The banefire had taken hold and was whispering to itself, a sound like children crying. I tried not to think about it as I went through the sodden pockets of whatever was left of the corpse on the floor. Luck was with me, and I found a wallet. It went in my pocket, and I half-dragged, half-floated the squishing, still sluggishly contorting body over to the burning altar. When I dumped him on it, a shower of snapping sparks went up, and I suddenly felt queasy at the thought that he was lying on top of his victims. Nothing to be done about that—I had to burn them all, or the hellbreed he’d Traded with might be able to reach out and get himself or herself a nice fresh-rotten zombie corpse or two.

Now that I had his ID I had a fighting chance of finding whatever ’breed he’d Traded with and serving justice on him, her, or it. I headed back, sliding and slipping, for the tunnels that would take me to the surface. It hadn’t been a long or particularly grueling hunt, physically. No, this one had just hurt inside.

God, I hate the kid cases. The cops agree with me. There’s no case that will drain you drier or turn you cynical faster.

It took me a good twenty minutes to retrace the route I’d tracked him along. When I finally found my entry point—a set of metal rungs leading up to an open manhole, welcome sunlight pouring down and picking out bits of rust on each step—I looked up, and a familiar shadow moved at the top.

“Hello, kitten,” Saul called down. I started climbing, testing each rung—that’s the price of greater strength and endurance, a muscle-heavy ass. And I hadn’t precisely climbed through, just dropped into the manhole after my quarry, hoping I didn’t hit anything on the way down.

I wish that wasn’t so much business as usual.

“Hey,” I called. “How’s everything up in the daylight, catkin?”

“Quiet as a mouse.” He laughed, and it sounded so good I almost hurried up. Exhaustion dragged against my shoulders. “Smells like you had a good time.”