My warehouse smelled like dust and there was nothing in the fridge except a takeout container of fuzzy green something that had once, I think, been chicken chow mein. I pushed the fridge door shut and leaned my forehead against its cool enamel for a moment, inhaling.

There was nothing I could do just now. When dusk hit I'd start canvassing the city. Anything that smelled that bad was leaving a trail, and that taint of hellbreed would give me a place to start. If any of Hell's citizens were developing a taste for cop, someone would know something, I had just the place to start, too.

You know what this means. You're going to have to visit him early.

I pushed the thought away. Hauled myself up and away from the fridge. Eating could wait. I opened up the cabinet over the dishwasher and got out the bottle, poured myself a stiff jigger of scotch, and downed it. Poured another, tipped it down my throat, and relished the brief sting.

It helped, a little.

Mikhail had left me the warehouse. Its walls creaked, each sound echoing and bouncing. Nothing could sneak up on me here, between the acoustics and the wide-open spaces. My bed was set out in the middle of its own room, well away from the walls. The sparring-space was clean, swept regularly. A long spear-shape under amber silk hummed on one wall, beside the other weapons, all racked neatly.

Mikhail's sword hung in its sheath, its clawed finials and long hilt with the open gap in the pommel reflecting golden light. The sheath glowed—worn, mellow leather—the sword drawing strength from the square of sunlight resting over it, metal vibrating with its subliminal song. The skylight above had turned fierce, an open eye letting down a blade of light.

I shuffled out of the kitchen, swiping halfheartedly at the piled dust on the counter with one hand. Across the living room and down the short hall into the bedroom, my feet making little shushing noises against hardwood. My coat hung tossed over the single chair, and my bed—two mattresses and a pile of messy blankets—beckoned.

Maybe just a short nap, so I'm fresh for tonight. The phone sat next to the bed, the answering machine blinking its deadly red eye.

I touched «Play» as I sank down on the bed, wriggling until knife-hilts didn't poke so badly, burying my face in the pillow.

"Jill? It's Galina. I have some more copper that might work for your wrist. Come by anytime."

Will do. My arms and legs were heavy. So heavy. Sunlight is a hunter's friend, it means rest and relaxation. Bad things generally don't come out during the day. They wait for cover of darkness to sneak around and cause trouble.

"Jill. It's Monty. I've buzzed you, something's up. Come by."

Already did, Monty. I'm on the job. I closed my eyes, breathing into my pillow. The smell of dust and my home gathered close and warm around me. I sighed.

"Kismet." A bland, blank voice. My breath caught. "It would profit you to visit me. Come tomorrow, after dark, and bring your whip." A soft gurgling laugh drew fingers of ice up my spine.

He said more, but I stopped listening, shivering as I burrowed into the bed, stopping my ears with the pillow. The sound of his voice faded.

Goddammit, Perry. Calling me wasn't part of the deal. But I was tired. So bloody tired. I decided to leave it for a few hours. I'd get worked up about it when I woke up.

I tipped over the edge into sleep, the answering machine saying something else to me in a low male tone. I didn't hear it, just slid under the edge of the world without a murmur as day walked the sky above.

Five months' worth of training ended up with me facedown on the floor again, aching all oven battered and bruised, sweat dripping from my split ends. The blonde dye had begun to work its way out of my hair, the constant workouts made me scrawnier than ever no matter how much he fed me, and my heart pounded so hard I thought I was going to pass out.

"Get up, milaya." Pitiless, the accent weighting his words. "Or I will hit you again."

He meant it, I already knew him enough to know that. I gasped in deep heaving breaths, my chest afire, staring at his bare hairy feet against the canvas. My arms were bars of leaden pain, my legs wet noodles. Still, when a man told you to do something, you did it.

Didn't you? Obedience wasn't optional, either in the place I'd been raised or during the years hooking for Val. It was a survival mechanism. One I cursed even as it stubbornly forced me to do what Mikhail told me, one more time.

Hate you, I thought, and buried the words as soon as they drifted across my consciousness. God would surely strike me down if I ever allowed myself to truly think it, wouldn't He?

He was a man, too.

I pushed myself up. My left arm trembled, shivers spilling through the muscle-meat, before it dumped me back facedown on the canvas-covered mat. I tried again. My arm refused to hold me, rebelling, so I pushed myself up with the other one.

"Get up." His cane clove air, a silken swish; I didn't flinch. I'd learned enough not to flinch, no matter what he did.

"How?" I wasn't being fresh—I honestly didn't know. When your body starts giving out on you, what do you do?

I was stupid, then. I didn't know it was the mind that rules the flesh. What you truly will, the body will do. But that's not the kind of truth you learn walking Lucado Street, you know.

CRACK.

Right across the lower back, gauging it perfectly, the thin bamboo cane would sting like hell and leave a bruise but not damage me. Unfortunately, my legs now refused to work, and I let out a dry barking sob. I wanted to do what he wanted. I needed to do what he told me to—this was my only chance, my only ticket out.

It was my road away from Lucado and my pimp's empty eyes as he slumped choking over a coffee table, a neat hole in his chest and blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, the clock ticking, ticking, ticking on the wall.

I didn't ever want to visit that room again. I would do anything I had to, to keep walking away, keep locking that door.

Mikhail said he would find me a job and a place, some therapy, something. But anywhere I went that room would be waiting. It was all I knew, and I'd be back on the street again sooner or later.

Probably sooner. I was a damned soul anyway. Who cared what I did?

Nobody. Nobody except the man in the long coat who had plucked me out of the snow as I lay bleeding, the.22 clutched in my scraped, bruised fist.

Mikhail didn't want to train me, he didn't need the trouble. But I wanted to do what he did.

I wanted to make him proud of me.

Mikhail sighed. "Get up, little snake. Don't crawl." Heavy, the words slid between my pounding ears. He sounded sad.

I tried again. Made it up to my knees. Red spots danced in front of my eyes, turned black. My feet hit the mat, I was upright without quite knowing how I'd gotten there. My left arm hung useless, the hand nervelessly clutching a knife, and he moved in on me again.

"Block."

I threw my arm up just in time. Swallowed a harsh bark of pain as the cane clipped my elbow. The knife skittered away across the mats, and my eyes flew to his face, my right hand coming up instinctively, just the way he'd shown me and made me practice. Exhaustion sang in my ears and blurred my eyes, he shifted his weight and I responded, my knees flexing as I dropped into a crouch, knife lifted along my right forearm and a grimace of effort peeling my lips back.

I was too slow and too late, and I waited for the bamboo cane to descend again, braced myself for the pain. Blinked, gasping again as my lungs informed me they weren't taking any more of this shit. My arms and legs seconded that emotion, with my heart pounding out its own agreement.