Hunter's Prayer by Lilith Saintcrow Page B

would probably just confess and be forgiven and not lose any damn sleep over lying to me. And if Gui really was under orders not to say anything about an artifact hidden at the seminary, an artifact the Sorrows wanted for some unholy reason, things were getting stickier by the moment.
    “Fine.” Hutch said it like I had him by the balls—and not in a good way.
    “Thanks, Hutch. I’ll bring you a present.”
    “Keep me out of this.”
    I laughed, and he hung up. I laid the phone back in its cradle and stared at it, daring it to ring again.
    It remained obstinately mute.
    “Red-sauce penne with steak, and fresh asparagus.” Saul made his happy sound, a low hum like a purr. “Want some wine?”
    “Please.” I rubbed at the back of my neck under my heavy hair. “You’re a good partner, Saul.”
    His eyes met mine, he peered under the hanging cabinets. The copper-bottom pans glowed behind him. “Yeah?”
    I folded my arms. “Yeah. Avery wants to meet us at Micky’s. And then I’ve got some research to do.”
    “Research?”
    I know, I know. I don’t like it either. “Then we’ll come back, and I’m all yours.”
    “I like the sound of that. Make yourself useful and open the wine, kitten.”

10
    A very slumped in the booth, tapping his long fingers on the glass-topped table. Directly over him, Humphrey Bogart stared somberly out of a framed print. Curly brown hair fell in Ave’s face, over sad brown eyes; he looked like a handsome little mournful beagle. Despite that, he was quick and ruthless during exorcisms, seeming to come alive only when a particular Possessor or arkeus was giving him trouble, or the victim started to thrash. Of all the exorcists I knew, he was the one who came closest to being a hunter, if only because of the sheer nail-biting joy he took in skating the edge of danger.
    We are all adrenaline junkies, really. You have to be. Hunting is 95 percent boredom-laced waiting punctuated with the occasional bursts of sheer and total terror. No middle ground.
    Ave’s badge hung on a chain around his neck; he had shrugged out of his motorcycle jacket and was staring at his fingertips like he had bad news.
    I was really getting a rotten feeling about this.
    I slid into the booth, Saul right next to me. “Hey, baby.” I gave a smile, but Ave didn’t grin back. Not even a glimmer of his usual sleepy good humor. “Wow, looks grim.”
    Vixen swished her hips up to the table, her sleek brown hair clinging to her head like an otter’s. “Hey.” She plunked down three Fat Tires, her lip lifting as she glared at me, then smiled at Saul. He, as usual, looked supremely unconcerned.
    She sighed, turned on her heel, and her tartan skirt ticked back and forth as she switched away with a Were’s grace.
    “In heat again, I see,” Saul murmured, and I choked on my first sip of beer, the laugh bubbling up.
    Avery didn’t even crack a slight smile. I sighed. “So what’s up, Ave?”
    He finally shifted, picking up his beer and tipping a sarcastic salute to Saul. “Hey, furboy.”
    “Hey, skinman.” Saul’s tone was even, chill.
    “I heard something.” Avery addressed this to me.
    “Yeah?” I waited, rolling my next sip of beer around in my mouth. Stifled a small pleasant burp; it tasted of grilled onions. At least I had the memory of dinner to get me through this. Whatever this was.
    “One of my stoolies; he’s a drunk. But he picks stuff up—it’s amazing. He manages to get around. Anyway, he knows someone who saw something.” Avery produced a white square of paper, held between his fingers like a card trick. “And the worst thing is, I believe him.”
    “What did he see?” And what the fuck does this have to do with anything? I shifted uneasily, the leather of my pants rubbing uncomfortably against the vinyl seat.
    “Guy’s called Robbie the Juicer. He saw them dumping Baby Jewel last night. Black van, no license plate. Said there were four of them, one looked to be a woman, and two