It was official. My entire corpse was in rebellion.

"Very good."

For a moment my brain struggled with the words. I thought he'd spoken in Russian, it was so unexpected. Sunlight poured through the room, dusk coming on but the last half-hour of direct light working its way in through skylights, dust dancing in each golden column. Sweat dripped stinging into my eyes. I stared up at his beaky nose, the brackets around his thin-lipped mouth, Mikhail's pale hair turning to layers of ice.

"Very good, milaya. Come."

He bent down to take the knife from me, and I was so far gone I almost didn't let him have it, shifting my weight back, bicep and triceps tensing involuntarily, preparing for the slash.

My teacher froze. Wariness crossed his blue eyes, and the world stopped.

"I—" I'm sorry, I began to say. The magic words. Sometimes they would stave off a beating if I said them quickly enough. If I was placatory enough, pliant enough.

"Very good." A broad smile turned up the corners of his thin mouth and made him almost handsome, even if he was too old. "I think, there is more to the little snake than meets the eye, eh? Now hand me knife, milaya, and we shall find arnica for bruises. I think we go out for dinner tonight."

I stared blankly at him for a long moment. Did he mean it, or was he going to punish me?

He made a quick movement with his blunt, callused fingers. He never hit me unless we were sparring, and he always tended the cuts and bruises gently. So far he hadn't laid a hand on me except to correct me when I was holding a weapon, or to point out some flaw in my movements.

Or, of course, to beat my ass in sparring. But he was capable of more, wasn't he? He was really able to put the hurt on someone, you could tell by the way he moved.

He was playing nice with me. For now, the hard cold survivor whispered in the back of my head. I tried to ignore her. She wasn't a good girl.

I reversed the knife. Already the movement felt natural instead of awkward. Offered him the hilt, watching, waiting.

He took it, and the blade vanished into a sheath. He stretched, muscle moving under his red T-shirt, and held out his hand.

"Are you deaf? Come, your teacher is hungry. Hard work, training little snakes."

My fingers closed on his, and Mikhail hauled me to my feet, then clapped me on the shoulder. I almost went down again, my legs weak as a newborn coifs.

"Go clean up. We go out for dinner." The kindness in the words was almost as foreign as his accent. "Good work, little snake. You are worth keeping, I think."

It was the first time anyone had ever thought so, and my heart swelled four big sizes. I made it about three steps before I passed out from the strain.

I spent two days in bed recovering, and when I got up again, my training started in earnest.

Night rose from the alleys and bars, spreading its cloak from the east and swirling in every corner. No matter how tired I am, dusk always wakes me up like six shots of espresso and a bullet whizzing past. It's a hunter thing, I suppose. If we aren't night owls when we begin, training and hunting make us so before long.

I surfaced from the velvet blankness between dreams, slowly. All was as it should be, the warehouse creaking and sighing as the wind came up from the river like it does every sunset, smelling of chemical-laden water and heat. My eyes drifted open, finding a familiar patch of blank wall. A knife-hilt dug into my ribs, hard. I blinked.

Then I rolled out of bed, catching myself on toes and palms, and did the pushups. Just like every time I woke up. Press against the wooden floor, bare toes cold, shoulders burning. Up. Up. Up.

Like a wooden plank. Nice and straight. Mikhail's voice again, so familiar I barely noticed it.

When I finished the second set, it was time for the sit-ups. Then I padded, yawning and scratching, out into the practice room. Mikhail's sword glittered in one last random reflection, dying sunlight jetting through a skylight to touch the hole in the hilt. The glitter was gone as soon as it happened, I hung the harness that held my knives and guns up on its peg. Yawned one more time, the silver charms in my hair shifting, as I settled, my feet hip-width apart, and found my center.

The fighting art of hunters is a hodgepodge. Name any martial art, and we've kiped a move or two. Savate, kung fu, plenty of judo—we do a lot of wrestling on the floor, actually—escrima, karate, good old streetlight fisticuffs—which is mostly common sense and retraining the flinches out of you than anything else—t'ai chi… really, the list is endless and a hunter is always picking new things up. There's even a style of fighting Weres train their young with, relying on quickness and evasion, that Mikhail thought was good for me. It's like a dance, and several hunters take ballet for flexibility and balance. Every hunter accumulates a set of favorite moves that work well, but you always have to revisit even the ones you don't like.

You never know what will save your ass.

After a half-hour of katas, I grabbed a pair of knives from the rack on the wall and really went to work. Knife fighting is close and dirty, and it's my forte. I'm smaller than the average hunter, and even before the scar on my wrist I had quicker reflexes than most.

Women usually do.

Mikhail had to train nastiness into me, though, and the ruthless willingness to hurt. Without it, even the quickest reflexes won't save you.

Mikhail.

Get up. My knives clove the air, whistling, spinning around my fingers, elbow-strikes, smashing the face with the knee. Get up, milaya. Or I will hit you again. Get up!

My own helpless sobs echoed in my ears, from years and miles away. My body moved easily now, gracefully, forms as strict as a dance become muscle memory, instinctive now. That wasn't always the case. I had been gawky and helpless when he'd found me, a teenage girl more used to streetwalking than lunge-kicks. The first year of my training had been hell in more ways than one.

Step, kick, turn, take out the knee, upward slash, break the neck with a quick twist, stamp and turn. The blades gleamed in the dimness as the last light of day leached out of the skylights. Metal sang as I flung both knives, the solid tchuk as they met the scarred block of wood set across the practice room reassuring. "Not so bad," I whispered, and then it was time for the heavy bag.

I started out easy, double and triple punches, working myself into a rhythm. I have to be careful; if you've got a hellbreed-strong fist, you have to hold back even when your heavy bag is reinforced. Elbow strike, knee, the rapid tattoo mixing with exhaled breath at the end of each blow.

Sweat dripped stinging into my eyes. Not because of the effort, but because I'd been dreaming again. Memory rose like a riptide, swallowing me whole.

Snow. Shivering, the cold nipping at fingers and toes, exposed knobs of my knees raw and aching. Taste of iron and slick tears at the back of my throat. The place where he'd hit me throbbed, a swallowing brand of fire, and the gun was heavy in my hand.

I'd done it. I had committed murder, and I'd taken Val's gun. Still, the thing I worried about most was the money. The thought that he'd cut me, hurt me, maybe mark my face if he found me now, wasn't eased in the slightest by the fact that I'd shot the motherfucker.

The clock was still ticking inside my head. Tick tock, tick tock.

A white Oldsmobile eased by, its windows down even in the blinding cold, and a beer bottle smashed on the pavement. They yelled, and my dry eyes barely blinked. The gun was on my right side, hidden by my thin cotton dress.