"Lorelei." I slapped the file closed as his chewing stopped and his eyebrows went back up in surprise. "As soon as we finish here, we're heading for Galina's. I'll bet your ham and my entire plate she knows something about this, and she's had a chance to go through her diaries by now."

18.

Dawn came up in gray streaks, followed by rose and gold. Once the sun heaved itself up over the rim of the world, I let out a half-conscious sigh of relief. My pager stayed quiet, and-true to my guess-Galina had spent all night with not only her own diaries but the records of the Sanctuary before her. Huge leather-bound books, each cover stamped with the seal of the Order, stood in stacks on her butcher-block table.

She was covered in dust, her hair held back with a red kerchief, and as ill-tempered as I'd ever seen her. Which was still pretty damn polite.

"Lorelei's dead?" A line etched itself between her winged eyebrows. She swiped at a smudge on her cheek. "And zombies at Zamba's? Christ. Try saying that ten times in a row."

"Tell me about it. No, wait. Never mind. Tell me about the problem Sloane had with the Cirque." I folded my arms and leaned against the wall. Saul was fiddling with the kettle and her stove. Gray dawn filtered through the skylight and the big box window, touching his shorn hair and wide shoulders.

"I've been going back through the records." She spread her hands. "I was wrong. It wasn't Arthur Gregory. The trouble started with Sam."

"Rosehip tea?" The kettle started to chirp, and Saul looked over his shoulder.

"Oh, yes. Yes indeed." Galina dropped into a straight-backed wooden chair, swept the kerchief off. Her marcel waves were disarranged.

"Coming right up." Saul didn't ask if I wanted tea.

I stifled a burp. Now that I'd eaten, I was beginning to realize how tired I was.

No rest for the wicked, though. "Sam?" I prompted.

"Samuel Gregory. Arthur's younger brother. Arthur came to Sloane needing help-his brother had disappeared. The Cirque was in town, and Sloane suspected them, but he couldn't find the boy. Arthur kept following Sloane around, pestering him. He didn't get what he wanted, so he went elsewhere."

"Elsewhere?" It could mean just about anything.

"He apparently decided that since Sloane couldn't help him, he'd make a deal with someone who would."

Not too bright of him. But sometimes civilians make that sort of mistake. "Hellbreed?"

She shook her head. Her earrings-little peridots in marcasite-swung. "Voodoo. Or so I heard. Sloane suspected Lorelei. She wasn't Lorelei then, she was Abigail Figueroa. It was in the seventies that she switched over to-"

"Hold on." This may be connected, but how? I dropped down into a chair myself, my brain buzzing. "This Arthur. He had a hard-on for the Cirque?"

"I don't know. I do know Sloane suspected that was where Samuel disappeared to, and dug pretty hard to find him. Arthur disappeared, and Sloane went looking for him too. He came across some of the Cirque folk running a game on the side-something to do with child-slaves, I think, though he never said-and put them out of commission. He tried to find either of the Gregory boys, but neither of them ever showed up. He was still working that case, off and on, when the outbreak happened."

Yeah, that would put a dent in working a case or two. "So it never got wrapped up. And it's only vanishingly likely it's connected to what we have going on now. Was there any proof at all that this Arthur kid went to voodoo? Or did Sloane just suspect?"

Of course, a hunter's suspicion is sometimes good as gold. But you can't move without proof, or you turn into what you're hunting. It's just one of those things.

"The last place Arthur was seen was going into Lorelei's old shop. She used to be down near Plaskeny Square instead of on Greenlea; I can't believe I'd forgotten that. Anyway, Sloane had a witness who placed him there before he disappeared. There was something else. People who knew the boys turned up dead."

"Like who?"

"Their father, for one. A real winner-the kind who likes to use the strap. He ended up torn in pieces and scattered around his rooming house cot, blood all over the walls. Another man-he'd apparently been their mother's other pimp." She glanced at me, then swiftly back at the table. "It was a different world then, Jill."

I wondered what my face was saying. "Not so different. So the 'father' was a husband, and she had another pimp?" I knew that game, I'd seen it played before, up close. A woman desperate for any kind of attention, selling herself to and for the man who promised to protect her while she nursed bruises from the other man-and when the first one beat her again, she'd go back to the second. It was a vicious cycle.

"Bounced back and forth between them. Poor kids." Galina's eyes were dark and troubled. "There were others. A few police detectives-ones on the take, Sloane said-and a schoolkid who hung out with the Gregory boys, was apparently a bit of a bully."

"That's a high body count. They can't have been unrelated."

"Life was cheap back then, Jill. This was a mining town and a riverport. I remember when you didn't dare go outside at night if you were a respectable female. At least, not without a man and a gun." For a moment she looked much older, her mouth pulled down and her cheeks sucked in. "Anyway, the deaths were all the same. Torn into tiny pieces, lots of blood."

Life is still cheap around here, Galina. At least, if you're brown-skinned or poor. Gold leached in through the skylight, taking on the tenor of daylight.

I rolled my shoulders back in their sockets, trying to ease a persistent ache. "Huh. I wonder... I should still have some of Sloane's records. Can you write down the dates for me?"

"I can do that." She looked, in fact, relieved to be given a concrete task. I didn't blame her. Digging through old records can be deadly boring, and for a Sanctuary it was probably even more so. They drive their roots in deep and live a long time, but the things they trade for it... you don't make a bargain like that without wondering if it's worth it.

Or at least, that's what I think about every bargain. The world keeps asking you to peel bits of yourself away, just to keep breathing.

The kettle whistled, Saul flicked the stove off and poured. And as usual, he asked the right question. "So is someone settling scores?"

I stared at the leather-bound books. She must have been excavating all night. "Possible. But why try to kill the hostage? That won't damage the Cirque. It will remove the constraints that make them behave. And Helene..."

I hate that feeling-when you think you have a lead, and all you get is more questions.

"It was a long time ago," Galina said softly. "Long and long."

"Do we have any pictures of either of the Gregorys?" There wasn't much hope.

She sighed, a flicker of irritation crossing her round face. It wasn't with me-although heaven knows Galina usually has enough reason. "No, unfortunately. This is so frustrating. I feel like there's something I should be remembering." She stared at the books as Saul handed her a mug.

I blew out a long breath. "Well, it was almost a century ago, Galina. It's not like forgetting what you had for lunch yesterday."

"It kind of is, though. This is important. It's just on the tip of my brain. But I should have noted it, and I've been all through my official diary and the private one. It feels unfinished."

"Life is full of unfinished things." I glanced at Saul, who stretched his long legs out. This is all very historical and interesting, but it sounds like a dead end. There's nothing to tie an old case to what's going on now, unless it's Lorelei. And she had her fingers in so many nasty pies, it's not very likely she was just now killed for something that happened almost a hundred years ago. No, the connection's probably elsewhere. Which means I'm right back where I started-except I have a missing voodoo queen, zombies, dead hellbreed, and a situation that could get Very Messy Indeed. The exhaustion came back, circling like a shark.

Prioritize, Jill.

I took it out loud, so I could think it through better. "The attack on the hostage was voodoo. Perry's supposed to stay and make sure the hostage doesn't bite it. In any case, it'll be nightfall before someone can try again." One problem that doesn't have to be solved immediately. I stared at the leather-bound books heaped on the table, breathed in deeply. Galina blew across the top of her tea. "I've got voodoo practitioners dropping like flies, spirits in people who shouldn't have them-though if they're believers, it changes the equation a little-and one of them came down with a bad case of zombie. And Zamba's missing in action. She could quite possibly be needing protection, or she's part of this. Either of which is equally unprepossessing. I've got Forensics collecting evidence, and Sullivan and the Badger doing some digging."

It took me a couple more seconds to piece everything together.

"What's up next?" Saul, as usual, gave the right question.

"Going home and getting cleaned up," I decided. "Figuring out what to do about that kid. Then the next step."

"Which is? And what kid?" Galina took a gulp of her tea. Maybe she needed it to wash the taste of history and dust out of her mouth.

"The kid who's been following me around. And the next step is visiting some botanicas. Zamba wasn't the only game in town, just the biggest one." I pushed myself up to my feet and almost regretted it. Aches and pains twinged all over my body.

"An apprentice?" The Sanc looked at me like I'd just expressed a desire to take off my clothes and howl naked in the street. "When did this happen?"

"It hasn't happened yet." I pushed my chair in. The sunlight strengthened. It looked like another beautiful day. "Right now I just want him kept out of trouble."

"That's funny." Galina's tone suggested it wasn't funny at all. "That's just what Sloane said about Arthur Gregory. I remember that much, at least."

For once, I observed the speed limit. Saul turned the radio's volume knob and lit a Charvil, and dawn traffic was light. Santa Luz sometimes looks washed out, the sun bleaching buildings and dirt, the dust haze putting everything in soft focus. The greens are pale sage, the whites turn taupe and buff, and any dab of brightness gets covered with a thin film before long.

It's different in the barrio. Bright blocks of primary color are a little more cheerful in the daylight-but a little more carnivorous at night. Even well-tended lawns look anemic under the first assault of morning light. It isn't until the richness of twilight that things take on that mellow gold tinge, like waking up from a siesta with the world scrubbed clean and a little brighter.

It could just be me. But things seem tired in the morning. The day has risen, wearily, from the bowl of night. It's when I get to go home, because the nasty things mostly stick to darkness to do their dirtiness.

They don't call it the nightside for nothing.

And this morning seemed a little darker than usual. The windows were down and the radio was off, early coolness rising from the river and a promise of scorching later, but I thought I heard something else under the purring engine and the rushing air. The scar had been uncovered almost all night, and the sensory acuity was beginning to seem normal. The noise resolved itself into notes from a steam-driven calliope in the distance.

A bright, cheery tune. That "Camptown Races" thing again, but with a darker edge. And the shadows were wrong this morning. Just by a millimeter or two, but they were at strange angles, and darker than the usual knife-sharp morning shadows. Gleams flickered through them-pairs of colorless gleams, low and slinking.

It wasn't precisely against the rules for the Cirque's dogs to be out running-but it was strange.

Stranger than someone with a grudge against both voodoo practitioners and hellbreed? Or stranger than Zamba disappearing and her entire household laid waste?

Stranger than Perry doing exactly what I tell him to?

The more I thought about it, the more my brain just went in circles. Even intuition wasn't any help; it just flailed and threw up its hands. I was too tired, and getting dull-witted. Fatigue is a risk during cases like this.

"Goddammit," I sighed, and Saul exhaled a long tobacco-scented sigh as well.

"Jill." He sounded serious.

"Huh?" The thing that troubles me most, I decided, is not finding Zamba's body. That slippery little bitch wouldn't have let anyone kill her closest followers. That was her power base, the ones that ran herd on all the others.

Always assuming someone else had killed them.

"We need to talk."

Oh, Christ. Not now. "What's up?"

Seconds ticked by. I braked to a stop on Chesko. We'd turn and go up Lluvia Avenue. The engine hummed to itself, a familiar song.

The light turned green. Saul still said nothing. "What is it?" I prompted again, touching the accelerator. We moved smoothly forward, and no, it wasn't my imagination. The colorless eyes in the shadows were following us.

Great.

"I love you." He tossed the half-smoked Charvil away. It somersaulted in the slipstream and was gone. I checked the rearview. Just wonderful. Jesus. "You know that, right?"

"I do." That's not the problem. The problem is that you can't stand to touch me now. And there's a bigger problem right now, too. It has to do with those eyes in the shadows. The ones watching us right now.

Why now? Nighttime was their time.

There was another long pause, like he was waiting for me to say something. I kept checking the mirrors. Is this trouble? Why would they wait for daylight?

"Are you-" He tapped another Charvil up out of the pack. Held it in his long expressive fingers. I checked to make sure his seat belt was on. Of course it was. I pressed the accelerator a little harder. "Are you listening to me?"

"Of course I am." The needle climbed, slowly but surely. The shadows were thickening, and I got a very bad feeling. "You said you love me. I said I know. You asked-"

"Jill. There's something..." He twitched, looked out the window. "Is something following us?"

"Hang on." My fingers caressed the gearshift. "Half a second."

"Goddammit. There's never a minute alone with you."

"You're alone with me right now." The shadows were growing blacker, their crystalline eyes reflecting daylight stripped of all its warmth.

I mashed the accelerator. Tires chirped, and the Pontiac leapt forward obediently.

We roared down Lluvia, the shadows keeping pace. They circled as we bounced over the railroad tracks and down a long sun-drenched stretch of road. Here the sun hit a wall of warehouses dead-on to my left, and there wasn't a shadow to be found-except the shadow of the Pontiac, running next to us with its own loping stride. The tires made low sounds of disapproval, I skidded into a turn and jagged right on Sarvedo Street, working the turn like threading a needle in one motion. Saul grabbed at the dash, breaking his Charvil and giving me a single reproachful look.

My warehouse was about ten blocks down, and even from here my smart eye could see the layers of protection on my walls waking in bursts of blue etheric flame.

Oh, holy shit. There's a civilian in there. I sent him in myself.

I jammed the accelerator to the floor and prayed I wasn't too late.

19.

I bailed out in a blur, Saul right behind me, and I didn't have to break my own door down. The entire warehouse was tolling like a bell in a windstorm, and there was a gaping hole where the front door used to be. Green smoke billowed out, thinning in the morning breeze, and there wasn't a shadow to be found.

The fume was acrid, tasting of rotten pumpkins and stale cigar smoke. Down the short hall, bursting into the living room-couch overturned, floors awash with greasy knee-deep smoke-I flashed through, boots pounding, into the long, wood-floored sparring room.

The mirrors along one wall were all cracked, the ballet barre splintered, the weapons hanging on the walls scattered except for one long quivering shape under a fall of amber silk. Gilberto Rosario Gonzalez-Ayala was in a crouch, a Bowie knife flat against one forearm, feinting at a shape made of smoke and nightmare. He was bleeding-a scalp wound, I thought, since his face was covered with blood. His left arm hung, flopping queerly, at his side, but his face was alive.

His eyes damn near shone.

I'd never seen Gilberto light up before, and now wasn't the time to pay attention. Still, the computer in my head took note. I hurled myself forward, heard Saul's coughing roar right behind me as he changed, and hit the shape of green smoke with both physical and etheric force. The scar blazed under my skin, vibrating wetly, and my right fist pistoned forward, smashing into the lattice of evil intent.

A ringing sound hit the pitch just under "puncture-an-eardrum," then broke in a cascade of splinters. Just like the smoke, which solidified into breaking crystal shards, raining for the floor. I hit the ground and whirled, boots grinding in the wreckage, and saw Saul, dodging the shambling fingers of a zombie. Four more crowded behind it, all with their jaws working, and just as his claws sheared the face off the one he was dancing with I lurched forward again, fingers unlimbering the whip.