Hunter's Prayer by Lilith Saintcrow Page A

“Jill, there’s a problem.”
    Oh, Christ. Not another one. “The Trader I just brought in?”
    A short, unamused laugh drifted through the phone line. Avery was a professional exorcist, not a hunter like me. It was his job to exorcise the Traders I brought in, just like it was Eva, Benito, and Wallace’s job to handle other straight exorcisms in my city and refer the extraordinary ones to me. “No, he was an easy rip-and-stuff. Screamed like a damned soul, though. He’s on meds. No, the problem’s different. I wanted to talk to you about it.”
    I considered this. “Micky’s? At—” I glanced at the clock, juggled his probable freedom from work. “Eleven?”
    He agreed immediately. “Sounds good, I’ll buy you a beer. Um …”
    “Um, what?” I glanced over my shoulder as Saul began rummaging in the kitchen. He was probably hungry; I was too. The light shone mellow off his long red-black hair, silver glinting against the strands; his cheeks looked a little pale without the paint. He glanced up, probably feeling my eyes, and gave me a half-smile that made my legs feel decidedly mushy.
    “Will Saul be there?”
    What? “Of course he will. He’s my partner.” And a damn fine one, too.
    “I just … well, yeah. Bring him. Sorry. Look, eleven o’clock. See you then.”
    I hung up feeling even more unsettled, and that was rare. Avery didn’t have anything against Weres.
    Not that I knew of, anyway. Nothing out of the ordinary.
    I dialed Andy’s number from memory and got his answering machine, left a message. The heavenly odor of sauteed onions tiptoed to my nose, and that meant steak. Bless Weres and their domesticity.
    I stared at the phone after laying it back in the charger, my eyebrows drawing together. Then I picked it up again, and dialed another number from memory.
    “Hutchinson’s Books, Used and Rare.” This was a slightly nasal, wheezing voice; I had to bite back a laugh.
    “Hutch, it’s Jill.”
    He actually spluttered. “Oh good Christ, what now? ”
    “Relax, baby. I just need to use the back room. Want to do some research for me?”
    “I’d rather gouge my own eyes out.” He was serious. Wise man.
    “That makes you much more intelligent than a number of people I know. Listen, scour for everything you can find about the Sorrows. Brush up your ceremonial Chaldean and find me every mention of something called a chutsharak. ”
    “Zuphtarak?” He mangled the word. I could almost hear his teeth chattering. Cute, nervous Hutch was not cut out for hunter’s work, but he was hell on wheels when it came to digging through dusty old tomes; which Hutchinson’s Books held as a hunter’s library in return for a number of very nice tax breaks that kept it afloat.
    Hey, hunters believe in supporting local indie bookstores.
    “Chutsharak.” I spelled it for him. “But the ch is sometimes j, and sometimes—”
    “—those goddamn seventeenth-century translations, I know. All right. Fine. You still have your key?”
    “Of course I still have my key.” I am exceedingly unlikely to lose it, Hutch. And anyway, I built those fucking locks. They’ll open for me anytime I want. “I won’t come by while you’re in. Leave your notes in the usual place.”
    “Thank fucking God.”
    I snorted. “I thought you liked me, Hutch.”
    He gave an unsteady little laugh. I could almost see his hazel eyes behind his glasses and his thin biceps. “You’re hot, yeah. But you’re scary. I’ll work on it. Chutsharak. Chaldean. Got it.”
    “One more thing.”
    “Oh, Christ.”
    “Can you look up Saint Anthony’s spear?”
    “Saint Anthony didn’t have a—”
    “I didn’t think so either. But check it. And check to see if there’s any connection between Anthony and Marcus Silvacus. Just to be sure.” I rubbed at the bridge of my nose, feeling a headache beginning. Just my luck. But why would Rourke lie to me? Of course, I wasn’t Catholic anymore, I wasn’t a priest, and I was female; he