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and shaking like a rabbit, chained in a small filthy room with only a mattress. I could still see the marks on his wrist from the chains if I looked closely. But after rehab and five-odd years of therapy, he was much better.
    And Marilyn was everlastingly grateful.
    I never told her that I’d almost killed Chas, I’d been trigger-happy after taking out five Traders and a little doglike demon that looked disconcertingly like a Lhasa Apso. That had been before Saul, but only by a few months.
    “Tell her I say hello back.” I settled for empty cliche politeness. “How are you, Chas?”
    “Better all the time. The usual?” The frightened-rabbit look had gone out of his eyes, and he’d stopped flinching when I moved too quickly.
    After five years, that was a blessing. “The usual, hot stuff. Don’t forget the strawberry jelly.” I made a face, and was rewarded with Saul’s slow smile. Chas bopped away, switching his cute little weightlifter ass, and Saul handed the file over the table.
    “Dammit, I hate it when you anticipate me,” I lied.
    “You’re just so transparent.” Saul’s smile widened, turned wolfish. “Rookies put you in a bad mood.”
    “I’m always in a bad mood. It’s part of my girlish charm.” I flipped the file open, turning over most of the grisly photos in the same motion. Instead, I studied other shots of the scene. “What do you think, Saul?”
    His eyes met mine. Deep, dark eyes, as veiled as a cat’s gaze, he rubbed his chin. No stubble yet; he doesn’t have the usual Were problem of being hairier than an Armenian wrestler. The red paint was crackling, drying on his cheeks. It meant the day was over.
    Thank God. I could do without days like today.
    “Has it occurred to you,” he said slowly, “that we’ve been really busy lately? You haven’t had a week off since the spring equinox and that serial-rapist guy.”
    I thought about it, staring at the photo of the wet stain left under the body, gravel showing up sharp and slick under the glare of lights, evidence markers bright yellow.
    He was right. It had been one thing after another. I hadn’t even had a pedicure in months. Of course, being a hunter means being outnumbered. Most psychics are women, but most hunters are men; they can quite frankly take more damage.
    We female hunters are a tough bunch, though.
    Still, we have large territories, and even with Were and other alliances it’s still hard work. Plenty hard, plenty dangerous, and unremitting.
    But there should have been a lull or two since spring. We were just past New Year’s, that made it almost a year since my last real break.
    The trouble was, there wasn’t anyone I’d even felt had a chance of surviving training, even if I had time to take on an apprentice or two. Saul was fast and tough, but he was a Were. There were some things a hunter dealt with that would kill him, if only because he didn’t have the breadth of knowledge I did when it came to Possessors or arkeus. Or, say, a Sorrows adept.
    Or, God forbid, a Black Mist infestation. No, Saul was great backup, the most marvelous backup in the world, but I couldn’t train him to be a hunter. Even if he’d wanted to, which wasn’t at all likely. He went with me because we were involved, not because he had any pressing need to even the scales. No mission, unless it was keeping his lover’s skin whole.
    Don’t think I’m not grateful.
    “Doesn’t look like things are calming down much lately either.” I’d call for reinforcements, but who am I going to call? Leon? He can barely keep Viejarojas under control. Anderson up north? His territory’s twice the size of mine. Anja, over the mountains? She’s got all she can handle with the Weres fighting the scurf over there. I tapped my fingers on the glassed-over tabletop.
    “I miss you.” The smile had fled. He picked up his beer, took a long draft, his throat working as he swallowed. Set it down, licked his lips. “I mean, I miss hanging out with you.