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As the slayer took a step back, Mr. D bent down and sliced open the jacket of the civilian. The male was out cold and worse for the wear, looking like a limp suit in desperate need of dry cleaning. There was red blood all over his clothes, and his face was like a Rorschach test, nothing but blotches.

Fishing around for a wallet, Mr. D agreed with his subordinate up to a point, but he kept that to himself. It was hard to believe that they’d got three snatch and grabs in one night—and he was still shitting in his pants like he’d been sucking on prunes for days.

Thing was, there was no good news to share with the Omega, and he was the one whose Levi’s were on the line.

“Take this thing back to the Lowell Street house,” he said as a pale blue minivan full of backup eased down the alley. “When it comes around, let me know. I’ll see if it can tell us anything about the one we’re looking for.”

“Whatever you say, boss.” Boss was pronounced like asshole.

Mr. D considered taking his switchblade and skinning the son of a bitch where he stood. But after already offing one slayer tonight, he forced himself to sheathe the blade and put the weapon back in his coat. Thinning the herd was not a great idea right now.

“I would watch your manners, boy,” he murmured as two lessers got out of the minivan and came over to pick up the civilian.

“Why? This isn’t Texas.”

“True enough.” Mr. D froze the large muscle groups of the slayer, grabbed the fucker by the balls, and twisted those family jewels like taffy. The slayer screamed, proving that even if you were impotent, a man’s soft spot was still the best way to get his attention.

“There still ain’t no reason to be rude,” Mr. D whispered as he looked up into the guy’s scrunched face. “Din’t your mama teach you nothing?”

The reply that came back could have been anything from the Twenty-third Psalm to a blonde joke to a grocery list, for all the sense it made.

Just as Mr. D was releasing his hand, every square inch of his skin started to itch.

Great. The night just kept getting better.

“Cage that there male,” Mr. D said, “then get back out here. We ain’t done for the night.”

By the time the minivan took off, he was ready to take a sheet of sandpaper to himself. The incredible tickling itch meant the Omega wanted to see him, but where the hell could he go for an audience? He was downtown, and the closest piece of property the Lessening Society had was a good ten-minutes drive away—and considering he had no news to share, he didn’t think any kind of delay was a good call.

Mr. D jogged up Trade and checked out the blocks of abandoned buildings. In the end, he decided he couldn’t run the risk of taking an audience with the Omega in any of them. The human homeless were into everything downtown, and on a night like tonight, no doubt they’d be a-lookin’ to get out from under the storms. The last thing Mr. D needed was a human witness, even a drugged-out or drunk one, especially considering he was going to get a whuppin’.

Couple blocks farther and he came up to a construction site with a ten-foot fence all around it. He’d been watching the building go up since this past spring, with first the exoskeleton rising from the dirt, then the skin of glass wrapping the girders up, then the nervous system of wires and piping getting roughed in. The crews had stopped working at night, which meant he was pig-in-shit for what he needed.

Mr. D took a running jump, two-handed the upper lip of the fence, and vaulted his ass over the top. He hit the ground in a crouch and stayed put.

No one came at him and no dogs rushed his way, so he willed a couple of the caged lights off and scooted through the shadows toward a door that was—score—unlocked.

The building had the dry smell of Sheetrock and plaster, and he went deep into the center, his footsteps echoing around. The place was standard-issue office space, a big, open stretch that would someday soon be filled with cubes. Poor bastards. He never could have handled a desk job. For