I bailed out in a blur, Saul right behind me, and I didn’t have to break my own door down. The entire warehouse was tolling like a bell in a windstorm, and there was a gaping hole where the front door used to be. Green smoke billowed out, thinning in the morning breeze, and there wasn’t a shadow to be found.

The fume was acrid, tasting of rotten pumpkins and stale cigar smoke. Down the short hall, bursting into the living room—couch overturned, floors awash with greasy knee-deep smoke—I flashed through, boots pounding, into the long, wood-floored sparring room.

The mirrors along one wall were all cracked, the ballet barre splintered, the weapons hanging on the walls scattered except for one long quivering shape under a fall of amber silk. Gilberto Rosario Gonzalez-Ayala was in a crouch, a Bowie knife flat against one forearm, feinting at a shape made of smoke and nightmare. He was bleeding—a scalp wound, I thought, since his face was covered with blood. His left arm hung, flopping queerly, at his side, but his face was alive.

His eyes damn near shone.

I’d never seen Gilberto light up before, and now wasn’t the time to pay attention. Still, the computer in my head took note. I hurled myself forward, heard Saul’s coughing roar right behind me as he changed, and hit the shape of green smoke with both physical and etheric force. The scar blazed under my skin, vibrating wetly, and my right fist pistoned forward, smashing into the lattice of evil intent.

A ringing sound hit the pitch just under “puncture-an-eardrum,” then broke in a cascade of splinters. Just like the smoke, which solidified into breaking crystal shards, raining for the floor. I hit the ground and whirled, boots grinding in the wreckage, and saw Saul, dodging the shambling fingers of a zombie. Four more crowded behind it, all with their jaws working, and just as his claws sheared the face off the one he was dancing with I lurched forward again, fingers unlimbering the whip.

“Six!” Gilberto yelled. “Seis! Six!”

What the hell? But then I realized he was telling me how many enemies we had loose inside the warehouse, or at least how many he’d seen.

Well, at least he’s got his wits about him. How long has he been in here with them? The whip cracked, silver flechettes thudding home in rotting flesh, and the smell exploded. Goddammit, and I was looking forward to getting clean, too.

It was short work putting the zombies down. These ones were old and fragile, porous bones and worm-eaten flesh. Five of them, and I was looking for the sixth when it blundered around the corner, arms outstretched like a bad B-movie villain, and snarled.

The whip hit, my fist arrived a few moments later, and I was struck by just how satisfying making a zombie’s head explode can be. If only all problems are as simple as setting your feet, uncoiling from your hip, and smashing a hellbreed-strong fist right through something’s head, then shaking the gobbets of flesh from your fingers.

But, of course, I have to spoil all that enjoyment by thinking about who the hell would send zombies into my fucking house. Just when I was looking forward to a shower and a little bit of rest.

I stood still for a moment, panting, head down. Saul’s growl petered out. He cocked his head, still in cougarform, tail lashing. Then the blurring enveloped him, his form running like clay under water, and when it receded he was there again. It’s an amazing thing to see, and the fact that I can see the strings under the surface of the real world responding with my smart eye, see the quivers of energy as thermodynamic laws are violated, doesn’t make it any less amazing.

The human mind can compass an awful lot, but it isn’t comfortable even when you’re used to it.

“Dios mio.” Gilberto coughed behind me. It was the first time I heard him sound anything other than bored. “Madre de Dios.”

Yeah, kid, calling on God is a good thing to do in a situation like this. I let out a long slow breath. “Jesus Christ. What the hell?”

Saul glanced at me, then turned on his heel and strode back to Gilberto. “What happened?”

“Doorbell rang.” The kid winced as Saul touched his left arm, but he didn’t let go of the knife. I recognized it—an antique Bowie, with a plain hilt and a blessing running under the metal’s surface.

It had belonged to the first Jack Karma, one of the hunters in my lineage. Why am I even surprised?

“His arm’s broken,” Saul said over his shoulder. “Jill?”

“Get it set and find out what happened. I’m going to sweep the house.”

“I don’t hear any more.” But he nodded, and crouched easily next to the kid. “This is going to hurt a bit.”

“Chingada, man, just get it over with.” Gilberto sounded very young. “There was a blond bitch at the door, but I think she left.”

Wait a second. “Blond?”

“Dreadlocks, bruja.” He was sweating as Saul probed his arm more. “Right down to her ass. Tall, too. Dressed like mi abuela, for fucksake. Flower muumuu and everything.”

“Greenstick. Humerus.” Saul looked up at him. “Brace yourself.”

“Ay de mi, just fucking—”

Saul made a swift motion, Gilberto spluttered and sucked in a breath. He turned the color of cottage cheese under his brown skin. It was amazing—he actually looked yellow. The acne scars stood out, like the cratered surface of the moon.

Tall. Blond dreadlocks. And I wonder if he’s talking about a blue caftan embroidered with orchids. “Hold that thought,” I said, and swept the rest of the warehouse.

Someone definitely had an agenda. They went straight to my bedroom, where the bed stood away from all four walls and three filing cabinets against one wall were busted open and ransacked. Paper fluttered, and I stood for a few moments staring.

What the hell?

There was nothing in those cabinets except bills and invoices for things like custom leather work, ammunition, artifacts bought—necessary for tax purposes.

Hey, even a hunter has to file. Death and taxes are immutable laws for us, too. I generally end up getting a refund, though. It’s the least Uncle Sam can do for me.

All the really revealing personal papers, like Mikhail’s birth certificate and mine, files on cases closed or unclosed, immunization records, school records, anything that might give an enemy a foothold or a piece of insight, were locked up in a concrete vault under Hutch’s bookstore. After Mikhail’s death and Melisande Belisa’s rifling of his personal papers, it seemed like a good idea, and I was never so glad as right now.

Sloane’s papers are there too—whatever survived the fire in ’38, that is. Huh.

I holstered the gun, coiled my whip. The warehouse was fracked-up but clean of zombies, and the shadows were only shadows. Someone had quickly but thoroughly torn through the filing cabinets. I strode out to the kitchen. Someone had opened all the cabinets and torn open the filing cabinet at the end of the breakfast bar. Police and federal contacts, files on protocols for requesting funding from different municipal, county, and state (not to mention federal) contacts—all pulled out and scattered. This was potentially more damaging, so I crouched and searched quickly through the papers, checked the drawers. Each file was labeled in either my spidery handwriting or Saul’s firmer copperplate script.

Nothing immediately appeared to be missing. A few files had been yanked out and scattered. That was it.

What the hell?

“Jill?” Saul appeared in the doorway to the living room.

“Someone went through my papers.” I rose, surveyed the kitchen. They hadn’t pulled the dishes out, but the fridge door was ajar. Jesus. Wonder what she was looking for? “How’s his arm?”