Hunter's Prayer (17 page)

Then it backed up, holding its front left limb up as if I’d wounded it. Black sludge dripped on the floor, smoking in the cold.

I laughed again, that chilling tinkling sound that broke glass and shivered the wooden flooring into splinters.
Kill it. Kill. Kill.

A crackling bolt of blue hellfire lanced through the shattered air, splashing against the thing’s side. It howled again and streaked away, its footfalls heavy and off-kilter now. I heard it drumming the surface of the earth as I whirled on the balls of my feet to meet this new threat.

The scar turned hot and hard. I felt Perry like a storm front moving through, a change of pressure that meant lightning. But that wasn’t what made me freeze. Standing amid the shattered wreckage, his eyes dark and infinite, Saul shoved his hands deep in his coat pockets and regarded me. Steam drifted up from his skin. The couch was a shambled mess, the kitchen was torn all to hell, every mirror and window in the place was shattered and crusted with ice.

And still, my hands tightened on the staff. The blades hummed, alert, vibrating with bloodlust.
Kill?
the slim length of iron, old when Atlantis was young, hummed in its subsonic language.
Kill? Kill? Destroy?

What civilization the staff was an artifact of, I didn’t know. Mikhail hadn’t known either. But ever since that highly advanced people had shaped this length of steel into a long wand with stylized dragon heads at either end—and don’t ask me how we know they’re dragon heads, we just
do
—it has been used for one thing.

Bloodshed. Destruction. The secret to handling it has been passed down from hunter to hunter in an unbroken line since its creation—or so Mikhail told me.

I had no reason to disbelieve him. Once, and only once, I think I saw what the world had looked like when the staff was created. The fact that I wasn’t howlingly insane meant I had passed the test and was ready to descend into Hell—and come
back,
a full hunter.

My muscles spasmed. The terrible battle began, me trying to wrench my fingers free of the iron, the staff screaming to be set free, to whistle through the air again, to cleave flesh and anything harder, anything at all, to maim and rip and tear. Blood trickled hot down my side, down my leg, down my arm from my left shoulder, turned into hamburger by the thing’s claws.

But Saul’s eyes were dark, and he didn’t look away. He didn’t move. The electric current between us—the thing in him that saw past every wall I’ve ever built to defend myself, the thing in me that
recognized
him—went deeper than all the bloody raw places in my head, deeper than my breath and bones and blood, and deeper still.

He
knew
me, even now.

It seemed to take forever but was in reality only a few seconds before I could
make
my fingers unloose. The staff slid toward the floor, I spun it, turning with a scream of agonized muscles and a cry that shattered each iota of broken glass into smaller shards and tore the scrim of ice into steaming fragments. The staff tore free, taking the skin on my palms with it, and smashed into the wall. Stuck there, sunk six inches into the concrete, quivering.

I let out a low harsh sound. Swayed, the small spattering sound of blood hitting the floor very loud in the stillness. I suddenly became aware that I had been moving in ways a human body hadn’t been designed to move, even one with the help of a chunk of meteoric, pre-Atlantean steel and a hellbreed scar on one wrist. Everything
hurt,
a scalding fiery pain.

But my heart still beat, so fast the pounding in my wrists and throat was a hummingbird’s wings. I was still taking in great ragged breaths, panting, my ribs flickering as they heaved, fiery oil spreading up my left side. My shoulders felt dipped in molten lead and my legs felt like wet noodles and my
head,
my God, my head felt like it was going to crack down the middle, like some demented dwarf was driving glass pins through my brain.

I swayed again, sour taste of adrenaline in my mouth. Heard someone else moving and knew it wasn’t Saul approaching me,
knew
it wasn’t him, and moved without thought.

My fingers had turned into claws, and I screamed as my nails tore through Perry’s face, the scar on my wrist giving an agonized flare of pleasure. Then Saul had me in his arms, was talking to me as I struggled, he had me caught in a bear hug and took my legs out from under me, we hit the ground among debris and melting ice and I struggled, getting wood dust, glass, plaster, water, all sorts of crap in my hair before Saul snarled at me, burying his face in my throat, and I went utterly still. The sharp edges of his teeth could open my carotid in a moment.

I made a low sobbing noise, gongs clanging inside my head. “Si-si-si-si—”

I was trying to tell him there was a civilian in the house, someone I had been protecting, when I passed out.

18

I
woke up with one hell of a hangover.

Using the staff does that. It’s not something to be done lightly, as Mikhail had reminded me until he was blue in the face. But really, I was just happy it had
worked.

I opened my eyes, saw something hazy that qualified (maybe) as light, and let out a low moan. Immediately, someone slid an arm under my head and held the foulest concoction in the whole wide goddamn world to my lips.

The best cure for a bad case of overstrain goes like this: nuke room-temperature Coke until you get the fizzies out, about ten seconds in the microwave on defrost will do it. Then mix it half and half with Gatorade. You dump about a quarter of it and fill up the huge old mug with
very
strong valerian tea. Mikhail always used to spike it with a little vodka, but he was crazy.

It tastes unspeakably foul, especially when your stomach is trying to crawl out through your throat without so much as pausing to say goodbye. But it works. The Gatorade settles your electrolytes; the caffeine and sugar in the Coke bring your blood levels back up and the nixed carbonation settles the stomach, and the valerian if strong enough is almost as good as Valium to calm down a hunter who’s just gone through the wringer.

The vodka, of course, was because nothing medicinal could be without a touch of that finest of elixirs. I heard Anja’s brews involved imported absinthe, but I’ve never had the dubious pleasure of having her mix up a concoction. God willing, I never will.

I took down four mugs of it before swearing at Saul and thrashing, trying to get up out of bed. “Calm down,” he told me, in a tone that brooked no argument. “Or I’ll strap you down, goddammit. You stupid bitch.”

“Fuck you,” I flung back. My head was splitting. My stomach sloshed. I felt like I’d been put together sideways.

“I told you to fucking stay with Perry.”

He was right. And he was furious.

“Si-si-si-
civilian!
” I managed to get the word out.

“She’s okay. She’s with Avery. Just settle down, Jill. Come on.”

I went limp. Lay with my breath whistling in my throat.
Thank you, God. Thank you.

He stroked my hair back from my damp forehead. “I told you to stay with Perry.” But this time, less anger. He sounded worried.

I squeezed my eyes shut. Found I could speak. “I couldn’t.” My voice cracked.

“Guess not. What’d he do to you?”

How could I answer that?
He suddenly found his way in, Saul. He got to me.
“The usual m-mindfucks.” I dragged in a deep breath, let it out. “Saul.” It was so hard to
think
through the dragging pain in my head.

“Right here.” His fingers threaded through mine. “You want more backlash brew?”

Oh, God, no.
“Shit no. What’d you find out?”

“Interesting stuff. Just rest, okay?” His hand was warm, and he leaned in, his lips meeting my cheek. “I’ll kick your ass later.”

“Promises, p-promises …” But I passed out again.

When I surfaced, I felt better, the brew had done its work and my head no longer felt like something monstrous was trying to birth itself from the center of my brain. Late afternoon sunlight fell in through the window; I was in my bed. Plenty of space all around, so nothing could sneak up on me.

Saul was a warm weight on the other side of the bed. His dark head rested on his arm, because as usual he’d thrown off the covers and ditched his pillow. Unlike usual, however, he was clothed, boxers and a T-shirt. He smelled of Were and sweat and musk, and the charms in his red-black hair gleamed under the light.

I sat up slowly. My head felt tender and my body was a little sore, but other than that, I felt surprisingly good. It was the first time I’d used the staff since striking my bargain with Perry, and I didn’t feel like I’d been run over by a truck.

I stretched, yawning.
First order of business is to get that goddamn doctor and throttle him until he squeals. And then a quick visit to Jimmy Rocadero, and—

Saul’s hand closed over my wrist. One of his eyes had slid open a bit, and he yawned. “And where do you think you’re going?”

“Hey, baby.” I didn’t have to work to sound relieved to see him. “How are you?”

“Pissed as hell,” was his languid reply. “How you feelin’, kitten?”

The tension in my chest eased at his calm tone. “Okay. Not going to be running a marathon anytime soon, but I can work. Saul—”

“Goddammit, Kiss. I told you to stay with Perry.” He opened his eyes and curled up to a sitting position, shoving blankets aside.

How a man in boxers and a Santa Luz Wheelwrights T-shirt could look so delicious was one of the wonders of the world. I swallowed hard and wrenched my mind away from that.
It’s just the survival thing. You know that. Chemical cascades and psychological necessity to prove you’re still fucking alive after a dicey situation. No time for that now.
“I couldn’t.” The words stuck in my throat.
Christ, Saul. I couldn’t stay there. Not around that mindfucking bastard.

“What did he do to you? Huh?
What did he do to you?
” The charms in his hair tinkled, moving against each other; his fingers sank into my arm. I took another deep, lung-stretching breath. A shiver of pleasure went through me. Even though he was holding me hard enough to bruise, I liked it. The thought that he was touching me was enough to make me catch my breath, threatened to make me melt.

What didn’t he do?
“Nothing. Just …
nothing.
Mindfuck. Like usual. There’s a reason why I don’t want to
stay
there when he’s finished with me. Last night it was bad.”

“Two nights ago. Perry’s been putting the house back together. Avery has the girl. There are three more bodies. I’ve got files.”

Lovely. Great. Wonderful. I’ll read ‘em in the car.
“I got things to do. We have to get that doctor. And Jimmy Rocadero—”

“Rocadero?” Saul snorted. “He’s one of the bodies, kitten. And I want to make it
abundantly
clear to you how fucking unhappy I am with the chain of events that ended up with you, here, facing that thing alone with
no fucking backup.
Very,
very
fucking clear.” His eyes glowed with a Were’s peculiar lambent orange tint.

“Rocadero’s dead?”
Holy shit, that’s news.

“Straight-up dead. But he’s still got his internal organs—they’re just spread all over his goddamn house. I also found out a few things in the barrio.”

I stretched. My entire body ached.
God, I hate using that thing. But I’m alive. Alive. And Cecilia is too.
“What did you find out?”

His fingers flicked, and the length of cluttered leather braid and obsidian arrowhead dangled. A venomous dart of blue light splintered from the arrowhead. “I found out what this is.”

“Well?” I stretched, loosely. My skin twitched and rippled with soreness. The headache was returning, circling like a shark, though with less of its former virulence. “You’re killing me here, baby.”

“Don’t fucking say that.” His fingers flicked again, the arrowhead vanished. Neatest trick of the week. “Want to wash up, then we’ll talk?”

“Okay.” But I reached out to grab his arm as he turned away, his skin warm and hard under my fingers, under the T-shirt’s sleeve. “Saul?”

“Don’t ever do that again.” He stared at the window, his profile suddenly clean and classic. His mouth turned down bitterly at the corners. “I dropped by here to pick up fresh clothes and ammo for you so we could track down the leads I found straight from the barrio. Imagine my surprise at finding Perry and that goddamn thing here before me.”

“Perry was here?”
What the hell was he doing here so late? Protecting his investment?

“He’d just arrived, I saw him coming down the street. That thing was tearing up the inside of the house. We came in and saw you beating the shit out of it. You looked …”

I winced. With the staff in my hands, I probably looked feral, my hair standing on end as I moved in ways a human body shouldn’t. And the laugh, the chilling crystal laugh, bruising the vocal cords as it ripped free. “Horrible,” I said flatly.

“Deadly. Beautiful.” His eyes dropped. “Jesus Christ, Jillian. You could have died.”

I know that.
“I had to.”

“For one of Diamond Ricky’s girls?”

Just a whore, right? Just another teenage hooker on the cold street.
I swallowed the words. Saul wasn’t like that; I was just … edgy. Too willing to think the worst, no matter what anyone said. “A civilian. She asked for my help.”

He made a short, vicious growling sound. “And those are the magic words, aren’t they? Well, I need your goddamn help too.”

Please, baby. Don’t do this now.
“Saul.”

He turned his head, his eyes trapping mine. “You listen to me. You end up dead and you know what happens to me?
Do you?
”

A Were dies when his mate does, but I’m not Were. I’m human. Fucked-up with hellbreed, but still human.
“Saul—”

“I put up with Perry. I put up with you throwing yourself into every goddamn mess in this city. But god-
dam
mit, Jillian, I do
not
want to lose you!”

“Saul.”

“I want you to meet my people,” he said softly. “I want you under the Moon with me.”

Holy Christ.
My mouth dried up. “That’s serious.” Then I kicked myself. Couldn’t I come up with something less stupid to say?

“Very serious.” He removed my fingers from his arm gently. His hand was warm. “As serious as it can get. Need a shower?”

For a moment, I thought the stone in my throat would stop me from speaking. “You offering to seduce me?”

His teeth flashed in a white grin before he levered himself off the bed. “I’d love to, but duty calls. Hurry up.”

“Where in the barrio did you go?”

“Couple of places,” he said over his shoulder on his way to the closet. “But I found what I needed in a little bar off Santa Croce. A real dive. You’d love it.”

I peeled the sheet away. I’d bled on it, nosebleed and from the wounds that were now pink scars, rapidly fading. It had marked me a couple of times. Left side up my ribs, shoulder, leg. I was lucky to be alive. “I suppose it was a smelly place full of nasty characters.”

“Just like usual, baby. You’ve broadened my social horizons, that’s for sure.” He opened the closet door, and I spent a few moments in artistic appreciation of his boxer-clad ass before hauling myself up out of the bed.

There was work to be done.

I called Hutch from the cordless in the bedroom, but he had still not had any luck digging up whatever
chutsharak
meant. I was beginning to think it was a dead end.

Just like Saint Anthony’s spear. Gui and I were going to have a little talk about lying to hunters, just as soon as I had some time.

Hutch did have other news, though. “Hey, it’s the end of the Sorrows’ three-year cycle this year.” His voice whistled slightly with excitement.

“Three-point-seven,” I corrected, shoving my feet into my second-best boots. My coat was still torn up, but better than nothing. I wriggled my toes, rocked up to my feet, and accepted a cup of coffee from Saul. It was thick black mud, and I could drink about half a cup before I needed food in me to balance out the caffeine. I nodded my thanks to Saul, bracing the phone against my shoulder. “So they’re in the Dark Time now.”

“Looks like it. Though if you ask me, those motherfuckers are
always
at thirteen o’clock. So, the Dark Time. Cleansing within Houses, hunting down apostates—and evocations of the Elder Gods.”

That rang a teensy bell. “Wait a second. Evocations?”

Saul’s eyebrows rose.

“Miguel de Ferrar says it’s SOP for a House to evoke their patron Elder at this time. Lots of demonic activity, that sort of thing. It’s when they believe the veil between this world and the world of the demons gets real thin, like Samhain for witches.”

I leaned back in the chair, taking a sip of coffee. “So. What’s necessary for an evocation of this magnitude? Say, if a Sorrow was doing it alone?”

“They
can’t
do it alone. That’s why houses are collective, it takes a full House to hold a door in the world open for an Elder to reach through even briefly. We’re talking granite floors carved with the Nine Seals, perfect-tallow candles, velvet robes, ambergris and amber incense, the whole nine. The
whole
nine, including gold laid in the circle for the Elder, the sacrifice, and the psychic energy needed to rip a hole in the ether.” Hutch was sounding more cheerful by the moment. He did indeed love his research.

She is attempting an evocation, hunter. She is fueling it with death and acquiring funding from the sale of bodily—

“So it’s a massive financial as well as sorcerous effort,” I said slowly. “Hutch, what’s the market like in Santa Luz for black-market organs?”

“Organs? What kind of—”

“Human organs. Kidneys, livers, that sort of thing. Stem cells, too.”

“Hell, I don’t know. But I can find out. Five minutes on the Internet and—”

“Never mind. Listen. Which patron Elder rules the end of this cycle? I know each House has their special dedication, but which one of the Ninety-Nine rules this
particular
cycle in general?”

Saul’s eyes met mine. I took a scalding mouthful of coffee.

I heard paper rustling and his breath whistling as he dug around for it. “I just had it, I just had a copy of Luvrienne’s
Chaldeans
open … ah-ha. Here we are.” More paper rustling. “Let’s see … if we calculate from the Chaldean calendar … carry the one … leap years … the Gregorian … okay. This year’s winner is … oh,
shit.
”

“What?”
Hutch, I hate it when you say oh shit.

“It’s the Nameless.” His voice dropped to a whisper. “And the cycle ends in four days.”

It felt like all the hair on my body was trying to stand straight up. It probably was. The charms tied in my hair tinkled. I set the coffee cup down on the nightstand. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I whispered. “The Nameless?”