Flesh Circus Read Free Page B

hissing blue sparks like the charms in my hair, and I slashed with every ounce of strength my bent-back
     left arm could come up with.
    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.
    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