The Church holds it as a point of doctrine that animals don’t have souls. I know better. I’ve seen better. It’s only one place where we differ, the Holy Mother Church and I.

There are plenty of others.

Oh, God. The basement was clear. I headed back up the stairs. Saul met me on the landing. “No more of them. Some bodies in the bedrooms, though.”

In a minute. I nodded. Half-turned. Gilberto was still crouching on the porch, the wreck of the shattered door creaking as I stepped on it. He looked up at me, and before the walls behind his eyes could go up I caught a glimpse of what he must have looked like before whatever had made him into what he was.

The first time I’d met this kid, I’d known he was a killer. Strength, size, and speed are all useless without the willingness to do serious harm; someone smaller with the ruthlessness to hurt can take on a giant and come away a limping winner. The dead-eyed gangbanger had that willingness in spades. We recognize each other, those of us who have come out the other side of decency and settled for survival.

And sometimes, something just gets left out of people, and they don’t see anything wrong with killing. That’s one of the tests of taking on an apprentice—finding out if they’re willing to hurt someone if they have to, or if they’re just sociopaths.

You have to be sure. A hunter is a deadly thing, and that deadliness has to be disciplined. Otherwise you’re no better than the things you put down. You’re worse than a Trader, even.

“I told you to go home.” I didn’t have to work to sound unwelcoming. “Did you not hear me? I said go home, and leave the night alone.”

“What was those?” He rose slowly, the gun dangling in his right hand. “Right out of a fucking horror movie, eh, bruja? And him, he’s el gato. Lobo hombre, gato hombre.” He was breathing so fast his narrow ribs flickered. That smell was on him—desperation, wanting so hard the teeth ache as if under a bad load of sugar.

“You’re not listening.” I glanced at Saul. “He was already here?”

“Yup.” Saul’s eyes glowed orange for a moment. He stood easily on the stairs, his back to the entire upper portion of the house, and I suddenly wanted to check every single room and cupboard.

It was ridiculous. He said he’d checked, and I trusted him to tell me when part of a scene was cleared. That was the whole idea behind having a partner, wasn’t it?

I trusted his judgment, didn’t I?

Of course I did. I swallowed hard, prioritized. “And you came out here because…”

“Galina called. She got no answer when she dialed Zamba. Figured you might run into some trouble.” One corner of his mouth curled up. “Besides, I like seeing you.”

My own lips stretched into a grudging smile. How did he do that, make me feel good with five little words? “Flatterer.”

“Hey, whatever works.” In this light he didn’t look nearly as tired. And no doubt about it, he’d pretty much saved my bacon. I would’ve survived, but still. “Where’s Zamba?”

“Don’t know. Any blondes in the wreckage?”

“Not that I saw, but the bodies are a little… well, you’ll see.”

I looked back out onto the porch. Gilberto was following our exchange. He wasn’t pale or in shock. He was just as he’d always been—sallow and dirty-looking. His eyes were a bit wide, but that was all. He seemed to be handling this well.

It could’ve been an act. Gangs are big on face, and he probably had a lot of practice in not looking scared. But usually, when someone encounters the nightside for the first time, there’s more trouble. Screaming, fainting, puking, rage—I’ve seen it all. The initial reaction doesn’t mean much. It’s how people deal with having the rationality of the world whopped away from under them over the long term that matters. After a brush with the nightside some retreat into rigid logic, a bulwark against something their upbringing tells them shouldn’t exist. Others get increasingly loud and nervous, ending up wearing tinfoil hats and screeching about conspiracy aliens.

Some of them get really, really quiet, go home, and eat a bullet or some pills. It all depends.

On the other hand, in the barrio they know about Weres. Enough not to mess with them, at least.

Gilberto just looked at me, his chin coming up a little. Stubbornness made him look mulish, especially when he hunched his thin shoulders and peered out under strings of hair. What’s it gonna be, that look asked. What you gonna do with me? Because I ain’t going home.

I stared at him, trying to make a decision. It’s not like snap decisions aren’t a part of the job—some days, it’s nothing but, and you have to make the right one in under a hundredth of a second. But this wasn’t a decision that would or could be made without a lot of thought.

Then again, the students come along whether a teacher is ready or not. The world was just full of on-the-other-hand answers today. “You got a car, Gil?”

He shrugged. Even the shrug was right—equal parts stray-cat insouciance and hesitation.

“All right. Here’s the first thing: don’t steal any fucking cars. From now on you don’t break or even bend the law. Go back to my house. There’s a key under one of the empty flowerpots stacked on the east side. Go inside and don’t touch anything, unless you’re getting yourself a snack. We’ll talk when I get home, and I don’t know when that will be. You got me?”

He nodded. The hunted look didn’t go away, but at least he straightened a little.

“I mean it,” I persisted. “Don’t steal a car. Don’t break the speed limit. If you have a gun, clean or not, ditch it before you step in my door. You come in clean, or I won’t have anything to do with you.”

“I’m not stupid.” The sullenness returned.

“Prove it by being clean when you step in my door. Stay inside, don’t leave until I talk to you. Go on, now.”

He shrugged. His slim brown fingers loosened, and he dropped the.22. It made a heavy sound when it hit the porch, and I winced internally. He’s going to be a live one.

I watched him go down the sobbing, squeaking steps. He headed across the street and vanished into the darkness. I hoped he made it, and I hoped he listened to me.

Then I shelved that hope, scooped up his.22, and got back to the problem at hand.

This was not looking good at all.

“What just happened?” Saul still stood on the stairs, watching. Bits of zombie glop still clung to him, dripping off the fringe of his jacket. It was going to be a job and a half cleaning the suede up. Thank God he believes in Scotchgarding everything. It doesn’t do much good with the rags my clothes end up as, but it works wonders for his.

“I don’t know yet.” I might have an apprentice, that’s all. We’ll see. “Best to keep him out of the way until I do.” I checked the pistol, made sure the safety was on, and wondered if it was one I’d seen him use before.

The thought of that case was uncomfortable, to say the least. And Saul still hadn’t asked any questions about it. And there was a grave up on Mount Hope, with a good cop sleeping under a green blanket. The people responsible had been mostly cleaned up—but not all of them.

Prioritize, Jill. Get back up on the horse. “When did Galina call?”

“Just as I got in the door. I came out here. Was wondering what the hell the kid was doing here when I heard the fight.” He shrugged, stuck his hands in his pockets. “Any idea what’s going on yet?”

“Not much. Other than these cases are connected somehow. And if Zamba’s not a body here, she might be involved.”

“Great.” He sounded as thrilled as I felt about that. “What does she look like again?” As if he wouldn’t remember her, but he was being sure. Checking. It was a partner’s responsibility to check.

“Blond dreadlocks. Tall. Bad legs, but a good smile.” I tried a smile on my own face, but it felt like plastic. This was going south fast. “Show me the bodies. Let’s get this wrapped.”