Roadkill by Rob Thurman

were either too stupid or too lazy to get jobs unless it was for the Kin, and the only meal that really turned them on was human, so they would find a deserted place to take over and congregate. There were probably about twenty places like that scattered around the city. I’d been to only two in the past and that had been enough. No matter where they were, above or below, you could bet on one thing: They would be rank. Revenants were all about slaughter and nice, ripe gobbets of flesh, but hygiene? They weren’t lining up for deodorant, that was for damn sure.
    But this time I wasn’t going down into the sewers. I’d had my share of those on a previous case and trying to track down revenants there by stench was a losing battle. Natural versus supernatural stink—I wasn’t that good. I was still going to get wet, though, which is why when I knocked at Robin’s door, I was surprised he was holding a cat carrier. I’d called him to see if he was up for a hunting trip and he’d been oddly enthusiastic. Now I saw why.
    “Um . . . ,” I said, hesitating as eyes made up of what looked like yellow candlelight peered at me through the metal bars. “Why? Cats don’t like water. I don’t think mummy cats would be much different.” In addition to the eyes, there was a mouthful of fangs that showed when she grinned—and she always grinned.
    Robin had managed to get the equivalent of “followed home” by a mummified cat during our last . . . “adventure” wasn’t the right word. More like our last FUBAR. Whatever you called it, it didn’t matter. What did matter was that shaking a mummy cat off your trail was a lot harder than shaking off a normal feline.
    “Look, kid, I didn’t say I’d go with you for this little interrogation/extermination project simply because the car lot offices are being painted. The Hair Club for Cats here needs some exercise. She’s getting antsy and you remember what happened last time she got antsy. She arranged some playtime on her own.”
    She—Salome—had gotten out of Goodfellow’s condo, killed a neighbor’s old, senile Great Dane that was using the hall for exercise, and then left the carcass on Robin’s pillow as a present like a good little mummified kitty. Mummy cats didn’t eat, but they did like to play the same as live cats. And if no neighbors had any big-ass dogs left to play with, she might decide the neighbor himself would do just fine.
    A hairless paw, with perfectly normal-looking claws that obviously weren’t, came through the bars, followed by a dry-as-dust mrrrrp. “There, there. Who’s a good kitty?” I said, taking a step back. I didn’t pull a gun, though. In my eyes that gave me balls of steel. In Salome’s eyes, steel would just make them all the easier to roll across the condo floor.
    “You love her, don’t you, Goodfellow?” I said, taking another step back. “Admit it. She’s your pookie bear.”
    “She’s a boil on the cheek of my finely toned ass,” he grumbled, but he let the paw hook around his finger. Robin, from what we knew, was hundreds of thousands of years old . . . if not older. Friends came and went quickly from his perspective, especially human ones, but mummy cats—who knew how long they could live? Wahanket, the mummy who’d made her, was older than the pyramids. She could hang around for a long while. When friends were mayflies in comparison to you, a mummy cat wasn’t necessarily a bad thing. “So, I’m in my casual clothes.” By that he meant his non-Armani slacks, shirt, and long duster, which was good for concealing swords. It was when he concealed his sword without a duster that I started worrying. “Where are we going hunting?”
    I grinned. “How do you feel about nature hikes? Wetlands? Save the yellow spotted leech?”
    From the spitting of Greek curses an hour later as we splashed through the calf-high muddy water, surrounded by a cloud of mosquitoes, he thought about the same of it as I did. It