The Hunter and the Hunted: Two Stories of the Otherworld by Kelley Armstrong Page A

charge—”
    “No. I don’t. I—I made a mistake.”
    “A very big mistake.” She shoved me again, the chair clattering against the wall. “And it’s not going to help your case. Since you don’t seem to like it here, let’s see if you prefer being in the drunk tank with your friend.”

Three
     
    I found Jaime curled up, shivering and pale, in a corner of the holding cell. I tried to rouse her, but she wouldn’t open her eyes. When I said I was going to call a guard, she managed to murmur, “No. Don’t . . . cause more trouble. Just give . . . minute. Food . . . poisoning.”
    I glanced around. The cell looked like . . . well, a cell. About eight by eight feet. A typical spot in a small station for holding people awaiting charges or the onset of sobriety. From the looks of it, more cells were needed. This one now had five occupants. Like Jaime, two were lying on the floor. Drunk, I guessed. At least they were quiet.
    There was one bed, currently occupied by a chick with the kind of tattoos that scream “I got this once when I was really drunk.” Except that, judging by the quantity, it was more than once. A lot more, which might suggest it was complete lack of taste rather than serial-drunken stupidity. Her blond hair was frizzled at the ends, as if she’d overused her straightening iron. She wore cutoffs with several rolls of pitted cellulite hanging out below. Her upper half hung too, tank top screaming for a bra.
    In short, she was not the sort of person I was in the mood to deal with nicely. Still I tried.
    “Hey,” I said. “My friend’s really sick. Do you think she could take the bunk?”
    “Go to hell, you skinny-assed bitch.”
    All the frustration of the last hour flared and when I grabbed her, my hands glowed white.
    The woman shrieked. “You’re burning me. You bitch, you’re—”
    I pushed her off the bed and she landed on the floor, half on top of an elderly homeless woman. I apologized to the old woman, but she seemed beyond hearing me.
    The biker chick scrambled up and charged. I raised my fists. She put out her claws, scratching and spitting and yowling. A blow to the stomach stopped her before I got my hair pulled. When she staggered back, I downed her with a kick.
    “You’re going to regret this,” she whined from the floor. “I know people.”
    “Men, you mean. Big, ugly men who ride big, ugly bikes.” I loomed above her. “Word of advice? If you’re going to trash-talk, get your ass off the bitch seat and learn to fight for yourself.”
    She whined and hissed a little more, then shut up. Beside her, the old woman straightened.
    “Did someone call a lawyer?” she asked.
    I turned to the bars. No one was there.
    “Is that your lawyer?” she said. “Can he help me? I need to get out of here.”
    I followed the old woman’s gaze to the middle of the room. Still no one.
    Jaime moaned. I hurried over and helped her to the cot. Before she lay down, she glanced at it.
    “I’m not sure I want to touch that,” she said.
    “You’re washable,” I said. “But on second thought . . .”
    I pulled off my jacket and wadded it up for a pillow, so her hair wouldn’t connect with whatever critters might be living on the mattress.
    “Thanks,” she said. “How much trouble are we in?”
    I crouched beside her. “We haven’t been charged with the bombing but . . . something’s fishy. That powder and note weren’t mine, obviously. Neither of us were processed. Neither of us have been charged. But we’re locked up.”
    “Medina works for someone,” Jaime said, her words coming slow, as if it hurt to speak. “The movement or a Cabal.”
    “I thought so, too. I called her on it, and now she’s convinced I tried to threaten her with a gang called the Cortezes.”
    “Maybe, but—”
    She stopped and cocked her head. A frown. Then she peered around the cell and at the empty hall beyond.
    “Ghost?” I said.
    “I’m . . . not sure. I thought I