Flesh Circus (35 page)

L
ILITH
S
AINTCROW
was born in New Mexico, bounced around the world as an Air Force brat, and fell in love with writing when she was ten years
old. She currently lives in Vancouver, Washington. Find her on the Web at
www.lilithsaintcrow.com
.

introducing

If you enjoyed
FLESH CIRCUS
,

look out for

Book 5 of the Jill Kismet series

by Lilith Saintcrow

H
ow fast does a man run, when Death is after him?

The Trader clambered up the rickety fire escape at a dead run and I was right behind him. If I’d had my whip I could have
yanked his feet out from under him. No use lamenting it—had to work with what I had. He was going too fast for me to just
shoot him at the moment.

Didn’t matter. I knew where he was headed. And though I hoped Saul would be quick enough to get her out of the way, it would
be better if I killed him now.

Or got there first. And
then
killed him.

He went over the edge of the wall in one quick spiderlike scuttle and I flung myself up, silver charms tied in my hair buzzing
like a rattler’s tail. The scar on my right wrist burned, a live coal pressed against my skin, as I
pulled
etheric force through it. A sick tide of delight poured up my arm, and I reached the top and was up and over so fast I collided
with the Trader, my hellbreed-strong right fist jabbing forward to get him a good shot in the kidneys.

We rolled across the rooftop in a tangle of arms and legs, the leather trench coat snapping once and fluttering raggedly.
It was singed and peppered with holes from the car bomb where I’d lost my whip. I was covered in drying blood and very, very
pissed off.

Just another night on the job.

No you don’t, you fuckwad.
One hand in his hair, the other one full of knifehilt, the silver-loaded blade ran with crackling blue light as the blessing
on it reacted to the breath of contamination around the Trader’s writhing form. I caught an elbow in the face, my eye smarting
and watering immediately, and slid the knife in up to the guard.

The Trader bucked. He was thin but strong, and my fingers slipped, greasy with blood. I got a knee in, wrestled him down as
he twisted—

—and he shot me four times.

They were lead, not silverjacket slugs. Still, the violent shock of agony as four of them slammed through my torso was enough
to throw me down for a few moments, stunned and gasping, the scar chuckling to itself as it flooded me with power. My body
convulsed, stupid meat freaking out over a little thing like bullets. A curtain of red closed over my vision, and I heard
retreating footsteps.

Get up, Jill. Get up
now.

Another convulsion running through me from crown to soles. I rolled on my side, muscles locking down as a gush of lungfluid
and blood jetted from my mouth and nose. The contraction was so intense even my eyes watered, and I whooped in a deep breath.
My hands scrabbled uselessly against dirty rooftop.

Get UP, you bitch!

My feet found the floor, the rest of me hauled itself upright, and I heard my voice from a dim long faraway place. I was cursing
like a sailor who just found out shore leave was canceled.

Now go get him. Get him before he gets there.

I stumbled, almost fell flat on my face. Getting peppered with lead won’t kill me, but if it hits a lot of vitals it’s pretty
damn uncomfortable. My flesh twitched, expelling bits and chunks of lead, and I coughed again, rackingly, got my passages
clear. More stumbling steps, my right bootsole squeaking because it was wet. The knife spun, blade reversed against my forearm,
and I blinked. Took off again, because the Trader’s matted black hair puffed up as he dropped over the side of the building.

Now I was mad.

Go get him, Jill. Get him quick and get him hard.

A half-moon hung overhead. Santa Luz shuddered underneath its glow, and I hurled myself forward again, going over the edge
of the building with arms and legs pulled in just in case. The drop wasn’t bad—just another roof, a little lower—and I had
some luck—the stupid bastard decided to stand and fight rather than run off toward the civilian he’d marked for death.

He hit me hard, ramming us both into the brick wall of the building we’d just been tangling on the top of. This rooftop was
a chaos of girders and support structure for the watertank looming above us. I got my left arm free, flipped my wrist so the
knifeblade angled in, and stabbed.

Another piece of luck—his arm was up, and my aim was good. The knife sank in at a weird angle, the axillary region exposed
and vulnerable and now full of silver-loaded steel. My knee came up so hard something in his groin popped like bubblegum,
and I clocked him a good one with my hellbreed-strong right fist.

Stupid fuck. While he was running, or at least just trying to get away, he had a chance. But fighting a pitched battle with
an angry helltainted hunter? Not a good idea.

He folded, keening, and I coughed up more blood. A hot sheen of it slicked my chin, splashed on my chest. I pitched forward,
following him down. My knee hit hard, a jolt of silvery pain up my femur; I braced myself and yanked his head back.

Another knifehilt slapped my palm and I jerked it free of the sheath. My right hand cramped, kept working. He made a whining
noise as I bore down, bodyweight pinning him. I’m tall for a female but still small when compared to most hellbreed, Traders,
or what-have-you. The scar helps, gives me denser muscle and bone, but when it comes right down to it my only hope is leverage.
I had some, but not enough.

Which meant I had to kill him quick.

The silver-loaded blade dragged across easily, parting helltainted flesh. A gush of hot black-tinged blood sprayed out. Human
blood looks black at night, but the darkness of hellbreed ichor tainting a Trader’s fluid is in a class all its own.

Arterial spray goes amazingly far, especially when you have the rest of the body under tension and the head wrenched back.
The body slumped in my hands, a gurgle echoing against rooftop and girders, twitches racing through as corruption claimed
the flesh. I used to think that if Traders could see one of them biting it and the St. Vitus’ dance of contagion that eats
up their tissues, they might think twice about making a bargain with hellbreed.

I don’t think that anymore. Because when you get right down to it, what Trader thinks about death as real? That’s why they
Trade—they think the rules don’t apply to them.

My legs didn’t work too well. I scrabbled back from the body, a knifehilt in either fist. Fetched up against the brick wall,
right next to the indent from earlier. Sobbing breaths as my own body struggled for oxygen, my eyes locked to the Trader’s
form as it disappeared into a slick of bubbling black grease starred with scorched bones.

Watch, milaya.
My teacher’s voice said quietly, inside my head.
You watch the death you make. Is only way.

I watched until there was nothing recognizably human left. Even the bones would dissolve, and by daybreak there would only
be a lingering foulness to the air up here. I checked the angle of the building—any sunlight that came through the network
of girders would take care of the rest. If the bones had remained I would’ve had to call up some banefire, to deny whatever
hellbreed he’d Traded with the use of a nice fresh zombie corpse.

But no. He’d Traded hard, and he’d used his bargain recklessly, burning up whatever remained of his humanity. I coughed again,
shuddered as the adrenaline dump poured through me with a taste like bitter copper.

Just another night on the job. And we were three scant blocks from Molly Watling, his next planned victim. Who was probably
scared out of her mind right now, even if Saul had shown up to get her out of the way.

It’s not every day your ex-husband Trades with a hellbreed and shows up with a thirst for human flesh, hot blood, and terror.
He’d worked his way through his current wife, three strippers, and two ex-girlfriends, not to mention a mistress and another
woman grabbed at a bus stop. His sole victim of opportunity, his practice run for the others.

I blew out between my teeth. The reek was amazing, and I was covered in goop, guck, and blood. The night was young, and I
had a line on the hellbreed Trevor Watling had Traded with. A hellbreed I was going to talk to, up close and personal with
some silverjacket lead, because that was my job.

Time to get back to work.

But I just stood there for a few more moments, staring blankly at the smear on the rooftop. I’ve given up wondering why some
men think they own women enough to beat and kill them. It used to be like a natural disaster—just get out of the way and hope
it doesn’t get you. Then I thought about it until it threatened to drive me batshit, chewing over the incomprehensible over
and over again.

Now it was enough just to stop what I could. But Jesus, I was tired of it.

A vibrating buzz almost startled me. It was the pager in its padded pocket. I dug it out and glanced at it, and my entire
body went cold.

What the fuck is he doing calling me?

I tested my legs. They were willing. My shirt was ruined, and my leather pants weren’t far behind. Still, all my bits were
covered, and my trench coat was ripped and tattered but still usable.

I got going.

My pager went off again, and when I dug it out Connie, the ER nurse, looked at me funny. But they’re used to me at Mercy General,
and Saul made soothing noises at the sobbing, red-haired almost-victim. “Montaigne at the precinct will have details,” I told
the ER nurse, who nodded, making a notation on her clipboard. “She’ll probably need sedation, and I don’t blame her.”

The stolid motherly woman in neatly pressed scrubs nodded. “Rape kit?”

I shook my head. “No.”
Thank God. I got there in time.

Of course, if I hadn’t, Molly Watling would have been carted to the morgue instead of driven to the ER. Small mercy, but I’d
take it. Connie’s expression said she’d take it too; the relief was palpable.

“It’s all right,” Saul said soothingly. The silver tied in his hair with red thread gleamed under the fluorescents, and he
didn’t look washed-out in the slightest. But then, Weres usually look good in any lighting. “You’re safe now. Everything’s
okay.”

She nodded, fat tears trickling down her damp cheeks. She flinched whenever I looked at her.

“Bueno.”
Connie patted the woman’s arm. “Any injuries?”

I shook my head again. “Nope. Shock, though. Ex-husband.”

Comprehension spread over Connie’s face. No more needed to be said.

“So, sedation. Call Montaigne, get a trauma counselor over here, and Monty’ll take care of the paperwork.” County health has
counselors on standby, and so does the police department.
Especially
in cases like this. “I’ve got to get going.”

Connie nodded, and deftly subtracted Molly from Saul. She didn’t want to let go of his arm, and I completely understood. A
big guy who looks like Native American romance-novel beefcake? I’d be clinging too.

“Th-thank you.” The almost-victim didn’t even look at me. “F-for everything. I didn’t th-think anyone would b-believe me.”

Considering that her ex-husband had terrorized every woman before he’d killed them, and he’d been a real winner even
before
Trading, it made sense. “He’s not going to hurt you anymore.” I sounded harsher than I needed to, and she actually jumped.
“He’s not going to hurt
anyone
anymore.”

I expected her to flinch and cower again. But she surprised me—lifting her chin, pushing her shoulders back. “I sh-should
thank you t-too.” She swallowed hard, forced herself to meet my eyes. It was probably uncomfortable—a lot of people have trouble
with my mismatched gaze. One eye brown, one blue—it just seems to offend people on a deep nonverbal level when I stare them
down.

I nodded. “It’s my job, Ms. Watling. I’m glad we got there in time.”
It was too late for those other women. But take what you can get, Jill.
I shifted my attention to Connie. “I need a phone.”

“Si, señora. Use the one at the desk.” And just like that, I was dismissed. Connie bustled the woman away out of the curtained
enclosure, and the regular sounds of a Tuesday night on the front lines swallowed the sharper refrain of a terrified, relieved
woman dissolving into fresh sobs. The smell of Lysol and human pain stung my nose almost as much as the dissolving reek of
a Trader’s death.

Saul let out a sigh. He reached out, his hand cupping my shoulder. “Hello, kitten.”

I leaned into the touch. The smile spreading over my face felt unnatural, until my heart made the funny jigging movement it
usually did when he looked at me and the usual wave of relief caught up with me. “Hey, catkin. Good work.”

“I knew he wouldn’t get there before you.” His own smile was a balm against my jagged nerves. He’d put on some weight, and
the shadows under his eyes weren’t so dark anymore. “What’s the next emergency?”

I shrugged, held up the pager. “Gilberto paged from home.”

He absorbed this. “Not like him,” he finally said. Which was as close as he would get to grudgingly admitting my apprentice
was doing well.

“That’s what I thought.” I reached up with my left hand, squeezed his fingers where they rested against my shoulder. His skin
was warm, but mine left a smudge of filth and blood on him.

He never seemed to mind, but I took my hand away and swallowed hard.

“Well, let’s see what he wants. And then, breakfast?” Meaning the night was still young, and he’d like a slice of time alone
with me.

It’s kind of hard to roll around with your favorite Were when you’ve got a kid living with you, after all. I was about ready
to start suggesting the car’s backseat, but—how’s this for irony—I hadn’t had time yet. One thing after another, that’s a
hunter’s life. “I don’t see why not. I’ve got a line on the hellbreed Watkins Traded with, too.”