There's a definite proportion of this job that is just plain theater. The little bitches don't take you seriously unless you act the part. I used to think Mikhail enjoyed the acting, but then I figured out he was really a fan of getting the job done in the shortest amount of time so he could move on to the next. It just goes more efficiently with the right proportion of fuck-you posturing.

The gun swept the front of their ranks again. Saul had stopped growling, but he still quivered with readiness. The Ringmaster straightened slowly, shook himself like a cat shedding water. Half his face was peppered with threads of damage. The black spikes of hair covering his head were plastered down, and thin foul-smelling ichor splashed free of his quick little movements. Little threads of white smoke curled up when the droplets hit the dust.

Silence stretched. Even the calliope was silent, the entire glass bowl of the Cirque holding its breath. If this went on much longer I'd probably have to actually kill someone to keep the peace.

My only trouble was figuring out where to start.

The Ringmaster hobbled forward. "Our hostage still lives," he rasped, and I tried not to feel relieved.

Watch him, Jill. He's a tricky little bastard. I hopped down, avoiding the broken steps. "Of course he does. He ends up dead and I have to kill every motherfucking last one of you. What the fuck are you up to out here?" And where's Perry?

"I do not," the Ringmaster husked, slowly, "answer to you."

I made a small beeping noise. The gun settled on him, my pulse cooling immediately. "Wrong answer, hellspawn. This is my town, you do answer to me. I am not having my city fucked up because you guys brought bad business with you."

"You blame this on us?" He actually bristled.

Yes, bristled, his hair standing up in ichor-stiffened spikes, his skin turning mottled and pinpricks of the shape underneath poking out through the skin. Each hole I'd blown in his shell ran with diseased orange foxfire.

An elegantly manicured hand closed around his shoulder and squeezed, grinding. Perry pushed the Ringmaster down, the thin 'breed's knees folding until they hit the dirt.

"Of course she blames you," he said conversationally, his eyes glowing gasflame-blue, a deep indigo inkstain threading through the whites. "I must confess I am halfway to blaming you myself, brother."

The assembled 'breed and Traders drew away in a single coordinated movement. Perry twisted his wrist slightly, and ground his fingers in. It was a slight movement, and didn't look like much unless you know how horribly, hurtfully strong hellbreed are. A meaty popping sound-like bones crunching in a side of beef-cut through the breezy silence, and I heard another short cry from somewhere in the Cirque's depths. It was either a peacock's scream, someone dying, or a woman in full-throated orgasm.

Take your pick. The show must go on, I guess.

"Let me be exquisitely clear," Perry continued. Another one of those meaty sounds, and the Ringmaster turned the cheesy-pale shade of a mushroom in a wet cellar. I'd shot him in that shoulder, and I was suddenly sure Perry was grinding the silverjacket bullet-or whatever was left of it after it mushroomed in hellbreed flesh-in deeper. "Our hunter will follow this attack to its source. If that source connects with you in any way, if this is a bid for domination or spoliation of my territory, I will be exceedingly displeased. Do you understand me, carrion?" His tongue flickered out as he grinned, the cherry-wet redness of it gleaming. A low buzzing, like chrome flies in chlorinated bottles, filled the space behind and between each word. The popping of vanishing cockroach shells finally petered out.

The scar had turned to a hot pucker of acid. I swallowed, kept the gun steady. Saul's shoulders were rigidly straight, and I suddenly wished I was in front of him. He was between me and a whole fuckload of 'breed and Traders, and some of them were eyeing him instead of watching Perry and their boss.

Just be cool, Jill. No need to sweat anything. I eased forward two steps, my coat whispering as warm redolent air caressed it.

"Understood." Great pearls of watery ichor beaded up on the Ringmaster's narrow face. He wasn't nearly as pretty now. The prickling hadn't gone away either. The thing that lived under his mask of humanity snarled and cringed.

"That's very good." Perry's gaze flicked across me. The urge to freeze warred with iron training; training, as always, won out. I took another single step, the scar twisting and burrowing, my pulse ratcheting up before I could force it back down. "Kiss?"

Don't call me that, goddammit. God, I wanted to say that to him just once and wipe that smirk off his face. But if I did, it would be blood in the water. Who could guess what he would come up with if he knew something so simple bugged the shit out of me?

It took an effort of will to lower the gun. "Something was definitely attacking the hostage."

"So I gathered." He simply stood there, as if he wasn't holding a cringing hellbreed like a mama cat will hold an offending, writhing kitten. "Who is the offender, avenging one?"

"Don't know yet." I paused, weighing the next sentence. "I'm fairly sure it wasn't 'breed, though."

It had the intended effect. Everyone, including Saul-and he had to twist halfway around in his lean easy crouch-stared at me.

All eyes on you, Jill.

"You are certain of this?" Perry didn't drop the Ringmaster, but his eyes narrowed slightly. His fingers still held the other 'breed immobilized, but some of the hurtful tension drained out of him.

"Fairly certain. Last time I checked, hellspawn don't use voodoo. Any reason why someone on the side of the loa would have a hard-on for a Cirque de Charnu hostage?"

If the silence before was glassy, the silence that followed was molasses-thick. It was broken only by the soundless buzz of my pager in its padded pocket. Bright eyes sparked in the gloom, the hellbreeds' with varying red and orange tones, an occasional yellow speckle; and the Traders' with their flat dusty shine.

Nobody said a fucking word. The trailer behind me rocked a little on its springs, and a faint groan slid from its depths. Ikaros was probably feeling a little better.

Saving a Trader's life was a novelty, and not one I liked.

"Someone had better start explaining things to me." I took perverse joy in using the same tone a teacher would with a class of young imbeciles.

Perry's fingers tightened again. The Ringmaster's pale face contorted, but he didn't make a sound. If this kept up we were going to have yet another Bad Situation.

"Ease up on him, Pericles." I dug for my pager, every nerve alert. It would take very little to turn this entire mob into a melee, especially with the way most of them were now shifting their attention, ever so slowly, toward Perry. And while I didn't particularly mind the thought of them tearing him apart in little quivering pieces, I minded the thought of dealing with the Cirque and a scramble for power among the hellbreed who jostled in Perry's long deep shadow. "He's got the most to lose if the hostage bites it."

The number on the pager was familiar, and my intuition tingled. Huh.

"Voodoo?" Perry pronounced the word like he didn't know what it meant. Saul rose as soon as I took another step forward, gravel shifting under his booted feet. His was the only warmth in this place that didn't make me feel like slime was trickling over my skin.

"Yeah, voodoo. As in, the loa taking an interest in this, or someone who has enough credit with them to make a Trader uncomfortable. Nobody wants to tell me why anyone would have a grudge against the Cirque?" I don't think I could have sounded any more sarcastic. "Or why there were roaches crawling all over your sorcerously-being-strangled hostage not five minutes ago? Or something about this murder I'm supposed to be looking into?"

The bitter, rancid grumbling of Helletong rose. It cut short when I swept my gaze over them and tapped at a gun butt with one bitten-down fingernail. "English," I said softly. "Good old-fashioned American English. None of this tong shit."

I couldn't even feel good about glaring a bunch of 'breed into silence.

Perry finally bestirred himself to speak. "One of the performers has been murdered." He let go of the Ringmaster, who crumpled and caught himself on hands and knees, ichor splashing and his cane making a soft chiming sound that sliced the stillness. "We shall examine the evidence."

Well, la-di-da. Of course we shall, Pericles. But I didn't want to give him control of the situation just now. "Wait a second. First things first. Who died, who found the body, and who had the last contact with the victim?"

It was amazing to watch them move like quicksilver, exploding away from one tall male Trader who hunched, his eyes grown round and desperate. He wore a straw hat and suspenders, and looked vaguely familiar in the way all blond, dark-eyed men with ferret faces do. You know the type-the narrow-eyed, unreliably handsome, and just waiting to slip a thin knife between your ribs and twist.

Yeah. That kind. Especially in a frayed, worn linen button-down and a pair of gray pinstripe trousers that wouldn't have looked out of place on an Edwardian dandy. The flat shine of Trader on his irises looked weird for a moment, like two silver pennies.

Perry beat me to the punch. He sounded kind and avuncular, and the only thing more terrifying was the way everyone in the crowd shivered and pulled back further. "And just who are you?"

The Trader snatched at his hat, his silken thatch of hair damp with sweat. I suspected he'd look vaguely pretty in daylight, but here in the dim shifting light the pointed jaw became strong and his wide cheekbones merely masculine instead of pugnacious.

Then he opened his mouth. "T-T-T-Tr-"

He stammered.

I frankly stared. What kind of joke was this? Hellbreed don't usually Trade with someone so flawed, and Traders usually bargain for beauty as well as weird body mods. This guy must have something else to recommend him-smarts, or viciousness.

"Dear heavens." Perry made a mocking little moue, his lips twisting. "Were you a joke?"

"N-n-nosir. J-j-just a k-k-carny. I'm T-T-Tr-Troy. I w-was H-Helene's t-t-t-t-"

He kept going with the t's, his face contorting. Perry tapped one elegant wingtip, his shark's grin widening.

"Talker," the unfortunate Trader finally spit out. "H-Helene's t-talker."

This is going to take a while. I glanced at the number on my pager again, suppressed a sigh. Stuffed it back in my pocket. "Helene? 'Breed or Trader?"

"'Breed," Perry answered. "You would have enjoyed it, Kiss."

Enjoyed what? I didn't ask. "I do not have all night. You were the last person to see the victim?"

He simply nodded. Thank God.

"All right." I dropped the hand resting on my gun butt with an effort. Saul was still and quiet behind me. "Show me."

"What do you want done with him?" Perry gestured at the Ringmaster, who shivered again, more foul-smelling ichor splattering. "He will survive this night, if you let him. Unless the hostage is attacked again."

What a lovely thought, Perry. Thanks. "Leave him alone." I weighed the words, felt the need to add more. "I've just gotten used to his ugly face. I'd hate to have someone new to deal with."

9.

The 'breed named Helene had died in a gaudy tent painted with screaming-red broken-open pomegranates and big stalks of green vegetable. After a few moments I identified the green stuff as leeks, and weird creeping laughter crawled up my throat, was strangled, and died away. "So what was this Helene's act?"

"Fruit seller?" Saul piped up, and a great scalding wave of relief went through me. He sounded okay.

Perry, a respectful distance away, actually sniggered. It was the sound of a popular kid in high school tittering in the back of the room. "Hermaphrodite."

Suddenly the leeks and pomegranates made sense. "A hermaphrodite hellbreed?"

His bland blond face split in a wide grin. "Hell has its freaks too. Here is where they prove their worth."

Which was another lovely thought.

Troy pushed aside the spangled curtain over the door-opening. "In h-here."

"A stuttering barker?" I had to know. "How did you-"

He half-turned, his dusted eyes glittering sharply. "Step right up!" His face contorted, and a thin thread of cold slid down my back. Instead of a piping stammer, what came out was a rich, seductive baritone. "See the half-man, half-woman, all loveliness! Step right up, ladies and gentlemen!"

I folded my arms. "That's what you Traded for?"

He shrugged. "H-Helene t-taught me. L-l-like s-s-s-singing. Sh-sh-she was n-n-n-n-"

Oh, my God, is he about to say "nice"? Now I've heard everything.

"Spare me your love song," Perry cut in. "What happened?"

For once I agreed with him, but I might've liked to hear more.

"It was a s-slow n-night." The Trader spoke very slowly, trying to enunciate each word clearly. "I w-was b-barking, b-but there were n-n-no t-t-takers. I w-was d-d-doing my b-best. F-first n-night's always s-s-slow-"

"Get. To the. Point." Perry tapped his foot again.

"Shut up and let him talk, Pericles." This is going to take even longer if you keep making him nervous.

"But of course, my dear. Anything for you." The indigo still hadn't left his whites, veining through like cracks in glazed porcelain. His suit fluttered slightly at the edges, white linen mouthed by the warm damp breeze redolent with the smell of fried grease.

"She s-s-sc-screamed." The Trader was pale as milk, his unreliable face twisting as he tried to get the words out. "I th-thought a r-r-r-rube was g-g-getting n-nasty. B-but they d-d-don't usually. S-s-s-so I w-w-went in." He shuddered, the movement rippling through his skinny frame. Beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. "Th-th-there were b-b-bugs."

Bugs? "Flies? Or mosquitoes?"

Hey, you can't ever trust them to tell the truth.

"R-r-roaches." Another shudder. His red suspenders actually creaked. "All over. W-with r-red spots." He ducked into the tent and I followed, Saul behind me as close as my shadow. I had a moment's worth of worry-Perry was right behind my Were.

Jesus. This is getting ridiculous.

It certainly was.

The smell hit me between one step and the next. They rot fast when they go, just like Traders. There was a wide greasy stain on the small strip of planking serving as a stage. The rest of the place was scattered with pillows and rugs, a bargain-basement impression of a harem helped along by the rusted glass-and-iron hookahs scattered around. Each pipe was at least four feet high, scalloped and decorated to within an inch of its life. Frayed tassels hung everywhere, and behind the stage hung a tapestry of trees and rivers that shifted, its stitches running over each other with a faint sound of needles against fabric.

"It looks like a whorehouse," Saul muttered, and I heartily agreed.

"Have you been in one lately, cat?" Perry inquired sweetly.

"Perry?" I checked the circuit of the tent, examined the stage's raw lumber. Three red satin cushions were covered in thin black gunk dried to a crust.

"Yes, my dear?" Silky-smooth, but he didn't look at me.

"Shut the fuck up." I inhaled deeply, wished I hadn't. Under the reek of sex, tobacco, and marijuana lay the rusted-copper tang of blood and a breath of... what was that?

Cigar smoke. Candy. And rum. It was very faint, fading even as I inhaled deeply again, trying to catch another whiff. Now that's interesting.

"I was only asking." Perry eased into the tent, his lip curling. "Such petty games played here."

"As opposed to the ones played out at the Monde?" It was my turn to inquire sweetly. "If you're not going to be helpful, you can wait outside."

His tongue flickered over white teeth, a flash of wet cherry-red. "I can be singularly helpful, for your sake."

Oh, I'll just bet. "Good. You're going to stay here and keep an eye on the hostage. I've got other business tonight."

"I might have business too."

The scar turned hot, and a spill of poisonous delight threaded up my arm. "Too bad. Now that you've seen the crime scene, you can run along."