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Manny’s sunny face is suddenly a storm warning. “That woman might trust us with her child’s life, Lazarus. Nothing is too much time or trouble. You know how we’d do anything for you? Well, we have to show her that we’d do anything for this baby, too.”

Sometimes they talk to me like I’m a little kid. I hate it. And I like it.

I want a drink. “Got it. You’d better go.”

And in half an hour, they do, with lots of excited smiles and way too much luggage for just one overnight trip.

This lady better pick them. She couldn’t do any better.

And by God, no one would ever hurt that kid if I were its big brother. Not a single damn hair on his or her little soft skull would get pulled without me snapping some brat’s fingers.

I take a deep breath, shuddering it out slowly.

I make my way home to the empty mausoleum I’ve converted into my squatter’s flat, hoping there’s some decent whisky left.

Chapter Two: Victoria

I see him. Lazarus. No last name. Why would he have a last name? Dead things don’t need names.

He’s dead, hiding in a crypt in the Mountain View Cemetery, where dead things ought to be, I guess. I’m going to make him even deader.

My cell twitches in my pocket. A good assassin always has her phone on silent. I hang back a little, crouching in the cold, making sure I don’t answer until he’s inside his silly stone box of bones.

“Victoria,” I answer in a soft, solid voice.

“Do you have my parts?”

I don’t like people who rush me while I’m working, but I don’t like being sliced and diced, either. Lazarus killed Pazcuso’s first scientist-slash-sorcerer, and his replacement is eager to get the parts back so he can make a more obedient model.

“I don’t need the head. I’ve got a nice one here. One of our stupider underlings. Obedient, but too talkative. Talked to the wrong people. I think the lower IQ should work wonders.”

“No head necessary. Got it.” Like I didn’t know that. The only way to stop this thing is to take its head off or burn it to ashes. And since ashes can’t be sewn together, it has to be the other option.

“I’m about to make a move. Don’t rush me, though. Sometimes the game takes weeks.”

“Weeks??”

“Weeks,” I repeat firmly. “It’s an expensive investment. Don’t want to blow this. Also, you don’t want Pazcuso to find himself down another hitman, do you?”

“I thought you preferred the term assassin.”

“I prefer a paycheck. Terminology is all just noise to me.”

“So you don’t mind if I call you a whore or a prostitute?”

“That’s right.” He won’t rattle me. I don’t like this new man, Dr. Untermeyer. “Last year when I was still turning tricks for Bocella, I wouldn’t have cared if you called me either one.”

“I see why Pazcuso took you from him. You’re nice and cool. A good thing, since Lazarus isn’t.”

I shudder. Dr. Lazenby and Joe Pazcuso, Vince Pazcuso’s nephew and second-in-command, were torn in halves and chunks when Lazarus finally broke out of his “training room.”

“We’ve spent almost six months tracking him. Don’t blow this.”

“I’m more likely to blow it because some big blowhard won’t get off the phone,” I snap, then hang up.

Damn him. He rattled me, after all. Now all I can think about are the pictures of Lazarus’ handiwork that Vince made me look at, and the videos of the other failures Untermeyer had been trying to create to replace Lazarus. The new doctor wasn’t as skillful as his predecessor. Human-like bodies, groaning and alive, had to be “taken apart” again.

A good hitman—hitwoman, if you’re feeling PC—should never be rattled.