Theron just looked confused, a blush sliding along his high-arched cheekbones. His dark hair fell across his forehead, curls and waves damp with sweat. It looked like Micky’s had seen a heavy night; he was just cleaning up before dawn.

The liquor laws in Santa Luz kind of don’t apply to the nonhumans. Hellbreed and Trader bars go the same way, only they rollick far harder than any place the Weres run.

In both senses of the word. Harder, dirtier, and far, far fouler.

“What’s wrong?” I mouthed, wishing my eyebrows would go up higher and that my face could communicate the complexity of the question I wanted to ask.

Theron spread his hands helplessly, spun on the balls of his feet, and set off for the hall running alongside the kitchen. It actually looked like he was retreating.

What the hell is going on here? The washcloths—they were bar towels, soaked and smelling of bleach and fresh laundry—dripped in my hands, rapidly cooling. Nobody was likely to give an answer. I heard one of the cooks in the depths of the kitchen off to my right swear, and the hiss of something hitting the grill.

Yeah, sometimes when you go into Micky’s around dawn, you get what the cooks think you should eat instead of anything on the menu. It’s always good, and you should never look a Were’s gift in the mouth, so to speak.

I shook my head, silver clicking in my hair, and headed for the girls’ room. I’d probably feel better about all this once I was a little cleaner.

Then again, I thought, clutching the washrags, maybe I won’t.

Saul slid the file across the table at me and tucked into his fried-eggs-and-ham. I took a long pull off a bottle of microbrew Theron had slung on the table and eyed the steak-and-eggs combo, hash browns cremated the way I like them, extra bacon, and toast slathered with butter. It probably had enough calories in it to keep me fueled through a long night of chasing evil. I wondered if it would fuel my brain enough for me to figure out the pattern behind the murders.

Once I started eating, I realized how hungry I was. This led to a good quarter-hour spent in silence, just the clinking of forks on plates and an occasional slurp. I finished my beer and another arrived. So did more toast. Amalia simply plunked down a fresh plate of it and raised an eyebrow—about the closest she’d get to telling me I’d better eat it all.

Weres. It’s only one of the ways they show they care.

I cut a strip of steak, sliced it up, and was grateful it wasn’t rare. Now that the first edge of hunger was past I could slow down and enjoy the taste. There had to have been at least five eggs on the plate.

Fighting off the undead and Hell’s citizens all night does work up a girl’s appetite. Sorcery can only do so much, and I wasn’t as young as I used to be. I used to be able to go for days without eating, running from one thing to the next, writing checks my body cashed without complaining too much.

Not anymore.

Go figure.

I finally looked up from my plate to find Saul chewing slowly, watching me. His eyes were dark and fathomless.

I swallowed a mouthful of steak, glad Micky’s was empty. My skin twitched under the sensory overload from the unveiled scar, every noise and photon amped up exponentially. “Hi,” I said finally. “Good to see you.”

A small smile lifted the corner of his chiseled mouth. “Hi, kitten. Nice to see you, too.”

Is it? Or are you just saying that? “This is looking like a huge problem.”

“Isn’t it always.” But his tone was reflective and amused, faintly sarcastic. “You think it’s connected?” One lifted eyebrow could have meant that he agreed, or that he wanted to give me a chance to get my thoughts in order.

I ticked them off on my fingers. “Those bugs. Each with a red spot. The green smoke. Voodoo practitioners dead, zombies everywhere, possessed people that shouldn’t be, one of them ending up as a zombie, and Zamba missing. The Cirque’s hostage attacked, and another Cirque performer dead. Both Zamba and Lorelei had something cooking on their stoves…”

“If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, quacks like a duck—”

“—it’s certainly not a zebra,” I finished. “So, they’re more than likely connected, all these things. I just don’t know how yet.” I forked up another load of eggs. “What possible connection could the Cirque have with any voodoo practitioner?”

“I don’t know.”

I took another long swallow of beer. It went down nice and easy. Wrestling zombies gives you a powerful thirst. “Voodoo and hellbreed don’t tangle. It’s just one of those things.”

“They must mix sometimes,” he pointed out practically.

I shook my head. Silver shifted and chimed, and some of my curls were stiff with gunk. “The loa are jealous, and hellspawn don’t like anything interfering with their games either.”

“What about…”

I watched him, fork paused in midair, but he merely shrugged.

“No,” he finally amended. “I got nothing.”

“And then there’s this.” I yanked the plastic-shrouded straight razor out of my pocket, laid it on the table. Next out was the enamel cup.

Put together, they looked shoddy. The straight razor crouched in its swaddling, and the cup’s chipped sides reflected fluorescent light.

“A razor? And a cup.” He set his fork down. “Huh.”

“Yeah. My instincts are all tingling, but I don’t know what they’re saying.”

“Tingling instincts?” He might have looked bland and interested, except for the wicked twinkle in his eyes. “I hear they have creams for that.”

A chuckle caught me off-guard. “They’re not burning. Just tingling. Anyway, and then there’s zombies. It takes work and effort to create one with voodoo. Now all of a sudden they’re crawling around everywhere—and the Twins are taking an active interest in everything.”

It was a huge pileup of events. The more I sat back and considered, the more it seemed like one thing.

“What?” Saul speared a piece of fried ham. “You look like you just thought of something.”

“I did.” I applied myself to clearing my plate, but I also hooked the file a little closer and flipped it open. There might not be anything in it, but it was best to check.

“Well?” He didn’t quite fidget, but he did shift on his side of the table, his long legs stretched out until his boot-toe touched my calf.

“Nothing solid yet, catkin. Let me think.” I scanned the file, flipping past Xeroxed pages and paperwork filled in with Avery’s neat scrawl. Lucky boy, our first victim, Mr. Ricardo. A green card and everything. Avery, bless his little heart, had even pulled the application for me. I’d bet anything Juan Rujillo, our local FBI contact, had facilitated that little search as a favor. Dear old Juan, a joy to work with. Not like the last Feeb we had.

Hmm. That’s interesting.

Ricardo even had a sponsor. The little click of a puzzle piece sliding home sounded in the middle of my head, and I took a long draft of beer. “Hey, Saul. Guess what? Ricardo had a green card.”

“Mmmh.” He had a full mouth. He was busy slathering even more green Tabasco on the remainder of his ham. “Mmmmh?”

“Guess who his sponsor was.”

“Mrph?” He jabbed at his plate and shrugged.

“Lorelei.” I slapped the file closed as his chewing stopped and his eyebrows went back up in surprise. “As soon as we finish here, we’re heading for Galina’s. I’ll bet your ham and my entire plate she knows something about this, and she’s had a chance to go through her diaries by now.”