Chicks Kick Butt

Twisting, spinning, my smoke-tainted hair flying, a fierce joy filled me. For a moment I could pretend they were all still alive.

I landed, rolling, on the gravel drive. Leapt again, soundless, and caught the edge of the porch roof. Pulled, a silent gasp of effort turning my face into a rictus, and spinning weightless … before landing soft as a cat’s whispering paw on the main roof, kneeling, arms held out to my sides in an approximation of one of Zhen’s movements. It is not enough to begin well and do well, he would say. You must also finish properly.

“I will,” I answered softly, and rose. Listened, head cocked.

Five pulses. No, six. Each human heartbeat is unique, echoing through muscle and bone, the differences like clarion calls to a Kin’s ear. They were familiar, distinctive. I had heard them galloping along inside the van as it tried to shake me free. One was directly below me. Young, and suddenly speeding up.

The Sensitive. Sensitive to me, perhaps. Or to any denizen of the twilight. Was that how they had found my charges?

I leapt for the edge of the roof, turning in midair and catching the gutter. It ripped free, but not before it provided me with another angle, and my filthy boots smashed the window. The rest of me followed, straight and slim as a spear, and the youth was stumbling for the door, screaming in a girl’s high terrified voice. I was on him in a moment, smelling the agony of fear as he lost control of bladder and bowels, right before my hand splintered ribs and I pulled the still-beating heart free. My hand closed convulsively, and the tough muscle splattered. Tiny droplets of flung blood dewed my face.

The body dropped. I cocked my head.

Two of the other five pulses scattered through the house quickened. A faint electronic buzz touched the edges of my hearing. Their security system, of course.

Good.

This was a monk’s bedroom, with only a narrow cot and a cross on the wall, lit only by moonlight streaming through the broken window. I pushed the door open with my toe, stepping over the still-twitching body, and smiled.

I do enjoy hunting.

* * *

Their method of driving a stake through the heart was a modified crossbow. The disadvantage of a crossbow is that it takes a certain time to reload, and it flings a heavy object like a wooden stake far too slowly for a forewarned Kin. By the time the second stake had bisected the air where I was standing a moment ago, I was on the first shooter. Cupping his face like a lover, smelling his terror and the stink of petrol, giving the quick sharp yank that broke the neck like a dry stick. My foot flashed out, catching the one next to him in the ribs and flinging him across the room before he could bring his guns around to catch me.

Then it was a leap aside, another bolt singing through space I’d just vacated, and I collided with another shooter. He was screaming as I hit him, and blood flew from his mouth as kinetic force transferred. He hit the wall hard, slid down in a boneless lump.

I turned on my heel. Two left. One stank of petrol—the last of the Burners. The other held the crossbow, staring at me slack-mouthed, and he smelled of dominance under a bald edge of roaring fear. The lieutenant.

Both were stocky, short-haired, and well trained. But they were only human. I bared my teeth as the lieutenant raised the crossbow again, and their fear was sweet tonic to me. It was not enough—my charges had suffered more.

Which one should I keep to tell me where their captain was?

I took a single step forward, still smiling, my fangs aching with delight and my jaw crackling as the Thirst sang in my veins. I would need to hunt again before this night was out, the use of speed and strength taking their toll even on one so old.

The Burner dropped his guns and bolted. I leapt for him, and the world exploded with a roar.

The lykanthe leapt on the lieutenant, his teeth sinking into flesh as the man let out a high rabbitscream. It was too late to pull back, I collided with the Burner, my nose full of the reek of death, pain, and fuel. Bones snapped. He was dead before he hit the floor.

I spun. Wolf growled again, hunched over the body hanging in his jaws.

“Drop him!” I commanded, sharply.

He shook the limp form, fur standing up, alive and vital. He had lost his jacket, and his fluid form rippled with muscle. Bits of drywall and slivers of wood clung to his pelt. He looked a hairbreadth away from tearing flesh free of the body and swallowing it, and if he did that …

I know enough of lykanthe to know the taboo. Thou shalt not eat human flesh . I did not know quite what would happen, but I was certain I did not wish to find out here.

“Drop him,” I said again, softly but with great force. “Wolf. Drop him. Now.”

His eyes were mad silver coins. He stared at me, chest vibrating with the growl, and if he attacked me I would have to kill him. It is no large thing to kill mortals, but another of the twilight? A blood-crazed lykanthe ?

That is altogether different.

His jaws separated. The body thumped down, and his growl faded.

I put my wet, bloodslick hands on my hips. “If he is dead, I will not catch their captain as easily. Did I not tell you to stay?”

He merely watched me. Narrow graceful head, the snout lifted a little, blood marking his scarred muzzle. His clawed front paws tensed and relaxed, as a cat will knead a pillow or its owner’s thigh.

There was no pulse echoing from his victim’s body.

I sighed, though the tension did not leave me. And I waited. The air still reverberated with their screaming, blood and death and terror.

The fur receded gradually until he stood there bare-chested, his jeans painted with spatters of blood, and shook drywall dust out of his shaggy hair. He hunched his shoulders, as if he expected a reprimand.

It would do no good. To chastise the uncomprehending is cruelty.

It took effort to speak softly. “Come. We shall search this place, and then we shall burn it.”

His head dipped in an approximation of a nod. “S-s-sorry.” He could not even force his mouth to shape the simple word correctly.

A great pointless rage flashed through me and away. “It is of little account, young one. Come. Help me.”

* * *

There was a bank of computers, the monitors glowing. Crates of ammunition, stacks of those odd canisters of petrol. The additive was in gelatin form, a large box full of premeasured packets of the stuff set carefully away from the tanks of fuel. There was a filing cabinet as well, and I opened both drawers, reading swiftly and collating information as Wolf touched the glowing screens with his blood-wet fingertips, fascinated.

More of them? I memorized dates and locations, a sick suspicion growing under my heart. Humans have hunted us before, piecemeal and never very successfully. They usually focus on Prometheans.

But this group hunted Preservers. Or their helpless charges. Not utterly helpless, but there is no reason for a ward to learn combat or hunting. It is the Preserver’s function to learn those things, so the ward may focus on his or her art, whatever that art is.

Somehow, incredibly, these humans found Preserver houses in cities. Was it the Sensitives? I would have sensed human surveillance; I have moved my charges many times, when notice or war seems likely. Still, what could—

I opened another file, this one red and marked CLASSIFIED . Gasped, shock blurring through me.

Pictures. Of my house. Of Amelie in the garden, her heart-shaped face turned up as she studied the oleander tree. A blurred shot of Zhen through the windows of his dance studio, arms out and face set in a habitual half-smile. Virginia at the piano, her head down and her long dark braids tied carelessly back. Peter, standing on the front step with his mouth half open, caught in the act of laughing, probably at one of Amelie’s artless sallies. No picture of me—of course, I was more careful, out of habit. But there was something else.