maybe, but when you live on the nightside it's foolish to disregard it. Besides, it hurts too much if the farewell ends up being final. Best to leave things unsaid, as insurance. A talisman.

My pager buzzed in its padded pocket. My city, calling me back. I'd probably get a late-morning flight if I put my hustle on now, or had one of the Weres call to book me one.

I smoothed the pale-blue down coverlet one more time. The day was well and truly up, and Slade's bedroom window filled with gold.

It had stopped raining. Blue sky peeped through shredding white clouds. Go figure.

"I'm holding the line, Slade," I said. The words were quiet in the dimness.

I picked up the wheel charm with its strand of blond hair. Looked at Slade's face, felt the ache of loneliness rise in my chest.

I missed my teacher. G.o.d, how I missed him.

I had red thread in another pocket, and while I was in the cab to the airport, the wheels shushing on wet pavement and the cabbie carrying on a one-way conversation with some AM talk radio, I tied the silver wheel into my own dark curls. The other charms chimed as I shook my head a little, settling them together.

Then I settled down to wait for the next stage of the journey home.

Lilith Saintcrow is the author of several paranormal romance, urban fantasy, and young adult series, including the "Jill Kismet" and "Strange Angels" series. She lives in Vancouver, Washington, with her children, several cats, and other strays. Her website may be found at www.lilithsaintcrow.com/journal Jill Kismet is the resident hunter of Santa Luz, a city somewhere in the American Southwest. She likes bullwhips, .45s, and breakfast burritos. Oh, and holding back the tides of h.e.l.l. She's a big fan of that.

Defining Shadows: A Detective Jessi Hardin Story.

by Carrie Vaughn.

The windowless outbuilding near the property's back fence wasn't big enough to be a garage or even a shed. Painted the same pale green as the house twenty feet away, the mere closet was a place for garden tools and snow shovels, one of a thousand just like it in a neighborhood north of downtown Denver. But among the rakes and pruning shears, this one had a body.

Half a body, rather. Detective Jessi Hardin stood at the open door, regarding the macabre remains. The victim had been cut off at the waist, and the legs were propped up vertically, as if she'd been standing there when she'd been sliced in half and forgotten to fall down. Even stranger, there didn't seem to be any blood. The gaping wound in the trunk - vertebrae and a few stray organs were visible in a hollow body cavity from which the intestines had been scooped out - seemed almost cauterized, scorched, the edges of the flesh burned and bubbled. The thing stank of rotting meat, and flies buzzed everywhere. She could imagine the swarm that must have poured out when the closet door was first opened. By the tailored trousers and black pumps still in place, Hardin guessed the victim was female. No identification had been found. They were still checking ownership of the house.

"Told you you've never seen anything like it," Detective Patton said. He seemed downright giddy at stumping her.

Well, she had seen something like it, once. A transient had fallen asleep on some train tracks, and the train came by and cut the poor b.a.s.t.a.r.d in half. But he hadn't been propped up in a closet later. No one had seen anything like this, and that was why Patton called her. She got the weird ones these days. Frankly, if it meant she wasn't on call for cases where the body was an infant with a dozen broken bones, with lowlife parents insisting they never laid a hand on the kid, she was fine with that.

"Those aren't supported, are they?" she said. "They're just standing upright." She took a pair of latex gloves from the pocket of her suit jacket and pulled them on. Pressing on the body's right hip, she gave a little push - the legs swayed, but didn't fall over.

"That's creepy," Patton said, all humor gone. He'd turned a little green.

"We have a time of death?" Hardin said.

"We don't have s.h.i.t," Patton answered. "A patrol officer found the body when a neighbor called in about the smell. It's probably been here for days."

A pair of CSI techs were crawling all over the lawn, snapping photos and placing numbered yellow markers where they found evidence around the shed. There weren't many of the markers, unfortunately. The coroner would be here soon to haul away the body. Maybe the ME would be able to figure out who the victim was and how she ended up like this.

"Was there a padlock on the door?" Hardin said. "Did you have to cut it off to get inside?"

"No, it's kind of weird," Patton said. "It had already been cut off, we found it right next to the door." He pointed to one of the evidence markers and the generic padlock lying next to it.

"So someone had to cut off the lock in order to stow the body in here?"

"Looks like it. We're looking for the bolt cutters. Not to mention the top half of the body."

"Any sign of it at all?" Hardin asked.

"None. It's not in the house. We've got people checking dumpsters around the neighborhood."

Hardin stepped away from the closet, caught her breath, and tried to set the scene for herself. She couldn't a.s.sume right away that the victim lived in the house. But maybe she had. She was almost certain the murder had happened somewhere else, and the body moved to the utility closet later. The closet didn't have enough room for someone to cut a body through the middle, did it? The murderer would have needed a saw. Maybe even a sword.

Unless it had been done by magic.

Her rational self shied away from that explanation. It was too easy. She had to remain skeptical or she'd start attributing everything to magic and miss the real evidence. This wasn't necessarily magical, it was just odd and gruesome. She needed the ME to take a crack at the body. Once they figured out exactly what had killed the victim - and found the rest of the body - they'd be able to start looking for a murder weapon, a murder location, and a murderer.

The half body looked slightly ridiculous laid out on a table at the morgue. The legs had been stripped, and a sheet laid over them. But that meant the whole body was under the sheet, leaving only the waist and wound visible. Half the stainless steel table remained empty and gleaming. The whole thing seemed way too clean. The morgue had a chill to it, and Hardin repressed a shiver.

"I don't know what made the cut," Alice Dominguez, the ME on the case, said. "Even with the burning and corrosion on the wound, I should find some evidence of slicing, cutting movements, or even metal shards. But there's nothing. The wound is symmetrical and even. I'd have said it was done by a guillotine, but there aren't any metal traces. Maybe it was a laser?" She shrugged, to signal that she was reaching.

"A laser - would that have cauterized the wound like that?" Hardin said.

"Maybe. Except that it wasn't cauterized. Those aren't heat burns."

Now Hardin was really confused. "This isn't helping me at all."