“Give him his last rites,” I said, very softly and distinctly. “If indulgence is required, Father, I’ll pay. But for God’s sake bury him kindly.”

I left it at that. And for once, so did he.

Saul drove. I wasn’t in the mood. We didn’t speak on the way home. As soon as I swept the warehouse and determined it was safe I headed for the phone. Which began to ring as soon as I got within three feet of it.

I hooked it up. “This better be good news.”

“Hello to you too.” Avery sounded serious, as usual. “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 sautéed 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 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.”

Chapter Ten

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.