It was my right hand he should have worried about. No gun meant I was moving in for the kill, since knifework is my forte. I’m on the tall side for a woman, but comparatively small and fast compared to ’breed and Traders.

Even without the hellbreed scar jacking me up past human and closer to the things I kill.

My right hand flicked, sudden drag of resistance against the blade, and we were almost cheek to cheek for a moment. I exhaled, inhaled, almost wished I hadn’t because the smell of a ripped gut exploded out, a foul carrion stench.

Who knew what he’d been eating down here in the drains?

I did. I had an idea, at least.

The scar pulsed wetly against my wrist, feeding hellish strength through my arm. I twisted my wrist, hard, breaking the suction of muscle against the blade. My knee came up, I shoved, and he went down in a tangle of too-thin arms and legs, twisting and jerking as death claimed him and the corruption of Hell raced through his tissues. It devours everything in its path, the bargain they make claiming the flesh and quite possibly the soul, and the body dances like a half-smashed spider.

Some hunters swear they can see the soul streaking out of the body. Even with my blue eye I can’t see it. Sometimes I’ve sensed a person leaving, but I don’t talk about it. It seems so… personal. And once you’ve gone down and seen the shifting forest of suicides bordering Hell, a lot of New Age white-light fluff palls pretty quickly.

The Trader collapsed, his compound eyes falling in, runnels of foulness greasing his cheeks. The stench took on a whole new depth. I watched until I was sure he was dead, noticing for the first time that my ribs were twitching as they healed, the bone painfully fusing itself back together. I was bleeding, and my right leg felt a little unsteady. Liquid sloshed around my shins. I took in sipping breaths, my lungs starved for oxygen but the reek, dear God, it was amazing.