MONSTERS

Lilith Saintcrow

   	Leonidas held court in a nightclub, a cliché come to life. I do not ever make the mistake of thinking such bad taste makes him any less lethal. The place was full of walking victims, predators, and the Kin. The guards at the door barely nodded as I stepped past, wild-haired and in a bedraggled blue velvet that was last fashionable when Her Majesty reigned. And the boots, heavy-soled and more expensive than a human life in this day and age.
 	Though mortal life has ever been cheap.
 	An assault of screaming and pounding noise met me. It was what they call music nowadays. No doubt there are Preservers who will cherish it as I cherished the liquid streams of beauty from my Virginia’s piano.
 	But I doubt they will be half as enchanted as I was. And Virginia’s song was gone forever. Even her recordings were lost in last night’s fire.
 	More smoke, of cigarettes. The taint of burning on my clothes and hair went unnoticed. Fragile warm bodies bumping against me on every side, islands of hard brightness that were Kin, the swelling nasty cacophony pumped through electronic throats buffeting the crowd. The bar was a monstrosity of amber glass, dark iron, and mahogany, the mortals behind it scrambling to slake various thirsts.
 	And there, across the wide choked space, red velvet ropes holding the crowd back. The baroque horsehair couches arranged in intimate little groups were exactly what they appeared to be—emblems of a king’s receiving room. Leonidas lounged on the largest, draped across it like a boneless toy. White-blond hair, the left half of his face a river of scarring, he watched his little sovereignty avidly. Behind him, a shadow moved.
 	Sallow, unsmiling Quinn. Tarquin. The only ugly thing Leonidas allows in his presence. The White King does not even allow a mirror in his domicile, lest it somehow show him his own shattered face.
 	The ropes parted. I do not stand on ceremony, even among Kin. Nevertheless, I inclined my head to Leonidas as I stepped onto the dusty red rug.
 	“Eleni.” His lips shaped my name, pleated ridges of scar tissue twitching. The noise swallowed us whole, like a whale.
 	And Leonidas looked surprised. It is not often a Preserver seeks out a Promethean in his place of power.
 	“I seek vengeance.” My tone cut through the wall of noise. “You will provide it.”
 	His fingers flicked a little, dismissing me. “What nonsense are you speaking?”
 	The noise was overwhelming. It sent glass spikes through my head. The smell of burning hanging on me spurred my fury.
 	Virginia. Zhen. Peter. And Amelie, my own heart’s child. All mutilated and burned. “My house.” I could barely speak. My fangs were swollen with rage. “My house, burned to the ground last night. My charges murdered. We had a Compact, Leonidas!”
 	“And we still do,” he murmured. The “music” came to a crashing halt, and static filled the entire building. My rage, Leonidas’s amused bafflement, and Quinn’s unblinking attention.
 	I should have been pleased that Tarquin paid such attention to me. He must have considered me a threat. Me, a lowly Preserver.
 	I did not begin as a Preserver. We all begin as something else, each and every one of the Kin.
 	“Come,” Leonidas said in the almost-silence, before the music started again. “Let us solve this mystery.”

*   *   *

   	Upstairs in a private office, he arranged himself behind a mirror-polished desk. I stood before him like a supplicant, but I was past caring.
 	“They killed Zhen on the stairs.” My throat was full. “My beautiful dancer. And Virginia in the library. She fought back. The young ones were in the cellar. Peter, and Amelie.” I swallowed grief like a stone. “They were burned. And mutilated. Stakes through their hearts.”
 	“Ah,” Leonidas said, and nothing more.
 	“What do you intend to do?” My hands were fists.
 	He shrugged, a loose inhuman motion. “What can I do? I am no Preserver. And your charges are not the first to fall. The hunters are mortals, and they take only easy prey.”
 	So he knew of this. Easy prey. I stared at him. What mortals could kill even the youngest and slowest of us? And yet.
 	Tarquin, at his shoulder, looked steadily back. His shoulders were tense. Another indirect compliment.
 	“Then I shall trouble you no further.” I turned on my heel. My boots left black streaks on the creamy carpet.
 	“Eleni.” Tarquin’s voice, flat and heatless. “Try the Hephaestus, downtown.”
 	I paused. Inclined my head slightly. Leonidas’s anger filled the room, but what was his anger to me?
 	“I am in your debt, Tarquin,” I said softly, and stalked away.

*   *   *

   	I did not venture downtown often. For one thing, it was dangerous. For another, it was … confusing. The bright lights, the crowds, the cars … it was easier and safer to gather what I needed for my little family elsewhere. I am a Preserver, I preserve what would otherwise be lost in the deep waters of time. Each of my charges was a gem, skilled in an art that could reach its highest expression when freed from the chains of mortality.
 	All that, gone. Lost in a nightmare of fire and screaming. Only I remained. And the thin bright trail of bloodscent—the weakest male attacker had been bleeding as he left my home. Without Tarquin’s hinting, I might have lost his scent.
 	But no. At the corner of Bride Street I found the golden thread. It turned at corners, flared and faded, drifted with the wind. It is a predator’s instinct, to bring down the weakest in the pack first.
 	Besides, the weakest break more easily.
 	The Hephaestus was a slumped brownstone building, weary even though the night was young. It reeked of desperation. I passed through the foyer like a burning dream, the proprietor not even glancing away from his television screen. I expected the smell to take me up into a room, but it did not. A hall on the ground floor led to a fire door that did not make a sound as I pushed it open. I stepped out and halted for a moment. Greasy crud slid under my bootsoles.
 	The blind alley was old, close, and dank. Refuse filled its corners. At its end, a single door. The blood trail led to it, but there was a heavier reek filling the air.
 	I approached cautiously. There was no outlet, this was a remnant of an earlier time. I wondered if the bricks underfoot were as old as Amelie.
 	My heart, that senseless beating thing, wrung in on itself. I ghosted to the door, every sense alert as if I were hunting for my family. My chest ran with pain at the thought.
 	I laid a hand on the door. It was solid, vibrating slightly as all matter does. It was locked and barred, I sensed the iron of the bar, metallic against my palate.
 	If I have learned one thing as a Preserver it is this: Strength does not matter. The will matters.
 	I gathered myself, stepped back, and kicked the door in.
 	A foul stench roiled out. I plunged into its depths, skipping down a set of sloping concrete stairs—my fist flashed and caught the mortal before he could even lift the gun. He flew back, hitting the wall with a sickening crack.
 	I hit him too hard. Then the smell hit me in return—I dropped down into a crouch, recognizing it, atavistic shivers running through ageless flesh. The lykanthe hung on the far wall, a writhing mass of fur held fast in silver chains, ivory teeth wired together by a muzzle cruelly spiked on the inside with more silver.
 	It was no threat, but still. For a moment I hesitated. Then I turned back to the human, who was making a thin high whistling sound. One of his arms hung at an odd angle.
 	They are so breakable.
 	My fingers, slim and strong, tangled in the front of the mortal’s black turtleneck. There were leather straps too, holding knives and other implements. He was still trying to gain enough breath to scream.
 	I selected one knife, slid it free. Broad-bladed, double-edged, it gleamed in the cellar’s gloom. Would anyone hear him? It was not likely; the alley and the blind walls above would mock his cries.
 	Good, I thought, and rammed the knife through his shoulder. He whisper-screamed again.
 	I closed off the scream with my free hand, clamping it over his mouth. Hot sweat and saliva greased my cold hard palm. I found words, for the first time since I had left Leonidas’s nightclub.
 	“I will ask you questions.” My voice was soft, my native tongue wearing through the syllables. “If you answer, I will not hurt you more.”
 	It was only half a lie.

*   *   *

   	I did not drink from the filth. I was still gorged from last night’s hunting. As fitting as it would have been to drain him, no cursed drop of his fluid would pass my lips.
 	His scarecrow body hung against the wall, twitching as the nerves realized life had fled. The lykanthe on the other wall moved slightly, silver chains biting its flesh. But it made no sound, not even whining through the muzzle.
 	I should have left it there. Their kind is anathema.
 	But I am a Preserver, and the waste of anything irks me. Especially any part of the twilight world where I fed and sheltered my charges.
 	There was a long table full of silver-plated instruments, gleaming in the low sullen light. The ones closest to the thing on the wall were crusted with blood and other fluids. I allowed myself a single nose-wrinkle. The stews I had found Virginia in had smelled worse.
 	A glimmer of eye showed between puffed, marred lids. It was madness to consider letting the thing free. There was probably nothing human left inside that hairy shell.
 	As much or as little was left human inside my own hard pale shell, perhaps.
 	The silver-coated metal of the manacles crumpled like wet clay in my fist. Raw welts rubbed the hair from the skin everywhere they touched. They are dangerously allergic to the moon’s metal, a goddess’s curse. Or so I have always heard.
 	I twisted, and one collection of bright amber claws dangled free. One hand. I bent and soon the legs were free as well, hanging bare inches from the floor. I glanced up—yes, the hook in the ceiling, there, they had hoisted it to deprive it of leverage. It hung like a piece of Amelie’s washing—she had not yet lost the habit of cleaning her clothes after every night’s rising, though her body did not sweat or secrete.
 	Now that body lay in perishing earth. A sob caught at my throat. I denied it.
 	My voice sounded strange. “I hope you can understand me. I am not your enemy. I hunt those who did this to you. Go to ground and sleep until you become human again, if you can.”
 	It made no reply, merely hung there and watched me. Or perhaps it was dying, and the gleam of eyes was a fever-glitter. The shoulder looked agonizingly strained, sinews creaking.
 	“Mad,” I muttered. “I am mad.”
 	But I freed the last manacle anyway, the silver-plated trash bending and buckling. By the time its heavy body thudded to the ground to lie in its own filth, I was already gone. Straight up the brownstone’s wall and over the rooftop.
 	Behind me, a long inhuman howl ribboned away. So it was alive, after all.

*   *   *

   	Uptown. I climbed carefully, fingers driving into the spaces between bricks where putty crumbled. The street below was deserted, and in any case, who would expect to see a woman in a dress going directly up a brick wall? Human beings do not see what they do not wish to see.
 	Each floor held a comfortable ledge right under the windows, as if the building were a lunatic belted tightly against himself. Or as if it were a worm, each segment caked with exhaust grime, rising above the ground before it dove.
 	Zhen held that the ancient world smelled better. I disagreed. Even with the reek of smog, there is no contest between my city and, say, Rome or Paris in their ancient, fouler days. Mortals have at least grown cleaner.
 	In some ways.
 	The fourth floor. My boot-toe gripped the ledge, I pulled myself up. Eased along it, weight balanced, velvet scraping brick. There was a smear of dried blood on the back of my left hand, other crackling bits on my face and neck. I would not wash until vengeance was complete.
 	It wasn’t hard to find the window. It was half open, and the reek of adrenaline and bloodshed billowed out like red dye in water.
 	Nine-man teams, he had told me, choking as my fingers tightened on his throat. Three Burners, three Fighters, a Sensitive, and the captain and his lieutenant. That’s all, I swear.
 	After I had cut off three of his fingers and he still swore, I believed him.
 	At the very edge of the window, I held my skirts back. Leaned forward and peered in.
 	The room was dark. A table stacked with odd shapes, a chair, a television blindly spewing colored light. On the bed, a stabbing motion, buttocks rising and plunging down.
 	The Burner had company.
 	A slightly acrid scent—the reek of a slightly dominant male. Cheap perfume mixing with aftershave and sweat, the musk of sex. The window did not creak as I eased it wider, wider. My shadow moved on the floor, I hopped down light as a leaf while the rhythm of creaking bedsprings became frantic. Softly I stepped across the thin carpet, avoiding a pile of clothing. Smoke-scent rose in simmering waves.
 	He had not even washed the stink of murder away. Loathing choked me. I glided to the bedside and looked down just as the man stiffened, his head thrown back. The woman’s eyes were closed, her long pale hair spread on the pillow and her painted face garish even in the dark.
 	My claws sank into flesh and I ripped him up and away, viselike fingers clamped at the base of his neck. Just like a mother cat chastising a kitten—or a Preserver teaching a new charge to control the Thirst.
 	He flew across the room, hit the television on its low dresser. Glass shattered, wood splintered, and the woman inhaled to scream.
 	“Shhh.” I laid my finger against my lips. She swallowed her cry, staring. My eyes would be glowing yellow by now. “Gather your clothes, child, and flee.”
 	Her raddled face crumpled, but she did not make a sound. I turned my back on her and found the man crawling for the table and his weapons—I saw hilts and ugly penile gun-shapes. I caught him halfway there with a kick that threw him into a flimsy chair he’d set in the corner, the sweet sound of ribs snapping echoing off every wall. The tank settled in the chair toppled, liquid splashing, and the cap on its top bounced away. I smelled petrol and that same odd cloying additive.
 	The Burner lay moaning. Short dark hair, a hefty build. He was probably light on his feet, though, he would have to be. If they hunted anything other than a Preserver’s helpless charges, they needed speed and ruthlessness.
 	Not that it would help him.
 	I was on him in a moment. Naked flesh, veined and crawling with the incipient death every mortal was heir to. One arm cracked with a greenstick snap. He howled. The tank glugged out a small lake of cold liquid. Soaking the carpet, splashing. I grabbed his short hair and ground his face down. That cut off the howling, and I do not deny a savage satisfaction. His hands flapped, long white fish.
 	My arm flexed, I pushed harder. His skull creaked, and I had to restrain myself. I didn’t want to, but breaking his head open was too quick and easy.
 	The door opened as the woman fled. She had not stopped to clothe herself, and she was screaming as well. A slice of golden electronic light from the hall narrowed. I flexed again, dragging the man’s face along the sodden carpet. Then I pulled his head up and rose, claws digging. He screamed, scrambling to get away, and I flung him across the room again. He hit the wall over the bed with a sickening crack, dislodging a forgettable, mass-produced painting. Not like Amelie’s exquisite color-drenched canvases.
 	Fury poured through me. I leapt on the bed almost before he landed, broke his other arm. He could not get in enough air to scream, was making little whispering hopeless sounds.
 	Had Amelie made those sounds? Had she pleaded for her life?
 	The smell—petrol and that additive, and the bright copper of blood—maddened me. I thrust my hand into his vitals, another layer of stench exploding out, claws shredding. I was aiming to pierce his diaphragm, tear through lungs and hold his beating heart in my palm before I crushed it.
 	The door to the hall burst open, and the little pocking sounds around me were bullets plowing into the bed. I felt the stings and hissed, fangs distended and hot streams of stolen life I had meant to bring home to my charges tracing little fingers over me.
 	Instinct took over. I am a Preserver, not a Promethean. I leapt for the window, leaving the Burner choking on his blood, his body twitching as his comrades’ bullets plowed through it. Down I fell, landing cat-light on the street and bolting.
 	Two dead, seven to kill. I could find them again with little problem, but now my prey would be wary.
 	I retreated across the street, black blood and other liquids fouling the dress Virginia had made for me. On a rooftop with a good view I crouched, and I watched.
 	I did not have to wait long.

*   *   *

   	Sirens rose in the distance. Exactly three and a half minutes after I’d fled through the window, four men carried the body of a fifth out of the brick hotel. None of them held the scent of dominance, but all of them reeked of petrol and fear. An anonymous navy blue minivan accepted the body as cargo, and they crowded in after it. One, a slim dark youth, took the driver’s seat. He paused before opening the door, his curly head cocked, and I had the odd thought that he could feel my gaze.
 	That was ridiculous. No mortal could possibly …
 	And yet. Sensitive, the first man had said. I had not questioned further. Now I wondered if I should have.
 	I became a stone, sinking into the rooftop, my vision gone soft and blurring as I pulled layers of silence close.
 	The youth shook his head, opened his door, and hopped nimbly in. The vehicle roused from its slumber, and I shook off the silence just as a soft footfall sounded on the stretched-tight drumhead of the roof behind me.
 	Quinn? I turned, my ragged skirt flaring.
 	It was not Tarquin. Of course not. He would be silent.
 	The shaggy-haired man crouched, naked except for a rag clout the color of dirt. His torso rippled with lean muscle and scars glinting gray-silver. The reek of wildness and moonlight hung on him, like the brief tang of liquor before a Kin’s metabolism flushes through it.
 	I dropped down into a crouch. They do not usually run by night, and I had never glimpsed one without clothes or fur. My claws slid free, and I hissed, baring fangs. It would distort my face, I would not have done so in front of my charges. Now, I cared little—except he was interrupting. My prey might well go to ground, I could possibly lose them if I was delayed here.
 	The lykanthe did not snarl. He merely cocked his head. His eyes were bright silver coins, the pupils wavering fluidly between cat-slit and round. He made a low sound, back in his throat.
 	An inquisitive sound.
 	I straightened, slowly. My claws retracted. The purr of the minivan retreated, almost swallowed up in the hum of traffic.
 	I pitched back, grabbed the waist-high edge of the rooftop, and plummeted. It is no great trick to land softly from a height. The sound of cloth tearing was lost in the backwash of sirens as the mortal authorities arrived to wonder at the damage caused.

*   *   *

   	When there were no traffic laws, sometimes a vehicle could escape. They were lumbering-slow, true, but the flux and pattern of other crowding carriages sometimes provided cover. Nowadays, though, if you stalk a metal carriage through the streets, there are only certain choices at each intersection. If you can keep the sound of the engine in range, even better.
 	I did not worry about the padding-soft footfalls behind me. If the lykanthe had meant to attack, he would have. I cared little about his intent, as long as he did not rob me of my revenge.
 	The van was aiming for the freeway, a cloverleaf looping of pavement. It slowed, straining and wallowing through a turn. I leapt, catching the overpass’s concrete railing, velvet snapping like a flag in a high wind as I soared.
 	Thin metal crunched as I landed hard, claws out and digging through the van’s roof. It slewed, wildly, more predictable than a frightened horse. I am small and dark from childhood malnutrition even the Turn could not completely erase, easier for me to curl in tightly and hold on.
 	How Zhen had laughed at me. Tall lean Zhen with his grace. I was gymnastic, he told me in his mellifluous native tongue, not a dancer. I laughed with him, for it was true. But it was I who brought home stolen life each night, to fuel his leaps and turns in the mirrored room given over entirely to his dancing. Shelves of CDs and the equipment to transfer music from one form of storage to another, all burned and dead now, and dance was an evanescent art. He would never discover another movement, another combination, inside his long body now.
 	The van slowed, still swerving wildly, and I held, wrists aching where the spurs responsible for claw control moved under the skin. When I had the rhythm I would lift one hand and tear the top of the minivan open like one of Amelie’s cans of—
 	Pain. Great roaring pain.
 	I flew, weightless, the egg in my chest cracked as my heart struggled to function, its bone shield almost pierced. The thudding was agony, I twisted as I rolled, glare of light and horrific screaming noise before I was hit again and dragged, the stake in my chest clicking against the road. My arm was caught in something, mercilessly twisted and hauling me along, shoulder savagely stretched.
 	A heavy crunch and a snarl. The dragging stopped short. Little hurt sounds, I realized I was making them. And bleeding, a heavy tide of stolen life against unforgiving stone.
 	Not stone. Concrete. Bleeding on concrete. A stake. I ached to pull it out, but my hands were loose and unresponsive. My claws flexed helplessly, tearing at the road’s surface.
 	Footsteps. “Be … still.” Halting, as if the mouth didn’t work quite properly. “Not … hrgh … enemy.”
 	Twisting. Wrenching. Each splinter gouged sensitive tissue as he pulled it free. A gush of blood, steaming in the chill night air. Too much, I was losing too much, I would not be able to feed them when I returned—
 	I remembered they were dead just as the stake tore free and was tossed aside. Then I was lifted, limp as a rag doll, and the night filled my head.

*   *   *

   	Daylight sleep is deep and restorative. It is a mercy that it holds no dreams. Though I could swear I saw them all printed inside my eyelids. Each one of my charges, my wards, my war against Time.
 	My battle to preserve.
 	The older you become, the incrementally earlier you rise. Purple and golden dusk filled the vaults of heaven, a physical weight as I lay on my belly, flung across something soft and smelling of dry oily fur and musk. There was weight curled around me, heavy and warm. As if Amelie had crept into my bedroom again, but it could not be her. It was too big. Zhen, perhaps? But he was past the time of needing reassurance. Virginia? No, she prized her solitude. It had to be Peter. If he had finished a miniature, or broken something, he would want comfort.
 	I rolled, slowly, sliding my arm free. My fingers rasped against fur—no, hair. Shaggy hair, not Peter’s sleek silken curls.
 	The lykanthe lay half across me. His face was buried in my tangled hair. His throat was open, chin relaxed and tipped up. He was much heavier and bulkier than he looked, or he’d had a chance to eat. How long had the humans had him, torturing him in that dank hole?
 	The throat was inviting. And blood from another denizen of the twilight would strengthen me immeasurably.
 	His eyes opened, and he tensed. But he did not drop his chin. Finally, he spoke. It was the same halting slur as before. And he used only one word.
 	“Fr … Fr-friend. Friend.”
 	I swallowed. My throat was dry. It was not the Thirst. His kind was an enemy. A pack of lykanthe could destroy many of the Kin during a daylight hunt.
 	And yet, he had pulled the stake from my chest. What had it been? I had to know.
 	“The stake?” I whispered.
 	He thought this over. Finally, a light rose behind his silver-coin eyes. His pupils were still flaring and settling. How much damage had they caused him?
 	“Gun,” he finally said, and flowed away from me. The bed creaked. I blinked. My hair was wild, a mass of dark smoke-tarnished curls. I had cut my braid, it was buried in Amelie’s … grave, behind the charred hulk of my house.
 	My house no longer.
 	I pushed myself up on my elbows. The windows were dark, blankets taped over them.
 	It was a small efficiency apartment. There was a large white fridge. The lykanthe opened it and stuck his head in. He made a snuffling sound of delight. I sat up and looked at my hands.
 	I would need to hunt. Then I would track them.
 	“What is your name?” I did not know why I asked. A lykanthe’s name would mean less than nothing to me.
 	And yet.
 	He stiffened. “Don’t. Know.”
 	“You need more food. And rest. I must hunt.”
 	He slammed the fridge door. A ripple ran through him. “Hunt. Good.”
 	I muttered a word that had been ancient—and obscene—when Augustus was but a child. “No. Not you. You eat human food.”
 	His chest swelled. He’d found a pair of jeans somewhere, thank the gods, but the fabric strained as he bulked, the change running through him like liquid.
 	“No,” I said, sharply, just the tone I would take with a new, inexperienced fledgling.
 	The growl halted. He dropped his shoulders, expressing submission with a single graceful movement.
 	What was I to do now? We studied each other, lykanthe and Preserver, and I felt the weight of responsibility settle on me. And the hateful machine inside my head decided he could be useful.
 	“You can track.” I slid my legs off the bed. The boots were sorely the worse for wear, and my dress was merely rags. “You can track them.”
 	He nodded. His pupils settled, cat-slit now. Which was a very good sign. Lykanthe are pack animals, and they need to know their place in the hierarchy.
 	What would happen when he remembered what he was?
 	I decided I would answer that question when it arose. For now, he was watching me carefully. And I might well need his help, since they had some infernal invention that could hurl a stake through my chest. I was grateful it had not been hawthorn: the allergic reaction might well have sent me to join my charges before vengeance was complete.
 	“Very well.” I straightened. “I need clothes. You need food. And you need a name.”
 	He thought this over, his pupils holding steady. Then, slowly, he lifted one hand, pointed to his chest. “Wolf.”
 	I nodded. “Of course.” Pointed at myself. “Eleni.”
 	It was a start.

*   *   *

   	The marks of my claws were fresh and glaring on the freeway’s surface. We waited for traffic to clear, crouched in the shadow of the overpass. He had no feminine clothing in the efficiency, but I’d found a pair of jeans to cut down and a belt that served with a few extra holes delicately claw-punched. A none-too-fresh white tank top—laundry had evidently never been his specialty, if this was indeed his apartment—and a too-large brown leather jacket completed my oddest sartorial statement ever.
 	He watched with no sign of impatience or disgust as I hunted, and when my victim—a drug dealer in one of downtown’s less savory quarters—was dispatched and I rifled the pockets, Wolf stayed wide-eyed and calm. No fur had rippled out through his skin.
 	The roll of cash was sticky with God alone knew what, but it was serviceable. Twenty minutes later, at a street vendor’s stall, Wolf swallowed several slices of pizza; at another, he ate at least five gyros and washed everything down with a large soda. Empty calories, certainly, but better than nothing. He stared longingly at a soft-pretzel vendor, but I drew him away and he followed without demur.
 	Traffic roared past, a cavalcade of glaring white eyes. I heard a dead spot coming and rose. The lykanthe crouched easily. “Do you have the scent?” I asked again.
 	He nodded, lifting his shaggy head and sniffing. Fur crawled up his cheeks, spilled down his broad chest. Now I knew why lykanthe rarely wear shirts—tearing them in the change must be annoying. “Run,” he said, his mouth moving wetly over the word as his jaw structure changed, crackling. “Run them down.”
 	“Good boy.” I could not help myself. But he shivered as if the approval was pleasant, and launched himself into a leap. I followed, and a double sound—the cloth-tearing sound of the Kin using inhuman speed and the howl that burst from him—echoed under the orange-lit city sky.

*   *   *

   	The mansion was several miles from the city limits, a graceless mushroom-white thing with a colonnaded porch, the grounds extensive but overgrown. Wolf skidded to a stop and crouched, snarling; I curled my fingers in the thick ruff at the back of his neck. It was an instinctive move, because I sensed the thread-thin wire strung between once-ornamental and now shaggy trees, metal humming with ill intent.
 	“Easy,” I whispered, under the deep edge of his snarl. “Easy, young one.”
 	Chill night air touched my cheeks. Wolf’s growl stopped between exhale and inhale. He remained thrumming-tense, muscles bunched and ready.
 	I kept whispering, though there was little need. “They are on their guard now. Hopefully they are stupid enough to think their stake-gun disposed of me, but we cannot depend on that. We must go carefully, and quietly. Come back to your other form.”
 	Shudders ran through him in waves, but I waited. The moon, half full, was a bleached bone in the sky, above the orange stain of the city. The night was young.
 	“Come back,” I insisted. Fur melted, and soon I clasped the nape of a crouching young man in a loose corduroy jacket and torn jeans.
 	“Hear them,” he whispered. “Five, six. Maybe more.” The sibilants faded into mush, but I was better at deciphering his words now. The muzzle had damaged something, and he would be a long time healing.
 	“Good.” My fingers moved, soothingly. It was a cross between petting a restive animal and soothing a child. He finally relaxed. “Now. You will wait here. Do not disobey.”
 	He shivered. “Go. With.”
 	“Wait here. Should I need you, I will call. I promise.”
 	“Go with,” he insisted, tilting his shaggy head back as if to trap my fingers. “Need. Go with.”
 	My claws pricked. “You will wait here, lykanthe. Until I call.”
 	He subsided. Became a statue. I petted him absently as I considered the tripwires. When I could see them clearly in my mind’s eye, I took my hand away. The lykanthe made a faint whining sound, but he stayed put.
 	I backed up three paces. Four. Plenty of room.
 	“Eleni,” Wolf whispered, haltingly.
 	I leapt. Caught the tree branch I was aiming for, rough bark against my palms, a squeaking sound as force transferred.
 	Yes, Zhen had told me I was gymnastic, and it was his training I drew on now. Body flying, legs flung wide then pulled in, twisting and turning with inhuman speed and precision as I tumbled through the gaps in the tripwires. They had covered the likely angles of approach—if the threat was human. A Preserver trained by one of her charges in the use of inhuman flesh and bone? It was almost child’s play. I could almost see Zhen’s narrowed eyes, hear his shouted encouragements. Pull your knee up … think up, up! It is the center all movement flows from, Eleni! Arms straight, they are the fulcrum!
 	Twisting, spinning, my smoke-tainted hair flying, a fierce joy filled me. For a moment I could pretend they were all still alive.
 	I landed, rolling, on the gravel drive. Leapt again, soundless, and caught the edge of the porch roof. Pulled, a silent gasp of effort turning my face into a rictus, and spinning weightless … before landing soft as a cat’s whispering paw on the main roof, kneeling, arms held out to my sides in an approximation of one of Zhen’s movements. It is not enough to begin well and do well, he would say. You must also finish properly.
 	“I will,” I answered softly, and rose. Listened, head cocked.
 	Five pulses. No, six. Each human heartbeat is unique, echoing through muscle and bone, the differences like clarion calls to a Kin’s ear. They were familiar, distinctive. I had heard them galloping along inside the van as it tried to shake me free. One was directly below me. Young, and suddenly speeding up.
 	The Sensitive. Sensitive to me, perhaps. Or to any denizen of the twilight. Was that how they had found my charges?
 	I leapt for the edge of the roof, turning in midair and catching the gutter. It ripped free, but not before it provided me with another angle, and my filthy boots smashed the window. The rest of me followed, straight and slim as a spear, and the youth was stumbling for the door, screaming in a girl’s high terrified voice. I was on him in a moment, smelling the agony of fear as he lost control of bladder and bowels, right before my hand splintered ribs and I pulled the still-beating heart free. My hand closed convulsively, and the tough muscle splattered. Tiny droplets of flung blood dewed my face.
 	The body dropped. I cocked my head.
 	Two of the other five pulses scattered through the house quickened. A faint electronic buzz touched the edges of my hearing. Their security system, of course.
 	Good.
 	This was a monk’s bedroom, with only a narrow cot and a cross on the wall, lit only by moonlight streaming through the broken window. I pushed the door open with my toe, stepping over the still-twitching body, and smiled.
 	I do enjoy hunting.

*   *   *

   	Their method of driving a stake through the heart was a modified crossbow. The disadvantage of a crossbow is that it takes a certain time to reload, and it flings a heavy object like a wooden stake far too slowly for a forewarned Kin. By the time the second stake had bisected the air where I was standing a moment ago, I was on the first shooter. Cupping his face like a lover, smelling his terror and the stink of petrol, giving the quick sharp yank that broke the neck like a dry stick. My foot flashed out, catching the one next to him in the ribs and flinging him across the room before he could bring his guns around to catch me.
 	Then it was a leap aside, another bolt singing through space I’d just vacated, and I collided with another shooter. He was screaming as I hit him, and blood flew from his mouth as kinetic force transferred. He hit the wall hard, slid down in a boneless lump.
 	I turned on my heel. Two left. One stank of petrol—the last of the Burners. The other held the crossbow, staring at me slack-mouthed, and he smelled of dominance under a bald edge of roaring fear. The lieutenant.
 	Both were stocky, short-haired, and well trained. But they were only human. I bared my teeth as the lieutenant raised the crossbow again, and their fear was sweet tonic to me. It was not enough—my charges had suffered more.
 	Which one should I keep to tell me where their captain was?
 	I took a single step forward, still smiling, my fangs aching with delight and my jaw crackling as the Thirst sang in my veins. I would need to hunt again before this night was out, the use of speed and strength taking their toll even on one so old.
 	The Burner dropped his guns and bolted. I leapt for him, and the world exploded with a roar.
 	The lykanthe leapt on the lieutenant, his teeth sinking into flesh as the man let out a high rabbitscream. It was too late to pull back, I collided with the Burner, my nose full of the reek of death, pain, and fuel. Bones snapped. He was dead before he hit the floor.
 	I spun. Wolf growled again, hunched over the body hanging in his jaws.
 	“Drop him!” I commanded, sharply.
 	He shook the limp form, fur standing up, alive and vital. He had lost his jacket, and his fluid form rippled with muscle. Bits of drywall and slivers of wood clung to his pelt. He looked a hairbreadth away from tearing flesh free of the body and swallowing it, and if he did that …
 	I know enough of lykanthe to know the taboo. Thou shalt not eat human flesh. I did not know quite what would happen, but I was certain I did not wish to find out here.
 	“Drop him,” I said again, softly but with great force. “Wolf. Drop him. Now.”
 	His eyes were mad silver coins. He stared at me, chest vibrating with the growl, and if he attacked me I would have to kill him. It is no large thing to kill mortals, but another of the twilight? A blood-crazed lykanthe?
 	That is altogether different.
 	His jaws separated. The body thumped down, and his growl faded.
 	I put my wet, bloodslick hands on my hips. “If he is dead, I will not catch their captain as easily. Did I not tell you to stay?”
 	He merely watched me. Narrow graceful head, the snout lifted a little, blood marking his scarred muzzle. His clawed front paws tensed and relaxed, as a cat will knead a pillow or its owner’s thigh.
 	There was no pulse echoing from his victim’s body.
 	I sighed, though the tension did not leave me. And I waited. The air still reverberated with their screaming, blood and death and terror.
 	The fur receded gradually until he stood there bare-chested, his jeans painted with spatters of blood, and shook drywall dust out of his shaggy hair. He hunched his shoulders, as if he expected a reprimand.
 	It would do no good. To chastise the uncomprehending is cruelty.
 	It took effort to speak softly. “Come. We shall search this place, and then we shall burn it.”
 	His head dipped in an approximation of a nod. “S-s-sorry.” He could not even force his mouth to shape the simple word correctly.
 	A great pointless rage flashed through me and away. “It is of little account, young one. Come. Help me.”

*   *   *

   	There was a bank of computers, the monitors glowing. Crates of ammunition, stacks of those odd canisters of petrol. The additive was in gelatin form, a large box full of premeasured packets of the stuff set carefully away from the tanks of fuel. There was a filing cabinet as well, and I opened both drawers, reading swiftly and collating information as Wolf touched the glowing screens with his blood-wet fingertips, fascinated.
 	More of them? I memorized dates and locations, a sick suspicion growing under my heart. Humans have hunted us before, piecemeal and never very successfully. They usually focus on Prometheans.
 	But this group hunted Preservers. Or their helpless charges. Not utterly helpless, but there is no reason for a ward to learn combat or hunting. It is the Preserver’s function to learn those things, so the ward may focus on his or her art, whatever that art is.
 	Somehow, incredibly, these humans found Preserver houses in cities. Was it the Sensitives? I would have sensed human surveillance; I have moved my charges many times, when notice or war seems likely. Still, what could—
 	I opened another file, this one red and marked CLASSIFIED. Gasped, shock blurring through me.
 	Pictures. Of my house. Of Amelie in the garden, her heart-shaped face turned up as she studied the oleander tree. A blurred shot of Zhen through the windows of his dance studio, arms out and face set in a habitual half-smile. Virginia at the piano, her head down and her long dark braids tied carelessly back. Peter, standing on the front step with his mouth half open, caught in the act of laughing, probably at one of Amelie’s artless sallies. No picture of me—of course, I was more careful, out of habit. But there was something else.
 	A heavy cream-colored card, with the address of our house written in rusty ink, a fountain pen’s scratching at the surface of the paper. Ancient, spiky calligraphy, but still readable enough. It reeked of him, the perfume of a Kin.
 	Dear gods.
 	I closed the file. Brought it to my chest and hugged hard, the heavy paper crinkling.
 	Wolf whined low in his throat.
 	In a few moments, I had the other information I needed. Three locations, one of which was certain to hold this captain of theirs.
 	There was enough of the night left to accomplish that part of my revenge before I found the traitor who had given pictures of my family to these monsters. And I would make him pay, no matter how old, powerful … or Promethean.
 	I stared at the petrol canisters for a long moment before shelving my rage once more. There was work to be done.
 	When the house was aflame, we left.

*   *   *

   	The first location—an anonymous ranch house in the suburbs—was empty, but I found evidence of their presence. It was the second, a slumping tenement in the worst sink of the city, that held the prize. The entire place smelled of despair, urine, fried food, and the burning metal of poverty and danger.
 	I had rescued my Amelie from a place such as this. My hands made fists, loosened, made fists again.
 	I slid down the hall, crushing the cheap stained carpet under my fouled boots. My hair reeked of smoke again, and my fingers stung with splashed petrol. Wolf padded behind me, his head down. He would need more food before dawn, and a safe place to sleep.
 	Soon. Very soon.
 	We rounded the corner, and I saw the door, number 613. It was open a crack, spilling a sword of golden light into the dimness. I halted, and Wolf almost walked into me. He stopped, and tension sprang up between us.
 	A soft growl, far back in his throat. “Vrykolakas.”
 	Even through the slurring, I had no trouble deciphering the word. I did not know whether to be saddened or relieved. My own answer was a whisper. “As I am.”
 	For I sensed him too.
 	I pushed the door open with tented fingers. Stepped inside. Had he wanted to kill me, I would never have scented him. I would never have heard his strong, ageless pulse.
 	The apartment began as a tiny hall, a filthy kitchen to the right, a foul bathroom to the left. At the end of the hall, a single room with only a bed and a chair crouching on the colorless carpet.
 	The narrow bed held the captain’s body, facedown. The dried, shriveled things hanging outside the slits between his ribs were his lungs. It is an old torture—the suffocation is drawn-out and excruciating. His wrists and ankles were lashed to the bed with cords, probably from the cheap blinds covering the window. Or brought to this place, because a careful killer is a successful killer.
 	Perched in the other chair, his back straight and his sallow face expressionless, was Tarquin.
 	Wolf snarled and lunged forward. I caught him by his hair, and he folded down to the floor, his knees hitting with a thump that shook the entire room. “No.” I yanked his head back, exposing his throat. “No, Wolf. He will kill you.”
 	He might very well kill us both. I met Quinn’s flat dark gaze, his jaw set and a muscle ticking in his cheek. His hair was cut military-short, as ever, and he wore boots to match mine. No spot of blood fouled his leathers. The room could have been a charnel house and still he would have been pristine. Only once had I seen him covered in blood, and screaming.
 	I shuddered to remember.
 	“I am not here to kill you.” Flat, as usual, each word with the same monotone weight.
 	Wolf surged forward. I tightened my grasp in his shaggy hair and pulled him back. Quinn watched this, and a shadow of amusement fluttered in his dark eyes.
 	“Then what?” The enormity of the treachery threatened to choke me. “He did this. Your precious White King. He gave over his own kind to mortals!”
 	“Eleni.” Tarquin’s gaze dropped to the lykanthe. “You were a Promethean, however briefly. You were a prize for him. When you left, he took it ill.”
 	“No more ill than you did?” Old hurt rose.
 	That garnered a response. His face twisted briefly. It was shocking, a break in his customary immobility. “I made you. I do not wish to see you unmade.”
 	He said it as if it would be so easy. I did not doubt that for him, it would be.
 	Then why had he not done it already? Why wait here, with the last victim but one of my vengeance dead on the crusted sheets of the narrow bed? “Why?”
 	“Because Leonidas is my King. I cannot stop him.” He paused, considering. “Not yet.”
 	Somewhere in the tenement, a baby woke. Its shrill faraway cry spiraled into an agony of need. In the street, gunfire echoed.
 	“But you will?” I did not credit my ears. His name was synonymous with loyalty, and had been for far longer than my own long lifespan.
 	He nodded once and rose, smoothly. Wolf tensed, and now Quinn looked faintly amused. “Only you would preserve a lykanthe.” One corner of his mouth pulled up, a millimeter’s worth. On him, it was as glaring as a shout.
 	I opened my mouth to tell him what he could do with his amusement, and his master. But he forestalled me.
 	“Take your dog and flee. I will tell Leonidas you are dead. Preserve what you can elsewhere, and stay away from the White Court and the Red.” He indicated the bed with a swift, economical motion, and I dragged Wolf back as if his hair were a chain. “Some day, Eleni, I will avenge all his victims. Then I will need your help.” He stopped, hands dangling loose and empty by his sides. “Do we have a bargain?”
 	I considered this. “Why should I trust you?”
 	“You are still breathing, are you not? And so is he.” This time it was a flash of disdain as he stared down at the growling lykanthe. Sooner or later my hold on Wolf would slip. Then what?
 	“Very well.” The words were ash in my mouth. “Make him suffer, Quinn. He must suffer to his last breath.”
 	“Have no doubt of that.” Quinn pointed at the bed again. “I am not merciful, Eleni. That is why you left me.”
 	“No—”
 	But he was gone. The window was open, and the cloth-tearing sound of a Kin using the speed slapped the walls. I stared at the body on the bed, the dried lumps of the lungs. Exquisite, and I could be sure Quinn had done it with no wasted motion, not a single wasted drop of blood.
 	“I left because you did not love me,” I finished, because it must be said.
 	Wolf sagged, and I realized my hand was still cramped in his hair. I let go with an effort. He caught himself on splayed hands, crouching, shaking his head as if it hurt.
 	“Bad.” He peered up at me, craning his neck. “Bad vrykolak.”
 	“Yes.” There was no reason not to agree. “Now we must leave. It’s too dangerous to stay here.”
 	But before we left, I examined the body on the bed. The face was left intact, in a mask of suffering, the eyes stretched open but clouded by death. I put my face near his hair and inhaled deeply. Underneath the mask of death, yes. The smell of male, dominance, gunfire, and a faint fading tang of smoke and petrol. It was indeed one of the mortals who had been inside my house.
 	My vengeance was—mostly—achieved. But all I felt was emptiness.

*   *   *

   	The long gray of predawn found us miles away from the city limits, in a north-facing hotel room. The Rest On Inn was cheap, but it was safer than staying in the city. Stealing a car was easy, as was changing the license plates; I had also stopped in an all-night bazaar and bought another jacket for Wolf as well as a load of groceries. Simple, high-carbohydrate and high-protein things, either easily heated or good to eat cold. The lykanthe did not demur.
 	He crouched by the door, eating cold beef stew out of a can with his fingers. I used the duct tape to fasten the cheap curtains down, the weight of approaching dawn filling my entire body with lead.
 	“Don’t open the door,” I said, again.
 	He nodded vigorously. “No housekeeping. No visitors. No no.”
 	I did not bother to take off my boots. Tomorrow we needed more money, a different car, more travel. There were other cities. They all held Prometheans, true, but Leonidas would not look for me if Tarquin said I was dead. And I had no fame among the Kin. I was merely an anonymous Preserver, working to hold back the tide of time.
 	I watched the lykanthe as he dropped the empty can in the rubbish bin and selected another one. A quick deft slice of his claws took the top off neatly. “Eleni.” He half-sang my name, happily. Just as Amelie was wont to sing as she painted. “Eleni. Pretty Eleni.”
 	I pulled up the blankets. Bleach, industrial-strength detergent, and the ghosts of mortals lived in the cloth. I arranged the flat pillows and lay on my back, hugging the red file folder to my chest. Evidence of Leonidas’s treachery. Even Prometheans were not supposed to turn on their own kind. How long had he been planning this? How many other Preservers had died, or lost their charges to this malice?
 	Did it matter? I am immortal too. I could keep this evidence for a long, long time. If there was ever a chance, I could find a way to make the viper sting the White King.
 	And Wolf? Did Leonidas have a reason to hate him as well, or was he just the victim of mortal cruelty? Where were his kin? Destroyed? Still living?
 	Did it matter? He was my ward now. One more thing to save. Perhaps I could do a better job of it now.
 	“Pretty Eleni,” he slurred. “Good vrykolak. Good Eleni.”
 	Our kind does not weep. So why were my cheeks wet? I shut my eyes and called up their faces, each printed on the darkness behind my lids.
 	Zhen. Virginia. Peter. Amelie. Vengeance did not give them a heartbeat again. It did not salve the wound.
 	Another empty can hit the pile in the bin. I breathed steadily, wishing for the unconsciousness of daysleep. The sun was a brass note hovering at the edge of my hearing, ready to climb over the horizon and scorch the earth once more.
 	The sun drew nearer, and my body became unresponsive. The bed creaked. Wolf climbed up and settled against me. The file’s heavy paper crinkled, but I freed one arm and he snuggled into my side, his head heavy on my slender iron shoulder. He made a low, happy sound.
 	I fled into darkness as the sun rose, and wept no more.