Flesh Circus (20 page)

There are plenty of others.

Oh, God.
The basement was clear. I headed back up the stairs. Saul met me on the landing. “No more of them. Some bodies in the bedrooms,
though.”

In a minute.
I nodded. Half-turned. Gilberto was still crouching on the porch, the wreck of the shattered door creaking as I stepped on
it. He looked up at me, and before the walls behind his eyes could go up I caught a glimpse of what he must have looked like
before whatever had made him into what he was.

The first time I’d met this kid, I’d known he was a killer. Strength, size, and speed are all useless without the willingness
to do serious harm; someone smaller with the ruthlessness to hurt can take on a giant and come away a limping winner. The
dead-eyed gangbanger had that willingness in spades. We recognize each other, those of us who have come out the other side
of decency and settled for survival.

And sometimes, something just gets left out of people, and they don’t see anything wrong with killing. That’s one of the tests
of taking on an apprentice—finding out if they’re willing to hurt someone if they have to, or if they’re just sociopaths.

You have to be sure. A hunter is a deadly thing, and that deadliness
has
to be disciplined. Otherwise you’re no better than the things you put down. You’re worse than a Trader, even.

“I told you to go home.” I didn’t have to work to sound unwelcoming. “Did you not hear me? I said go home, and leave the night
alone.”

“What was those?” He rose slowly, the gun dangling in his right hand. “Right out of a fucking horror movie, eh,
bruja?
And him, he’s
el gato. Lobo hombre, gato hombre.
” He was breathing so fast his narrow ribs flickered. That smell was on him—desperation, wanting so hard the teeth ache as
if under a bad load of sugar.

“You’re not listening.” I glanced at Saul. “He was already here?”

“Yup.” Saul’s eyes glowed orange for a moment. He stood easily on the stairs, his back to the entire upper portion of the
house, and I suddenly wanted to check every single room and cupboard.

It was ridiculous. He said he’d checked, and I trusted him to tell me when part of a scene was cleared. That was the whole
idea behind having a partner, wasn’t it?

I trusted his judgment, didn’t I?

Of course I did. I swallowed hard, prioritized. “And you came out here because…”

“Galina called. She got no answer when she dialed Zamba. Figured you might run into some trouble.” One corner of his mouth
curled up. “Besides, I like seeing you.”

My own lips stretched into a grudging smile. How did he do that, make me feel good with five little words? “Flatterer.”

“Hey, whatever works.” In this light he didn’t look nearly as tired. And no doubt about it, he’d pretty much saved my bacon.
I would’ve survived, but still. “Where’s Zamba?”

“Don’t know. Any blondes in the wreckage?”

“Not that I saw, but the bodies are a little… well, you’ll see.”

I looked back out onto the porch. Gilberto was following our exchange. He wasn’t pale or in shock. He was just as he’d always
been—sallow and dirty-looking. His eyes were a bit wide, but that was all. He seemed to be handling this well.

It could’ve been an act. Gangs are big on face, and he probably had a lot of practice in not looking scared. But usually,
when someone encounters the nightside for the first time, there’s more trouble. Screaming, fainting, puking, rage—I’ve seen
it all. The initial reaction doesn’t mean much. It’s how people deal with having the rationality of the world whopped away
from under them over the long term that matters. After a brush with the nightside some retreat into rigid logic, a bulwark
against something their upbringing tells them shouldn’t exist. Others get increasingly loud and nervous, ending up wearing
tinfoil hats and screeching about conspiracy aliens.

Some of them get really, really quiet, go home, and eat a bullet or some pills. It all depends.

On the other hand, in the barrio they know about Weres. Enough not to mess with them, at least.

Gilberto just looked at me, his chin coming up a little. Stubbornness made him look mulish, especially when he hunched his
thin shoulders and peered out under strings of hair.
What’s it gonna be,
that look asked.
What you gonna do with me? Because I ain’t going home.

I stared at him, trying to make a decision. It’s not like snap decisions aren’t a part of the job—some days, it’s nothing
but,
and you have to make the right one in under a hundredth of a second. But this wasn’t a decision that would or could be made
without a lot of thought.

Then again, the students come along whether a teacher is ready or not. The world was just full of on-the-other-hand answers
today. “You got a car, Gil?”

He shrugged. Even the shrug was right—equal parts stray-cat insouciance and hesitation.

“All right. Here’s the first thing:
don’t
steal any fucking cars. From now on you don’t break or even bend the law. Go back to my house. There’s a key under one of
the empty flowerpots stacked on the east side. Go inside and don’t touch anything, unless you’re getting yourself a snack.
We’ll talk when I get home, and I don’t know when that will be. You got me?”

He nodded. The hunted look didn’t go away, but at least he straightened a little.

“I mean it,” I persisted. “Don’t steal a car. Don’t break the speed limit. If you have a gun, clean or not, ditch it before
you step in my door. You come in clean, or I won’t have anything to do with you.”

“I’m not stupid.” The sullenness returned.

“Prove it by being clean when you step in my door. Stay inside, don’t leave until I talk to you. Go on, now.”

He shrugged. His slim brown fingers loosened, and he dropped the .22. It made a heavy sound when it hit the porch, and I winced
internally.
He’s going to be a live one.

I watched him go down the sobbing, squeaking steps. He headed across the street and vanished into the darkness. I hoped he
made it, and I hoped he listened to me.

Then I shelved that hope, scooped up his .22, and got back to the problem at hand.

This was not looking good at all.

“What just happened?” Saul still stood on the stairs, watching. Bits of zombie glop still clung to him, dripping off the fringe
of his jacket. It was going to be a job and a half cleaning the suede up. Thank God he believes in Scotchgarding everything.
It doesn’t do much good with the rags my clothes end up as, but it works wonders for his.

“I don’t know yet.”
I might have an apprentice, that’s all. We’ll see.
“Best to keep him out of the way until I do.” I checked the pistol, made sure the safety was on, and wondered if it was one
I’d seen him use before.

The thought of that case was uncomfortable, to say the least. And Saul still hadn’t asked any questions about it. And there
was a grave up on Mount Hope, with a good cop sleeping under a green blanket. The people responsible had been mostly cleaned
up—but not all of them.

Prioritize, Jill. Get back up on the horse.
“When did Galina call?”

“Just as I got in the door. I came out here. Was wondering what the hell the kid was doing here when I heard the fight.” He
shrugged, stuck his hands in his pockets. “Any idea what’s going on yet?”

“Not much. Other than these cases are connected somehow. And if Zamba’s not a body here, she might be involved.”

“Great.” He sounded as thrilled as I felt about that. “What does she look like again?” As if he wouldn’t remember her, but
he was being sure. Checking. It was a partner’s responsibility to check.

“Blond dreadlocks. Tall. Bad legs, but a good smile.” I tried a smile on my own face, but it felt like plastic. This was going
south fast. “Show me the bodies. Let’s get this wrapped.”

“Sure thing.” But he just stood there, looking at me, for a long moment. “I’m glad I came out.”

What do you want, a tickertape parade?
But that was uncharitable of me. I could just chalk it up to nerves, couldn’t I? “Me too, catkin. Let’s see those bodies.”

“Are you really?” It wasn’t like him to persist. “You sure?”

I exaggerated rolling my eyes, just like a teenager. I’ll never see the sunny side of thirty again, but sometimes eyerolling
is so satisfying I don’t care. “Of
course
I’m glad. Jesus, Saul, what’s up with you?”
And can it wait? I’ve got a city about to blow sky-high here, and a pattern I don’t like the looks of underneath.

“Nothing.” He turned gracefully and led me up the stairs. “There are bodies in the bedrooms, nothing in the kitchen but a
pot on the stove. Smells like the other place, a little.”

“But no blondes? Blond dreadlocks, waist-length?” Wide face, big nose, bad skin, rotting teeth rimmed with gold making a bright-starred
smile, and those dreadlocks. Zamba was tall and almost breastless, and I’d sometimes thought she was in drag. Nowadays you
can’t tell, and dealing with ’breed on a regular basis will wallop some of your assumptions about gender pretty hard.

“Come and see.”

Goddammit.
But he was right not to tell me, I suppose. I might not have believed it, if he had.

It was nine bodies, all told. I recognized an ebony-skinned trio, male and female, who had been Zamba’s longtime acolytes.
There was a small, compact Hispanic male—Zamba was truly catholic in her choice of trainees—and a taller, Grecian redhead.
A double-gemini of husky dark-haired males completed the sets. They were three to a room, her inner circle all naked and twisted
together like the goats in the basement. The beds had been scattered with chrysanthemum petals, and their throats had been
ripped out.

They probably wouldn’t rise as zombies, though I would nail the palms and feet before Forensics got here. There wasn’t enough
etheric residue in them to power that kind of motion, though. Zamba’s devotees had been
eaten.
And either someone had brushed aside Zamba’s protections and killed her followers and her, or…

Jesus.

In the kitchen, a pot on the stove was long cool. A stringy brew of something that smelled vaguely similar to Lorelei’s still-bubbling
concoction rested under a thick scrim of clotted grease. The kitchen was otherwise spic-and-span, the attached dining room
where Zamba fed her acolytes holding a long table, chairs ranked neatly, and an altar on the wall under the window that looked
out on the side-yard and the wall of the abandoned house next door.

“What do you make of this?” Saul asked quietly. He stood by the sink, arms folded, looking at the bottle of dishwashing liquid
and scrubbies, neatly placed in a chrome rack.

“I don’t like that we can’t find her body.”
That’s just one of the things I don’t like about this.

“Any chance she could be the one behind all this?”

Trust him to say what I was thinking. “More than a chance, catkin. Still, I suppose there’s always room to hope she’s not.
I’d like it better if the bitch was dead.”

“Now there’s something I don’t hear you say often.” He peered out the window. “It’s almost dawn.”

No shit. This has been a long night.
I spotted the phone, hanging at the end of the counter. “If Zamba’s behind this, it’s bad news. If she’s just disappeared
it’s bad news too; it means we might have another body site.” I let out a sigh. The smell was bad, the situation was worse,
and I had the idea I wasn’t going to spend today sleeping, either. “I’ve got to call in and see who they can spare to come
out and process this site too. No rest for the wicked.”

“Amen to that.” His shoulders went down a little. Had he been bracing himself? For what? “What’s our next step?”

I thought about it. “Calling someone to come out and take care of this site. Seeing if I overlooked Zamba’s body downstairs
or in the back yard. Going over this place with a fine-tooth comb, then going through the files—” I tapped the counter with
bitten-down nails, my fingers drumming. “This has all the earmarks of a serious fucking tangle.”

As usual, Saul put the question in reasonable terms. “If Zamba
is
behind this, what does she have against the Cirque?”

“I don’t—” I straightened, suddenly, and stared at the pot on the stove. “Huh.”

Saul kept quiet, looking at the sink, and let me wander around inside my head. It was good to have him there—he served up
the right questions, and knew when to keep his mouth shut so I could
think.
I found myself studying the lines of his fringed jacket, his jeans splattered with zombie, the edge of the stove, his boots,
my own boot-toes. Eyes roving, snagging on the linoleum as I pursued the line of thought to its logical end, found it wanting—but
not wanting enough.

“If a better theory comes along, I’ll snag it,” I decided out loud. “Call this scene in, I’m going to check the back yard
and the houses on either side.”

“I’m coming with you.” His jaw jutted, stubbornly.

Oh, for Chrissake.
“Of course you are.
After
you call.”