The blade bit deep across one bulbous compound eye. I’ve long since stopped wondering why a lot of Traders go in for the pairing of hellish beauty and bizarre body modifications. It’s almost as if they want to be Weres, but without the responsibility and decency Weres hold themselves to.

Green stuff splattered, too thick to be slime but too thin to be pudding. The Trader howled. I exploded up from the bottom of shin-deep water, the carved ruby at my throat crackling with a single bloody spark, and shot him twice. The recoil kicked almost too hard for even my helltainted strength—I’d finally gotten around to getting a custom set of guns, like most hunters do after a while, and I’d wondered since why it had taken me so long. Nine-millimeters are nice, but there’s nothing like something bigger to pop a hole in a Trader.

Some male hunters go for guns on the maxim that “bigger is better.” Female hunters generally go for accuracy of fire. I decided to go for both, since I’ve got the strength and have no complex about the size of my dick.

My pager went off in its padded pocket. I hoped it hadn’t gotten wet, ignored the buzzing, shot the Trader a third time, and flung my left hand forward. The knife flew, blue light streaking like oil along its blade, and hit with a solid tchuk! in his ribs. Even that didn’t take the pep out of him.

Kill kids in my town, will you? I blew out a short huff of rancid foulness, clearing my nose and mouth at the same time, wet warmth dribbling down from my forehead, more wet sliminess sliding down from my nostrils. My chin was slick with the stuff. Right hand blurred to holster the gun, other hand already full of knife, my feet moved independently of me and I hurled myself at him.

We collided with ribsnapping force. I feinted with my left hand and he took the bait, grabbing at my arm since the knife was heading for his face again. Stupid fucker.