"Animals?" Sullivan's pale face twisted up. The short buzz of his coppery, receding hair glittered again as he hunched his shoulders. "Shit."

"Sorry." And I was.

"Well, you didn't kill 'em." He stuffed his hands in his pockets. "Should we go over Piper's scenes too?"

I nodded. Saul moved briefly behind me, a restless movement utterly unlike him. "Please do. Oh, and see if you can dig up who this house actually belongs to. I'd like a legal name, DOB, everything." I don't know nearly enough about Zamba. That's going to change.

"That means you have a hunch." The Badger nodded. "Don't worry, I won't ask-I know I don't want to know. I'll page you as soon as we have something."

And bless her thoroughgoing little heart, she would have the full report from chowder to cashews-or as close to it as it was humanly possible to get. "Good deal. Thanks." I eased past both of them-the Badger stood stolidly and Sullivan flinched back. He covered it well, though, turning to look down at the garden.

"Huh," he said. "Go figure."

"What?" I glanced down at the belt of jungle greenery, uncomfortably reminded of Lorelei's backyard.

"Plants are dying. Looks like someone did a lot of work on the yard, though. You'd think, a place like this, they wouldn't have stopped watering before they died. Or are the bodies old?"

"Not too old." Especially the ones that were trying to kill me about half an hour ago. But they didn't need me to lay that little thought in their heads. "See you."

Sullivan sighed. "See you, Jill. Try not to trip over any more dead 'uns tonight."

"Shut up, Sully. It's our job." The Badger sounded long-suffering, as usual, and she herded him inside the house.

What a pair.

Saul drifted beside me as I made my way down the cracked, zigzagging walk. "Car's this way."

I nodded, let him take the lead. Sullivan was right, the garden was just in the first stages of dying. Plants were drooping, but not browned and crispy yet.

I stopped, turned, and looked back at the house, its windows blazing with golden light now. A hose was coiled up next to the porch's listing sneer.

Hellebore. Feverfew. Foxglove. Wormwood. Mugwort. Bindweed. American ginseng under a rigged-up canvas canopy. Some succulents, but not many, and the rest of the plants were useful, in one way or another, to a rogue herbalist or kitchen witch.

Or a voodoo queen.

The zombies were relatively fresh. So were the bodies. Rigor mortis doesn't last that long. Bellies were distended on the goats downstairs, but that happens... I'd need an autopsy to be reasonably sure of time of death.

But the garden, though. Things wilt fast out here in the desert, but if things were normal out here at Mama Zamba's-if normal could be the word applied to the biggest wheel in the voodoo community in my town-the garden should be in tiptop shape for a little while after she was dead.

So what had kept her so busy her garden didn't get watered? She had people to do it for her.

But those people were dead.

The zombies were too juicy and the human bodies were too fresh. It just didn't add up. Unless the reigning queen of the voodoo scene had had something more than gardens on her mind lately-and on the minds of her followers.

Her newly dead followers.

"What are you thinking?" Saul finally asked as I stood staring at Zamba's garden like I was hypnotized.

"I don't quite know yet," I admitted. "It's more and more likely Zamba's involved instead of a victim. I think we should get some breakfast, since dawn's coming up."

"And then?"

I tested the hypothesis in my head. I just didn't know enough to see if it explained everything. "And then we're going to visit Galina again. If she hasn't gone through her diaries yet, I'll wait while she does. I've got a theory, but I can't figure one thing out."

"That one thing would be?"

"Why a voodoo queen has it in for the Cirque. You'd think if she hated hellbreed she'd find some closer to home to murder."

17.

Micky's on Mayfair was just the same as it always is around dawn-almost deserted, clean as a whistle, and staffed with Weres. Some of the waistaff are humans, true, but the greater percentage including the owner are from the Santa Luz prides, packs, and flights.

Amalia, a lioness of the Norte Luz pride, greeted us at the door. "Jill, nice to see you. Dustcircle." She nodded, and Saul nodded back. "A table? Or is it business?"

I must have looked grim, and realized I was dirty and disheveled. They do usually see me in this state, but I'd been thinking so hard even my nose had shut off.

"A table," Saul said as I cast around vainly for something to wipe off with. "Does Theron have any towels lying around?"

"I'll check." She grinned, her broad, high-cheekboned face lighting up. I suddenly felt even more dirty and mucky, snuck a peek at Saul. He was just the same as ever, his essential difference shining out from under weariness and zombie muck, and I felt myself deflate like a punctured balloon. It wasn't fair. They're so much better than we could ever be, the Weres.

No wonder humans hunted them, during the bad old days of the Inquisition. The only thing humans hate more than ugliness is actual beauty.

Theron, a lean dark Werepanther, actually came out from the bar to greet us, wiping his hands on a white cloth that had seen much, much better days in the bleach bucket. His long fingers danced with it, refolding it so the holes didn't show. "Hey, Saul. Glad to see you back."

"Theron." Saul gave him an answering grin. "How's bartending?"

"Good work if you can get it." Theron's dark gaze flicked past to me, and his forehead furrowed. "Jill."

"Hey. Sorry, I smell. Got a spare towel?" As usual, I sounded more truculent than I really was. They were just so pretty. Amalia's face was flawless, not a pore in sight, and neither of the two males would ever lack for female attention.

It made me wonder what the hell Saul was doing with me. Not for the first time, and a question I was mulling over more and more lately.

"You bet." But Theron stayed where he was, looking first at Saul, then curiously at me, the line deepening. "Um..."

"She's hungry." Saul folded his arms, and a hint of gravel poured through the bottom of the words.

It was so unlike him my jaw threatened to drop. But Theron just shrugged, Amalia tipped me a wink and a salute, and both of them disappeared, leaving us to seat ourselves.

"What was that?" I poked him on the shoulder when he didn't respond. "Saul?"

He gave me a single dark glance, hitched one shoulder up, and dropped it. I sighed and considered folding my arms, but Saul set off for our regular booth along the back wall and Theron showed up again, carrying a stack of damp washcloths.

"Here you go." The Werepanther gave me a meaningful look. I raised my eyebrows, my hands full of warm, sopping wet cloth. "You guys want a beer?"

"Might as well." I wiggled my eyebrows and pointed my chin at Saul's retreating back. What's up with him? Help me out here.

Theron just looked confused, a blush sliding along his high-arched cheekbones. His dark hair fell across his forehead, curls and waves damp with sweat. It looked like Micky's had seen a heavy night; he was just cleaning up before dawn.

The liquor laws in Santa Luz kind of don't apply to the nonhumans. Hellbreed and Trader bars go the same way, only they rollick far harder than any place the Weres run.

In both senses of the word. Harder, dirtier, and far, far fouler.

"What's wrong?" I mouthed, wishing my eyebrows would go up higher and that my face could communicate the complexity of the question I wanted to ask.

Theron spread his hands helplessly, spun on the balls of his feet, and set off for the hall running alongside the kitchen. It actually looked like he was retreating.

What the hell is going on here? The washcloths-they were bar towels, soaked and smelling of bleach and fresh laundry-dripped in my hands, rapidly cooling. Nobody was likely to give an answer. I heard one of the cooks in the depths of the kitchen off to my right swear, and the hiss of something hitting the grill.

Yeah, sometimes when you go into Micky's around dawn, you get what the cooks think you should eat instead of anything on the menu. It's always good, and you should never look a Were's gift in the mouth, so to speak.

I shook my head, silver clicking in my hair, and headed for the girls' room. I'd probably feel better about all this once I was a little cleaner.

Then again, I thought, clutching the washrags, maybe I won't.

Saul slid the file across the table at me and tucked into his fried-eggs-and-ham. I took a long pull off a bottle of microbrew Theron had slung on the table and eyed the steak-and-eggs combo, hash browns cremated the way I like them, extra bacon, and toast slathered with butter. It probably had enough calories in it to keep me fueled through a long night of chasing evil. I wondered if it would fuel my brain enough for me to figure out the pattern behind the murders.

Once I started eating, I realized how hungry I was. This led to a good quarter-hour spent in silence, just the clinking of forks on plates and an occasional slurp. I finished my beer and another arrived. So did more toast. Amalia simply plunked down a fresh plate of it and raised an eyebrow-about the closest she'd get to telling me I'd better eat it all.

Weres. It's only one of the ways they show they care.

I cut a strip of steak, sliced it up, and was grateful it wasn't rare. Now that the first edge of hunger was past I could slow down and enjoy the taste. There had to have been at least five eggs on the plate.

Fighting off the undead and Hell's citizens all night does work up a girl's appetite. Sorcery can only do so much, and I wasn't as young as I used to be. I used to be able to go for days without eating, running from one thing to the next, writing checks my body cashed without complaining too much.

Not anymore.

Go figure.

I finally looked up from my plate to find Saul chewing slowly, watching me. His eyes were dark and fathomless.

I swallowed a mouthful of steak, glad Micky's was empty. My skin twitched under the sensory overload from the unveiled scar, every noise and photon amped up exponentially. "Hi," I said finally. "Good to see you."

A small smile lifted the corner of his chiseled mouth. "Hi, kitten. Nice to see you, too."

Is it? Or are you just saying that? "This is looking like a huge problem."

"Isn't it always." But his tone was reflective and amused, faintly sarcastic. "You think it's connected?" One lifted eyebrow could have meant that he agreed, or that he wanted to give me a chance to get my thoughts in order.

I ticked them off on my fingers. "Those bugs. Each with a red spot. The green smoke. Voodoo practitioners dead, zombies everywhere, possessed people that shouldn't be, one of them ending up as a zombie, and Zamba missing. The Cirque's hostage attacked, and another Cirque performer dead. Both Zamba and Lorelei had something cooking on their stoves..."

"If it looks like a duck, swims like a duck, quacks like a duck-"

"-it's certainly not a zebra," I finished. "So, they're more than likely connected, all these things. I just don't know how yet." I forked up another load of eggs. "What possible connection could the Cirque have with any voodoo practitioner?"

"I don't know."

I took another long swallow of beer. It went down nice and easy. Wrestling zombies gives you a powerful thirst. "Voodoo and hellbreed don't tangle. It's just one of those things."

"They must mix sometimes," he pointed out practically.

I shook my head. Silver shifted and chimed, and some of my curls were stiff with gunk. "The loa are jealous, and hellspawn don't like anything interfering with their games either."

"What about..."

I watched him, fork paused in midair, but he merely shrugged.

"No," he finally amended. "I got nothing."

"And then there's this." I yanked the plastic-shrouded straight razor out of my pocket, laid it on the table. Next out was the enamel cup.

Put together, they looked shoddy. The straight razor crouched in its swaddling, and the cup's chipped sides reflected fluorescent light.

"A razor? And a cup." He set his fork down. "Huh."

"Yeah. My instincts are all tingling, but I don't know what they're saying."

"Tingling instincts?" He might have looked bland and interested, except for the wicked twinkle in his eyes. "I hear they have creams for that."

A chuckle caught me off-guard. "They're not burning. Just tingling. Anyway, and then there's zombies. It takes work and effort to create one with voodoo. Now all of a sudden they're crawling around everywhere-and the Twins are taking an active interest in everything."

It was a huge pileup of events. The more I sat back and considered, the more it seemed like one thing.

"What?" Saul speared a piece of fried ham. "You look like you just thought of something."

"I did." I applied myself to clearing my plate, but I also hooked the file a little closer and flipped it open. There might not be anything in it, but it was best to check.

"Well?" He didn't quite fidget, but he did shift on his side of the table, his long legs stretched out until his boot-toe touched my calf.

"Nothing solid yet, catkin. Let me think." I scanned the file, flipping past Xeroxed pages and paperwork filled in with Avery's neat scrawl. Lucky boy, our first victim, Mr. Ricardo. A green card and everything. Avery, bless his little heart, had even pulled the application for me. I'd bet anything Juan Rujillo, our local FBI contact, had facilitated that little search as a favor. Dear old Juan, a joy to work with. Not like the last Feeb we had.

Hmm. That's interesting.

Ricardo even had a sponsor. The little click of a puzzle piece sliding home sounded in the middle of my head, and I took a long draft of beer. "Hey, Saul. Guess what? Ricardo had a green card."

"Mmmh." He had a full mouth. He was busy slathering even more green Tabasco on the remainder of his ham. "Mmmmh?"

"Guess who his sponsor was."

"Mrph?" He jabbed at his plate and shrugged.