Crap.

Avery was still yelling as I twisted in midair. The victim rose from the ruins of the bed, leather restraints squealing as his body strained against them, a sound like the wind rushing from the mouth of a subway tunnel thundering through the apartment and blowing out the windows in a tinkle of glass.

He was shouting, still in that lyrical tongue, and the curse flew past me as I twisted even further, my coat snapping taut like a flag in a stiff breeze. I touched down, pulling etheric energy recklessly through the scar, a pucker of hurtful acid wetness inside my right wrist humming with power. My foot flashed out, weight shifting back, and I caught him full in the face right before full extension, the precise point where a kick has the most juice. The jolt went all the way up my leg.

He went flying, Avery yelled something else shapeless, and I coiled myself, getting my feet under me. Now I was prepared.

The wall disintegrated as the victim hit it, and I had no time to think about the damage that might be done to the host body. I centered myself, drew myself up to my full height, and the charms in my hair rattled and buzzed.

“Papa Legba!” I had to shout to hear myself through the volume of noise the victim was producing, gabbling and screaming. “Papa Legba! Papa Legba close the door! Papa Legba close the door! PAPA LEGBA CLOSE THE DOOR!”

Silence fell, sharp as a knife. My blue eye—the left one, the smart one—watered. The ether swirled, the sensitized fabric of the room resounding like a plucked thread. Everything halted, droplets of crystallized water hanging in the air—Avery, chucking a bottle of holy water at the victim, whose mouth was open in a trapped, contorted scream.

Well, at least Ave was thinking. Holy water’s far from the worst ally in a situation like this.

The room filled with a colorless cigar-smoke fume. I tasted rum, thrown back hard against the palate, and spat, spraying the air. A silver nail ran through me from crown to soles, and I remembered Mikhail’s pale face after my first introduction to this type of magic.

Be careful it does not eat you alive, milaya, he’d said. These sorts of things do.

The victim toppled, a long slow fall to the greasy linoleum floor. Before he hit I was on him, my aura sparking in sudden swirling darkness despite the flood of sunlight rushing through the windows. The shape of the things inhabiting him rose like smoke—three small humanoid forms, weaving in and out of each other. There was a high chilling childish laugh, and a gabble of weirdly accented Spanish.

“Usted va a pesar de que, bruja.” For a moment I saw them—little boy and little girl, both with crystalline eyes and bowl-cut black hair, the girl in a shift and the boy in a brown loincloth. The shape between them was androgynous, melting first into the girl’s body, she mutated into the boy, and the third shape whisked them both back out of sight, receding down a long tunnel. The sound of a door closing, sharp and firm, echoed through shocked air.

I sagged. The victim was unconscious, his face slack and empty. “Ogoun,” I whispered. “Legba, Ogoun, thank you. Muchas gracias. Thank you very much.”

“What. The. Hell?” Avery didn’t finish the thought. He didn’t have to.

“It’s bad news.” I glanced at Saul, who hadn’t moved from the door. He leaned forward, though, tense and expectant, his dark eyes not leaving me. He was pale under his coloring, and I found out I was still smelling like rotting goop.

I couldn’t wait to get home and take a shower.

“I got that much.” Avery crouched gingerly. I let go of the victim, who slumped to the floor, breathing heavily. “That smelled like cigars. And… rum?”

“Put him in a holding tank downtown. Get me a file on him, too. I need two headshots.” I straightened. Every muscle in my body cried out in pain, then subsided into a dull howling. “Keep the door bolted. Watch him. If you have to, buzz me again.”

“Great. Okay.” Ave visibly restrained himself from asking me why, and I checked. I get so used to dealing with one thing after another that sometimes letting someone else in on the situation doesn’t occur to me. But Ave would do his job better if he knew what he was dealing with.

“You’ve never seen a loa before? An orisha?”

“Holy crap.” His eyes got really wide, and he eased back a few steps, as if it was catching. “That was a—”

“Not a normal one, no.” I cast a critical eye over the apartment. “Get going. He won’t stay knocked out forever, but you should be able to get him downtown. If he wakes up in the back of the car and gives you trouble, smack him in the face with holy water and keep repeating a Hail Mary or something.”

“I’m Protestant.”

For Christ’s sake, like that matters. “Then recite the Nicene. Or the goddamn Wheelwrights lineup, whatever works.” I straightened. “Go on. I’m going to look around.”

“What for?”

“For signs of what he’s mixed up in. You don’t just trip and fall and get a spirit in you, you know.” Even Possessors had to spend weeks of effort to worm their way into a human host.

“Ha ha. I suppose you’re not going to help me carry him?”

“Saul will.” I glanced over at my Were again. He nodded slightly, and his jaw was set. I couldn’t think why, until something warm and stinging dropped into my eyes. “Shit.” I touched my forehead, discovered a shallow slice. “I’m bleeding.” I actually sounded surprised.

Avery rolled his eyes. “Hanging around you is a never-ending adventure.”

It’s that way for me too. “Shut up and get this guy locked up before he does anything else.”

Bare fridge, bare cupboards—only a can of refried beans and a paper bag of Maseca, as well as a bottle of vinegar, for some reason. Threadbare clothes, two uniform shirts with the victim’s name embroidered on them. A pair of busted sneakers in the closet. It was like a monk’s cell.

I poked at the remnants of the cot. Was standing, staring at the twisted curlicues of metal and sharp sheared-off ends, when Saul reappeared, closing the door with a slight click. “Anything?”

“Nothing. If he’s a follower, he’s got it well hidden.”

“That wasn’t a Possessor.”

“Nope, it wasn’t. It was an orisha. Or a loa. Six of one, half a dozen of the other. Whatever branch of magic this guy’s into—”

“He didn’t smell like magic.” Saul paced forward, stopped at my shoulder, and looked down at the mess of the broken bed. “Why didn’t it cut the leather?”

“Leather was once living. And it has a greater elasticity when it comes to that kind of load. No, he didn’t smell like magic. And the Twins don’t usually take people without—”

“The Twins?”

“Yeah. You’ve heard of voodoo, right?” I glanced up. He looked blank. I tried again. “Santeria? Candomblé?”

“Santeria? A little. Popular down in the barrio.” A shadow of a grin eased the tension in his face. He hadn’t even had time to smear warpaint along his beautiful cheekbones, we’d been running so hard and fast. “I suppose now isn’t the time to admit I’m behind on my reading.”

This is why Weres run backup—they don’t have the breadth of knowledge a hunter does. They’re busy with their own spirits, their own particular sorceries. They rarely mess around with human magics.

Or human predators.

“Well, forget what you’ve seen in the movies. Voodoo is different. People don’t just make bargains with hellbreed—there’s a bunch of other inhuman intelligences out there. They make contact for all sorts of reasons. We have things spirits want, they have things we want, and everybody trades.”

“Got that. So, voodoo in particular? Santeria? Candomblé?” His pronunciation wasn’t off by much.

“Basically they interact with the same species of intelligence, but not the same groups. There’s some crossover, but they’re like different families. Spirits halfway between us and God, they say.” I had to choose what to tell him, boiling a complex subject down to a few sentences. “They’re not from Hell, and generally a practitioner is safe from being contaminated by a Possessor.” I frowned down at the shattered bed. “Though they’re not immune to physical harm from a hellbreed. Hell generally doesn’t mix with voodoo.” Now I was thinking out loud, good to do with him in the room.