Lilith Saintcrow - Hunters Prayer

Copyright 2008 by Lilith Saintcrow
Excerpt from Redemption Alley copyright 2008 by Lilith Saintcrow. All rights reserved. Except as permitted under the U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, or stored in a data base or retrieval system, without the prior written permission of the publisher.

Orbit

Hachette Book Group, USA

237 Park Avenue, New York, NY 10017

Visit our Web site at www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com.

First eBook Edition: September 2008

ISBN: 978-0-316-03986-4

Contents

The simple rules I give you will keep you safe.

The lights flicked back on, and my smile wasnt nice at all. They stared at me, dumbfounded.

I will be blunt, rookies. Youll all be required to memorize the number to call to reach my answering service, which will page me. Pray you never have to use that number. Three or four of you will have to. A few of you wont have time to, but you can rest assured that when you come up against the nightside and get slaughtered, Ill find your killer and serve justice on him, her, or it. And I will also lay your soul to rest if killing you is just the beginning.

Praise for Lilith Saintcrow:

Saintcrows true gift is her ability to take extremely flawed characters and make you care about them. With the close of this amazing series, readers can look forward to exploring new worlds with this one-of-a-kind author.

Romantic Times BOOKreviews Magazine on To Hell and Back

Saintcrows distinctive heroine is a tough, sarcastic, deadly swordswoman....

Publishers Weekly on The Devils Right Hand

BOOKS BY LILITH SAINTCROW

JILL KISMET NOVELS

Night Shift

Hunters Prayer

Redemption Alley

DANTE VALENTINE NOVELS

Working for the Devil

Dead Man Rising

The Devils Right Hand

Saint City Sinners

To Hell and Back

Dark Watcher

Storm Watcher

Fire Watcher

Cloud Watcher

The Society

Hunter, Healer

Mindhealer

For Miriam Kriss,

whose honor is impeccable.

From ghoulies and ghosties

And long-legged beasties

And things that go bump in the night,

Good Lord, deliver us...

Traditional prayer

Thou Who hast given me to fight evil, protect me;
keep me from harm. Grant me strength in
battle, honor in living, and a swift clean death
when my time comes. Cover me with Thy shield,
and with my sword may Thy righteousness
be brought to earth, to keep Thy children safe.

Let me be the defender of the weak and
the protector of the innocent, the righter of
wrongs and the giver of charity.

O my Lord God, do not forsake me when
I face Hells legions.

In Thy name and with Thy blessing,
I go forth to cleanse the night.

The Hunters Prayer

Its not the type of work you can put on a business card.

I sometimes play the game with myself, though. What would I put on a business card?

Jill Kismet, Exorcist. Maybe on nice heavy cream-colored card stock, with a good font. Not pretentious, just something tasteful. Garamond, maybe, or Book Antiqua. In bold. Or one of those old-fashioned fonts, but no frilly Edwardian script.

Of course, theres slogans to be taken into account. Jill Kismet, Dealer in Dark Things. Spiritual Exterminator. Slayer of Hells Minions.

Maybe the one Father MacKenzie labeled all females with back in grade school: Whore of Babylon. He did have a way with words, did Brimstone MacKenzie. Must have been the auld sod in him.

Then theres my personal favorite: Jill Kismet, Kickass Bitch. If I was to get a business card, that would probably be it. Not very high-class, is it?

In my line of work, high-class can cripple you.

I walked into the Monde Nuit like I owned the place. No spike heels, the combat boots were steel-toed and silver-buckled. The black leather trenchcoat flapped around my ankles.

Yeah, in my line of work, sometimes you have to look the partlike, all the time. Nobody takes you seriously if you show up in sweats.

So it was a skin-tight black T-shirt and leather pants, the chunk of carved ruby at my throat glimmering with its own brand of power, Mikhails silver ring on my left third finger and the scar on my right wrist prickle-throbbing with heat in time with the music spilling through concrete and slamming me in the ribs. With my hair loose and my eyes wide open, maybe I even looked like I belonged, here where the black-leather crowd gathered. Bright eyes, hips like seashells, fishscale chains around slim supple waistsall glittering jewelry, silken hair, and cherry lips.

The damned are beautiful, really. Or here in the Monde they always are. Ugly breed dont come in here, or even ugly Traders. The bouncers at the door take care of that.

If it wasnt for my bargain, I probably would never have seen the inside of the place shaking and throbbing with hellbreed. Even the hunter who trained me had only come here as a last resort, and never at night.

I might have come here only to burn the place down.

Nobody paid any attention to me. I stalked right up to the bar. Riverson was on duty, slinging drinks, his blind eyes filmed with gray. His head rose as I approached, and his nostrils flared. He could sense me, of course. Riverson didnt miss much; it was why he was still alive. And I burn in the ether like a star, especially with the scar on my wrist prickling, the sensation tearing up my arm, reacting to all the dark hellbreed energy throttling the air.

Plus, a practicing exorcist looks different to those with the Sight. We have sea-urchin spikes all over us, a hard disciplined wall keeping us in our bodies and everything else out.

Riversons blind, filmy gaze slid up and down me like cold jelly. Kismet. He didnt sound happy, even over the pounding swell of music. Thought I told you not to come back until he called.

I used my best, sunniest smile, stretching my lips wide. Showing my teeth, though it was probably lost on him. Sorry, baby. My right hand rested on the butt of the gun. It was maybe a nod to my reputation that the bouncers hadnt tried to stop me. Either that, or Perry expected Id show up early. I just had to drop by. Pour me a vodka, will you? This wont take long.

After all, this was a hangout for the damned, higher-class Traders and hellbreed alike. Id tracked my prey almost to the door, and with the presence of breed tainting the air it must have seemed like a tempting place to hide, a place a hunter might not follow.

Its enough to make any hunter snort with disgust. Really, they should know that there are precious few places on earth a hunter wont go when she has a serious hard-on for someone.

I turned around, put my back to the bar. Scanned the dance floor. One hand caressed the butt of the gun, sliding over the smooth metal, tapping fingers against the crosshatch of the gripblunt-ended fingers, because I bite my nails. Pale flesh writhed, the four-armed Trader deejay up on the altar suddenly backlit with blue flame, spreading his lower arms as the music kicked up another notch and the blastballs began to smash colored bits of light all over the floor.