Another Long Night

Part 1: Saving the Wolf

I always warned people not to look in my trunk. Said it would only bring up questions they didn't want the answers for. But of course it was the cute girl I'd picked up on the side of the road, all battered and bandaged, trying to be all helpful and "find the spare".

"Um... Why...?"

I slammed the trunk down, hiding my gear (or "serial killer kit" as Rox liked to call it) away from much-too-curious eyes. The girl glanced at the empty stretch of dark highway, focusing on the pair of headlights peeking up over the hill, doing loads of mental calculations that were 1) completely too optimistic and 2) entirely unnecessary.

"You're trying to decide if you should risk running out in front of that car, see if it'll stop in time. Or run up next to it so I won't try anything because there're witnesses."

That sure didn't help the situation. The girl was panicking, an inch away from hyperventilating on the side of the road. Well, shit. I never was any good at calming people down. Maybe explaining could help?

"Look, it's not what it looks like. I'm a hunter, this is for hunting."

Explaining never helped. This girl was too smart for that. You didn't need wooden stakes or a big tub of salt or so much rope to hunt. At least, not the way most people hunted out here. Nor did a hunter need that many knives. Or books with pentagrams and all manner of other occult symbology on their covers. The girl took another quivering breath and stepped back, shooting another look over her shoulder.

"I'm not a serial killer, if that's what you're thinking."

Oh, great one! Bring up the obvious, put it at the forefront of her mind!

"I think..." the girl said, trying her best to cover up her accent. "I think I can catch a ride from someone else." She gave a nervous chuckle and jerked a thumb back at the road. "Like them! They look nice enough!"

"Bad idea." She winced as I reached into my pocket, but I just pulled out the keys. "I happen to recognize that car, and I wouldn't hitchhike around these parts anyway. Unless you like being strung up in trees with the bloody cross cut in you."

She didn't understand what the bloody cross was, of course she didn't. She was just some girl, some foreigner, who got in way over her head and barely avoided getting mauled in the woods before I found her. It wasn't her fault.

But I found her. And now she was my responsibility. I sighed, realizing the girl, "Katya" as she had said (fake name, obviously), had no intention of coming with me. I looked at the car, ran the math in my head (the correct math) and opened the trunk again.

"You'd best get back in the car," I said, pulling out a shotgun and slotting custom salt shells in one by one. Luckily, the girl squealed and scurried back to the passenger seat. I racked the slide, kicked the trunk shut, and took a wide stance at the back of my car.

Another long night.

The brakes squealed and the headlights flickered as the car rolled to a stop, tires crunching on the gravel of the shoulder. The paint had been bright red at some point, but time and neglect had faded it to the color of old blood and oxidation covered it with orange patches of rust.

I looked over my shoulder to make sure the girl was still in the car. She shivered in the front seat, staring conspicuously at me through the rearview mirror.  

The red car door opened, and black, greasy smoke spilled out onto the asphalt. It stank of weeks old cigarettes and those awful flavored cigars; the exceedingly unfortunate smell of grape ripped its way along the wind.

The smoke coalesced in the vaguest humanoid form, this part always reminded me of cloud watching. Oh, look, an arm, a leg, a battered old fedora that had seen better days. And before you knew it, there stood a white guy as greasy as the smoke that birthed him, a lit cigarette between two fingers.

"Evenin'," he drawled, before taking a drag. His voice rattled wet and rough like pneumonia.

"And what the hell do you think you're doing here?" I snapped, making sure he saw the shotgun in my hands. "This is way out of your territory."

"Just checking on some business out of town. Can't a man have prospects anymore?"

"Do those prospects include a beaten and bloody woman sans one so-called boyfriend?" The boyfriend part had been an obvious lie, I'd clocked that from the beginning. But Katya couldn't lie about the blood-soaked bandage around her upper arm. Even if she had lied to me about the source.

"Oh? Taking in strays again?"

"These are salt, you know." I tapped the barrel of my gun, nails going click click on ugly gray metal.

"Oooh. Scary. I sure hope you wouldn't stoop to antagonizing the Family unwarranted."

"Whether you deserve it or not depends on why you're following me."

"Can a man not help a woman in need?"

"I'm as far as you can get from that, and we both know it."

He stared at me with twin embers that passed for eyes, smoke curling from the end of his cigarette. And then he grinned, and burned through the whole thing in one drag. One nicotine-stained pocket offered up a replacement, and he held one out.

"I think we got off on the wrong foot here, Callie."

I warded off his offer, would've crossed myself too if I was that kind of woman. "I don't want your shit."

"Whatever." A snap of his fingers produced a tiny flame dancing on a fingertip, and he lit his cigarette. "I really was just passing through, you know. Have business back in the city. Maybe I'll see you there?"

"Fat chance," I muttered, lowering my gun. "Tell the Family to go fuck themselves."

A yellow grin. "Why, that would be quite incestuous, don't you think?" He powered through the cigarette, crushed the butt beneath a sleek leather shoe, and, with a tip of his hat, collapsed into smoke. It rolled backwards like reversed film footage, sucked back into the car by some unseen force. The engine rumbled to life, and the car ambled on.

"Well, that was entirely more pleasant than I was expecting," I said, spinning on one heel to head back to the car. Now all I had to do was change this tire and I could make "Katya" not my problem as soon as possible.

Except the passenger side door hung open, and the car was empty. My groan of frustration met nothing but empty air. My calls for Katya met nothing but silence. I opened the trunk once again, and allowed myself one last long-suffering sigh before getting to work.

Stab-proof vest was the first to go, always. It was covered with iron-on patches of every warding sigil I could think of, and then some I just made up. Fingerless gloves with armor in the knuckles. Thigh holster. I considered the ammo can as I snapped open the cylinder of my revolver. Silver? Blood? Salt? What would it be today? Best be careful, anything could be lurking in these woods. So on went the ammo belt, and a few practiced motions left it studded with a variety of bullets. My leather jacket on top of all that, because fuck this weather, and then my go-bag of all the essentials (toilet paper chief among them).

My lucky hat went last, of course. If there was any magic left in the battered Mariners baseball hat, it most likely needed some respect and ritual to maintain it. At least, that's what I told myself to excuse my neuroticism.

A younger Callie would have needed to crack open one of the old, dusty books I'd bought from various used bookstores scattered across the state. But I'd memorized the important shit, so all I did instead was collect the ingredients with one hand while I sheathed my fixed-blade knife with the other.

Keeping all this shit in my trunk wasted valuable minutes when it was go-time, but I found driving around armed to the teeth made cops uncomfortable when they inevitably pulled me over for going 20 over. So, in the name of discretion and safety, into the trunk it went.

But really, I was just stalling. I hated this part. I crushed the herbs in my emergency mortar and pestle (never leave home without it) and prepared a small bowl of aluminum foil. A touch of sacred oil, and I must have looked like an absolute crackhead. All hunched over on the side of the road, lighter burning underneath a piece of foil, inhaling the fumes of my chemical cocktail of choice. But it wasn't just the fumes that made it work, there was also the little prayer that went with it, one I was consistently too embarrassed to admit I practiced. But it worked most of the time, and this time seemed to be one of those, because as I stood up and fought off the initial wave of nausea, the scent-pictures hit me.

Harsh, hot blood. Katya's. Pungent earth, rotting leaves. Splintered cedar wood, freshly ripped from some unsuspecting house. Cold gunmetal, warmed by the hollow shells of hands. Old grain, long since rotted away, atop a slab of granite older than the trees themselves. East.

The rest of my senses faded back in. Chill air nipping at my cheeks, sour in my mouth, ringing in my ears. I looked down in the trunk and hefted a large leatherbound book onto the bumper. It hadn't always been what it was now, at some point the pages had real words on them, not scattered bits of paper taped over top of them or Polaroids glued in. But nothing was ever the same once I was done with it, and the table of contents leered up at me from a ragged sheet of notebook paper.

I pressed a fingernail into one of the headings, and jerked my hand away as the pages began to turn. The flap of paper, and the book flipped open to a road map I'd glued in. Multicolored highlighter marked segments of the map, usually in large circles. Sometimes the circles intersected, other times the border was a dashed line with question marks sketched in with pencil. Some bits had been carefully blotted out with whiteout and new marks penciled in on top. It was well-used, hardly loved, and ever useful.

Judging from my notes, none of the lycan clans had staked a claim to the territory east of the highway. West of it, sure, especially around the lake and surrounding campgrounds a few miles back. But I hadn't marked anything east. Not a single vampire clan or witch coven or anything. Which could only mean something worse kept them at bay.

I stuffed the book back in the trunk, slammed it closed, and slung the shotgun over my shoulder.

Another long night.

Dead and dying leaves crunched under my boots, like I was walking on eggshells or bones or something. Normally, I liked the sound, but out here, it just put me on edge. What had possessed the girl to run? I told her I wasn't a serial killer, that should've been enough, right? But here I was, traipsing through the woods, not a single trail in sight. I pulled my headlamp out of my bag and put it on, but it brought little comfort. Now the shadows were deeper, the night darker. I couldn't see beyond the cone of light in front of me, and my peripheral vision was useless like this. But still, better than tripping over a root and breaking an ankle. No one knew where I was, where I'd been, where I was going. It was better that way.

But it also left me alone at times like this. Luckily, the tracks I followed through the woods assured me I was anything but. Among the multiple sets of footprints, only one matched Katya's fancy hiking boots. The others were people of differing size; or at least, I assumed they were people. It was always hard to tell these days. You see a dog wearing shoes one time and end up doubting yourself every time you look at boot prints from then on.

And it was getting hard to track the girl. The prints got all scrambled up, the undergrowth was snapped in random directions. Signs of a struggle, a scrap of torn cloth. I paused in front of a tiny stream struggling through its rocky channel to catch my breath and shift the shotgun to my other shoulder.

Lucky for me (but not for her), the girl screamed. I took off at a jog, weaving between trees while trying not to let thorny vines and exposed tree roots trip me up. Sounds of moving water grew louder, and I found myself on the bank of a narrow river. A rickety wooden building squatted on the edge of the river, an old water wheel suspended well over the waterline. A bridge of dubious condition arched over the water, and a bonfire burned just outside the mill. A pair of dark figures crossed the bridge, and, silhouetted against the flame, I could see Katya between them, feet dragging in the dirt. She was screaming, but the figures just ignored her.

Now, the smart thing to do was ambush them from the darkness, use my cover and surprise to my advantage. But my shotgun was loaded with salt shells, and I didn't trust my aim with my revolver at this distance. So, instead of making do with what I had, I chose the absolute worst option.

"Hey dipshits!" I screamed across the river. "I don't think she's yours!"

I'm not sure what I expected to happen, but they did drop Katya. I breathed a sigh of relief and moved toward the bridge, at least until one of them slung a rifle into their hands and raised it to their shoulder.

"Fuck!" The shot hit a rock next to me, sending sparks up into the dark night air. I stumbled and scrambled back to the treeline, taking shelter behind a sizable boulder while two more shots pinged around me. Well this wasn't good, I was on the wrong side of the river and they still had Katya.

I counted to ten, flipped the safety off the shotgun, and then swung around the side of the boulder. The rifleman had been waiting for that, but I pulled the trigger just a bit faster. Light flashed from the muzzle of my gun, and something bright white exploded on the rock near the rifleman's feet. Not a direct hit, but the salt pellet exploded, sending mineral shrapnel flying up into the rifleman's face. They let out a cry of pain and fumbled with their gun. I took the opportunity to eject the spent shell, catch it, and move up to the bridge.

The second figure dragged Katya across the flat splash of land in front of the mill and kicked the door open, but I couldn't focus on them right now. I crouched behind the bridge as a shot flew wide over my head. There was the sound of a bolt sliding back, and I drew my revolver and stood in the same motion, shotgun hanging by the strap in my left hand. I didn't even think, I just aimed and pulled the trigger.

The rifleman crumpled unceremoniously, a hole in their forehead leaking dark blood onto the grass. I refused to think about it too much, I hurried the rest of the way across the bridge and headed toward the mill, where Katya's screams continued from within.

I must have been off my game or something, I didn't enter the building the way I normally would. The thick length of lumber would have caved my skull in, but instead it caught the brim of my hat and slid right off. It still knocked me to the floor, but at least my head was still intact. I couldn't see, all I could do was draw my knife and slash wildly while I searched for my revolver with my other hand.

A cry of pain rewarded my efforts, and a spatter of warm blood decorated my right hand. I stumbled to my feet and braced myself against the door frame as my attacker came at me again. A splash of flannel, a blur of hunter orange, and the woosh of way too much wood coming at me way too fast. I threw myself aside and let the timber smash against the door frame. My attacker dropped the splintered remains of his weapon and dove for the floor.

But I got there faster. My fingers wrapped around the grip of my revolver just as a heavy boot slammed down on them. I screamed and thrust my knife forward, once again finding flesh. The boot moved, and I dropped my knife to transfer the gun to my other hand.

"Stop!"

Crack.

The man fell to my feet, arms and legs twitching as smoke curled from the barrel of my gun. I squinted into the darkness of the mill, trying to find the source of the shrill command. Dust motes danced in my headlamp beam, spiraling through dozens upon dozens of wooden charms hanging from the ceiling. Circles of crudely assembled sticks; looked like they'd been foraged from the surrounding forest. Old rusty farm implements, long abandoned. And bones. So many bones. Mostly animal, judging by their size. A trail leading up to the grindstone at the center, which was now more altar than functioning piece of machinery. A bundle of foxglove, a few sprigs of sage, a large block of what looked like quartz. And more bones, some of them already pulverized into white powder. The stone was stained a dark brown, splotched with yellow and white in other places.

And of course, the newest addition to the altar, a bound and shrieking Katya. I holstered my revolver, collected my knife from the floor, and dropped the shotgun into my hands. The man I just killed was too big to be the figure I saw dragging Katya in here. I swept the gun back and forth as I edged further into the mill. Something wasn't right, I could feel it in the air. That subtle tension right before something bad happens.

"Playing hero?"

I aimed and pulled the trigger, but all I managed to do was pulverize a pellet of salt against a heavy wooden beam on the ceiling. Dust swirled around me, half kicked up from my boots. How had they moved so fast?

My reflexes had to be deteriorating, there was no other explanation for how a normal human could have moved that fast. She dropped in front of me, long red hair whipping from speed, and batted the shotgun out of my hands. Before I could reach for another weapon or bring my hands up in a defensive stance, her fist connected with my gut. I flew back, slamming into an unsteady pillar. Dust and dirt showered down on me from above, obscuring the cone of light with swirling particulate.

I groaned and struggled to my feet. Katya had fallen silent. There was no sight of the red-haired woman. And then the entire building shook, and the squealing of rusty metal followed the low, heavy creaking of wood. The water wheel began to turn, and so did the crankshaft. The heavy grindstone heaved into motion, snapping the bones in its path. Katya screamed again, thrashing against her bindings. I tried to shake off the ringing in my ears and take a step forward, but the red-haired woman was there again.

But something wasn't right. She stood still, head hanging low, hair falling in a dull curtain over her face. There was a familiar popping sound I couldn't quite place. But then it happened again, and her head snapped up, and it was obvious. Like cracking knuckles. Purple and yellow blossomed under the skin of her neck, and I could see ligaments snapping and rolling back. The woman's eyes were stark white, her mouth open in a silent scream. An unseen force wrenched her head to the side, and just kept going. More popping, more groaning, and then skin tearing. The woman's head slowly ratcheted itself to the side until it sat upside-down, pressed against her chest.

How was she still moving? How was she picking up that rusty piece of rebar? How the fuck was she swinging it at my head? I ducked out of the way and stumbled back, head still spinning as I tried to look for my shotgun among the darkness and dust. This was obviously weird shit, and salt was always the cure.

But whatever fucked up shit was happening to the red-haired woman made her so fast. Her knee connected with my face the second I bent over to get a better look at the floor. Blood poured from my nose, and I threw a high kick at her head. Or, what would have been her head, if it wasn't currently upside-down. Another punch sent me reeling, and the grindstone continued along its path. I was running out of time.

My foot hit something, sending it skittering into the darkness. The rebar came at my head again, courtesy of the upside-down woman. There was no time to dodge, and I couldn't risk a broken bone blocking it. So I turned and threw myself on the ground. The wind rushed out of my lungs as the rebar slammed against my backpack, but the equipment inside managed to absorb most of the force. I'd have a hell of a bruise in the morning, but now my shotgun was within reach. A heavy weight pressed on my back, and it took every bit of strength I had left to snag the strap with a finger and drag the gun to me. I twisted and kicked out, and the woman staggered back just far enough for me to bring the shotgun around and blast her dead in the chest.

Which meant, due to whatever supernatural influence she'd subjected herself to, the salt hit her square in the head. Fire erupted across her skin, sending her screaming to the floor in a pile of twitching limbs. Ears still ringing, I stood and drew my revolver.

Salt to purge. Lead to kill.

Pop.

The grindstone stopped. I rushed over to the makeshift altar, praying to anything that would listen that Katya was unharmed.

"What the fuck. What the fuck. What the fuck." She just kept saying it over and over, and I couldn't blame her. She was a bit scraped and bruised, and a bit of rope burn around her wrists, but everything else checked out.

Except, there was a very bloody bandage on her shoulder, just before it joined with her neck.

"Katya, what happened here?"

She rubbed her wrists after I cut the old, frayed rope. I made sure she could sit up before I started my circuit around the mill, checking pockets and clearing wallets. A part of me remained on high alert, ears perked up for the slightest hint of motion outside of Katya.

"What are you doing?" Katya stood near the door, arms crossed and pulled close. She jumped at every bird call, tensed with every rustle of clothing or clunk of debris as I rifled through the bodies.

"Normally I'd say I'm investigating, checking for cult affiliation or something. But it's been a hell of a night and I gotta be honest with you; I'm fucking robbing these corpses."

"You're... stealing from them? Aren't you going to call the cops?"

I looked up from the wallet in my hand. No ID, but $50 in cash. No complaints. "Honey, think about what just happened here."

"Yeah..."

I stood up and brushed my hands off on my pants. A few hundred dollars between all of them, not a bad haul. Enough to keep me going a few more days. I moved to the doorway and shut off my headlamp. "Look, you're in shock, I know. I'm sorry, I don't mean to belittle you. I'm sure this is all new and seems batshit. These people," I gestured to the fresh corpses, "were going to sacrifice you to this fucked up mill."

"I gathered. But why?"

I shrugged. "Who knows?"

I picked my way across the stretch of dusty grass.

"Callie?"

I stopped right in front of the bridge. "What's up? You coming?"

"Something bit me. That's what the bandage is for. Back at my campsite. Before whatever it was k--" She swallowed hard and choked back whatever emotion welled in her throat.

A chill ran through my whole body. "Something bit you?"

"Yeah." She caught up to me, careful not to step on the bodies. She paused by the rifleman and picked up the gun. "Should we take this?"

Under normal circumstances, I would have smiled. Girl caught on quick. "Yeah. But hold on, did you see what bit you?"

Katya shook her head. "No. It was so big, I thought it was a bear or something at first, but..." She trailed off and shot a look back at the mill.

"You were camping on the west side of the road, right?"

"Yeah."

Fuck. Story of my fucking life. I took a deep, shuddering breath and tried to calm myself. "Okay." I moved to cross the bridge.

"Hold on!" Katya ran up behind me and grabbed my hand. "What do you mean 'okay'? Why does it matter? What bit me?"

"I'm sure it was just a bear."

Katya's foot hit the bridge with enough force to send an ominous creak through the rotting boards. "Don't lie to me, Callie. If that's even your name."

I whirled on her and yanked my hand away from hers. "Oh? You want to be like that? Because I sure as hell know your name isn't actually Katya."

"Well forgive me for not trusting a random woman who picked me up on the side of the road."

"I saved your fucking life. I could have changed my tire and moved on."

"How did you even find me?"

"Do you really want to know? Would you believe me if I told you?"

She thought for a long moment, and then took a step forward. "Come on. It's late. We should get back on the road."

"About fucking time someone started making sense around here."

The hike back up to the road was much harder without adrenaline and fear rushing through my veins. Well, that, and the whole thing was uphill now. Not-Katya was a good sport about it, at least. I sure hoped an experienced outdoorswoman wouldn't be stopped by a steep incline. She stayed quiet through the whole process, didn't say a word while she held the flashlight for me either. In fact, she didn't speak at all until we were back in the car with the engine running and all my gear stowed. Well, everything except the revolver, of course. That stayed on me tonight.

"It's Natalya."

"Hm?" I glanced away from the long, winding stretch of road. The girl slouched in the passenger seat, fingers pressed into the bandage on her shoulder. The tattered bag she'd dragged out of the ruins of her campsite sat at her feet.

"My name. My real name. It's Natalya."

"Natalya, huh." I rolled the sound around in my mouth. Not bad at all.

"Yeah. Will you tell me what bit me now?"

I sighed.

Another long night.

---

Part 2: Taming the Wolf

It was normal to be nervous or tense in a big city, I've been told. Lots of new people, towering buildings, constant traffic. So much shit compacted into such a tiny space. But I was pretty sure my anxieties weren't quite the same as most people's. For starters, I was 100% certain a good chunk of the people I shared the sidewalk with weren't actually people at all.

"And that one?"

"Pact with some sort of entity from the sound. You smell it? The salt?"

Natalya lifted her nose and inhaled deeply, and the way it twitched was probably the cutest thing I'd seen in years. "Yeah. Garlic too, but way too much oregano. Probably that place over there." She dipped her head in the direction of a pizza place on the corner. "The cheese smells similar."

"I hope you know that's not a normal sense of smell."

Natalya looked down at her feet. "Yeah. I know."

"Don't worry, we'll get you settled. I have a few connections." I turned to walk down the sidewalk to make our appointment, but Natalya didn't follow. I saw the question on her lips; I was worried she'd ask it again even though it was the first thing I'd told her last night.

There is no cure. Best to just drop off the grid and let your family assume you died with your boyfriend.

She was having a hard time with that, obviously. It's not every day you have to fake your death. It was hard even for me, and this was my second or third identity. The least I could do was support her through the transition, especially with the curse running through her veins.

"How am I going to get a job? How am I going to afford a place to stay?"

I stepped back and grabbed her hand to get her moving. Without thinking, I laced our fingers together. No reason for that, but maybe I was just feeling particularly touch-starved in that moment. "That's why we're getting you a patron."

"Patron? Please tell me this isn't a sex thing."

"As you will see, it is most certainly not a sex thing. It's more like... an employment contract. With particularly binding terms."

"Do you have a patron?"

We passed by a hotdog stand, and my stomach growled. The sun was almost halfway across the sky by now, and I hadn't eaten since I'd picked Natalya up off the side of the road. Natalya herself eyed the stand with quiet desperation. While the guy running it obviously had Family ties judging by the charms hanging from the cart, Natalya's hunger would only get infinitely worse by the time night rolled around, so I stopped and grabbed us a couple. Natalya looked at me like I'd just bestowed the greatest gift imaginable upon her and tore into it with surprising ferocity.

"Not anymore."

"So this contract... That means I can break it? Or at least complete it?"

"Depends on the terms. You'll have to do the negotiating yourself. I'm not qualified for that shit, and you don't want your soul in my hands."

She frowned and wiped her mouth on the back of her hand. "I already put my life in your hands. Twice."

Now that I had her moving, I dropped her hand. "Your life and soul are not the same. Remember that. For some of us, death isn't the end." Best not think about what awaited me after I eventually kicked the bucket, didn't want to ruin the mood.

"Please." She crumbled the wrapper in her hand and tossed it in a trash can. "I don't want to do it alone."

We approached a set of concrete stairs leading down into a sunken section of street. The adjacent building continued down, with a window looking out at blank concrete. A heavy metal gate protected a rusty gray door at the bottom of the stairs. We approached the gate, and I rattled the metal bars, one hand resting on my revolver in my waistband.

"I'll be waiting just outside. You won't be alone."

A slit in the door groaned open, and a pair of golden eyes peered out. Blink. Blink blink. "Callie?"

"Paloma. I have an appointment."

"Are you alone?"

Natalya waved. I shook my head. "The appointment's for her."

The slit disappeared, and the door screeched open. A woman in a purple gingham dress stood on the other side, eyes shining in the darkness behind her. She unlatched at least six locks on the metal gate before easing it open and gesturing us inside. We followed, and I grabbed Natalya's hand once again to make sure she didn't wander off and get herself in trouble.

The room we entered looked like some sort of atrium. Heavy wooden beams sat flush against exposed brick, supporting a low ceiling covered in string lights. The door closed behind us, temporarily plunging us into darkness before Paloma flipped a switch. The room glowed with soft orange light, giving a warm cast to our skin. If it was possible for a cramped tunnel underground to be cozy, this was as close as it could get.

"He's waiting for you..." Paloma put her hand on the door at the other end of the room and waited expectantly.

But Natalya was too busy ogling the admittedly precarious architecture to realize Paloma was addressing her. "She'll introduce herself directly. No reason to get you involved."

Paloma shrugged. "Very well. I don't mind." She heaved the door open with a grunt and ushered us further into the tunnel. More dusty timber and cracked brick. A narrow path of plywood kept our shoes out of the worst of the dirt.

"You're going to see lots of weird shit today," I said to Natalya as we walked. She clung to my hand still, and I didn't dare try to pull away. Natalya's nostrils flared, and I could see red in her cheeks. Tonight was definitely the night. This meeting needed to go well or we'd be out on the street for her first time. And I sure as hell wasn't bringing her to one of my safehouses.

"Weirder than last night?"

Paloma raised an eyebrow and smirked. I ignored her. "Yeah. Weirder. Just keep your head, and don't make any promises you aren't willing to keep. Remember your strengths, be honest with what you bring to the table, and make your needs clear. And whatever you do, always give yourself an out. Don't make the mistakes I did." God, this was everything I needed to hear back when I was in Natalya's shoes. Here's hoping she actually listened to me and took the advice to heart.

"Right. Okay. Be clear, concise, and conservative?"

"You got it."

We stopped in front of another metal door. I'd lost track of all the turns and branching paths behind us. I trusted Paloma. She'd get me out of here.

"He's waiting for you inside," Paloma said, gesturing to the door. "Careful, it's hot."

Natalya reached out and pushed the door open, jerking her hand away with a hiss. "It's fucking scorching."

"Be careful in there," I said, giving her hand a reassuring squeeze. "You got this."

Paloma closed the door behind Natalya, leaving us alone in the tunnel. I leaned against the wall and sighed. Hopefully this wouldn't take too long. I still had so many preparations for the night ahead.

"So..." Paloma looked at everything but me. "New toy?"

"You really think I'd be bringing her here if she was a toy? Besides, you know full well I'm the last person to keep a toy."

"Right." Paloma smirked again and finally made eye contact. "Toys don't play with toys."

My cheeks burned, I knew she could see me blushing. I couldn't give her the satisfaction of seeing me flustered. "Whatever. I was kind of surprised to see you still here, same as ever. I thought the city was always changing."

"You've been gone too long, true." Paloma ran her fingers through her long blonde hair. "But Brimstone and I have been managing just fine. While things above may change fast, things below..." Her eyes slid conspicuously down my jacket and to my hands clasped in front of me.

"Now's not the time."

"Oh come on." Paloma pouted. "You've never been this boring before. Don't tell me..."

"No."

"But--"

"Whatever you're gonna say. No." I crossed my arms and looked toward the door. No sound came from the other side. "How long do you think she's going to be?"

Paloma kept pouting. "You have a thing for her."

"Not what I asked, Paloma."

"You didn't deny it."

I sighed, long and hard, probably a little longer than I needed to, just to get the point across. "See? This is why it didn't work. You're exhausting."

"Hey! In all my two hundred-odd years, no one has ever told me that!"

"I find that hard to believe."

Paloma deflated, finally falling silent. She worked her lower lip between her teeth, glancing to the door every now and then. She hadn't aged a day from the last time I saw her. Same splash of youthful freckles across her face, same perfect figure. Even the dress was the same, not a single thread out of place or pattern faded. She looked like a college freshman trying to impress Lord-knows-who on her first day of classes. The only giveaway was her eyes. Stunning gold, glowing in the dark like twin embers. There was a depth seen only in those severed from mortality, a dark abyss that threatened to draw you in and drown you if you stared too long. Which was hard not to do, with someone like Paloma. It tugged at my heart to see her so crestfallen.

"Saw something that might interest you the other night," I said, reaching into my back pocket. Paloma's eyes lit up, and she held out both hands to take the folded scrap of paper. She unfolded it so eagerly she almost tore it in half.

"What is this? Where did you see this?"

"Out west, other side of the sound."

"Olympic?"

"Not quite."

She brought the paper and squinted, trying to make out my mess of scribbles that attempted to replicate the charms I'd seen hanging from the ceiling in the mill. I hadn't been able to make heads or tails of it, and my book offered no insight.

"I don't think I've seen this one before."

"Found it in a mill. Old and broken down, but it had gathered some acolytes around the grindstone. Some sort of place of power, if the head spinning was anything to go by."

"Exorcist style?"

I shook my head. "Other way."

Paloma shivered and handed the paper back. "You want me to look into it?"

"Nah. I took care of it. I don't think it's anything. Nothing compared to our mutual friend in there." I tilted my head toward the door, just in time for it to burst open and deposit one sweat-soaked Natalya onto the floor.

I dropped to one knee and helped her to her feet. "Hey, you okay there?"

Her cheeks were flushed and her clothes stuck to her figure with sweat. The tips of her fingers were bright red, I could feel heat radiating off of them. I lowered her down to sit against the wall. Didn't want her collapsing again on me.

Natalya blinked and shook her head, and gratefully accepted the bottle of water Paloma had produced out of nowhere. "I'm... fine. A little heatstroke never hurt anyone."

"How'd it go? You get a good deal?"

She grinned and looked up at me and I swear my heart stuttered in my chest. There she was, dripping with sweat, hair all frizzy and stuck up, a sigil of ash painted on her forehead, and she might have been the prettiest woman I'd ever seen.

"I sure think so. Had no idea what to expect, but a--"

"You two should get going," Paloma said. Her lips were pressed in a straight line, and she stood near the heat-warped door with her arms crossed.

"Right." I helped Natalya to her feet and gave Paloma a polite nod. "Thanks for the help, as always. Stay in touch?"

She looked away. "You don't even have a phone, Callie."

"Security hazard."

"Whatever."

I knew when I'd been dismissed. I let Natalya sling an arm over my shoulder and helped her along the tunnel, back toward the entrance. Which... I had no idea how to get to. But, when we should have hit the first intersection of tunnels, we instead arrived at the entrance with its metal gate. Natalya reached for the handle, but I stopped her.

"Here, you look like a very confused Catholic right now." I licked my thumb and wiped the soot-stained sigil off her forehead. "And we don't want to broadcast to any nosy bastards up top that you just made a deal with a demon."

Natalya froze. "A... what?"

"A demon. Or, like, a spirit, I guess. Elemental being?"

"You made me make a deal with a demon?! You... You tricked me!" She yanked her arm away from me and backed up, fumbling for the handle of the gate. "I just... I just damned my immortal soul or something, right? You fucked me, Callie. You just fucked me! As if the whole bite thing wasn't enough--"

"Natalya. Calm down. It's not like that. It's not like an... actual demon. Not like in the Bible or whatever. That's just what I call these things. It's a useful shorthand. Otherwise I'd have to explain the Veil and all that, and we don't have time."

"Oh my god. It's tonight, isn't it? That's when my whole life goes to shit, right? That's when I wolf out and maul everyone around me? You have to kill me. You have silver bullets, right? You have to. Shoot me before I hurt anyone!"

I put my hands on her shoulders and squeezed. "Nat. You're not--"

"Don't fucking call me that!"

"Sorry. Look, Natalya, you're not--"

"It would be Natasha..."

"Huh? But that's just as long."

Natalya backed up until the gate rattled behind her. "Who even fucking cares? I'm going to be dead in less than twelve hours anyway. Oh my god, what am I going to tell--"

"Stop. You're not going to die. You're going to change, yes, but your life isn't ruined. You talked to Brimstone, right? You have a patron, a job. Did you get somewhere to live? Or at least a source of income?"

"Yeah." Natalya scowled at the cracked concrete below our feet. "I made a fucking deal with a talking furnace and it told me not to tell you what it was. I have a place though."

"That's something, then. You'll make new friends, you'll start a new life. You'll learn how to control yourself. Everything will be okay."

Natalya was tired. I could see it in her shoulders, her eyes. She slumped forward, looking dangerously close to collapse, and I stepped forward to take her in my arms. Her smell hung heavy around me. Sweat, heat, and something else I couldn't place. Familiar, though. Natalya's shoulders twitched, and she sobbed into my chest.

"I'm so fucking scared, Callie. Please don't leave me."

"I'm here. I'll be here. I'll stay in touch until you get back on your feet." And then it was back to the road. Back to the hunt. Barely making ends meet, throwing myself in danger to protect people who didn't even know they were in danger. Why did I do this, again? It was in moments like these, with a pretty girl in my arms, that my self-imposed nomadic lifestyle sounded stupider by the second.

"And then what? You'll leave?" She grabbed fistfuls of my jacket and looked up at me with tear-streaked cheeks and red-rimmed eyes. "You make sure I'm not a danger to myself or others and then you move on? Find the next girl to 'rescue'?"

"It's not like that." I tried to gently pry her hands off me, but it was no use. When had she gotten so strong?