Free The Modern Fae's Guide to Surviving Humanity by Joshua Palmatier, Patricia Bray Page B

“… of course, there is a payment, but the contribution you’ll be making to science by itself is something—”
    Jenny interrupted her. “Just do it.”
    â€œWhat?” The hunter stared, her eyes too big in her thin face.
    â€œI don’t care about that.” It was hard to talk, the stench of belief in the room was so strong. “Just do whatever it is.”
    â€œYou have to sign the waiver.”
    â€œYes.” Jenny swallowed. “Whatever you say.”
    â€œAre you taking something?” The hunter’s brows drew down. “Drugs can interfere with my results. I thought I made that clear in my advert.”
    â€œNo drugs.” Jenny licked her dry lips. “It’s too hot. I don’t like that.”
    The frown remained, but the hunter slid from her stool and opened a crowded drawer. She thrust a sheaf of papers into Jenny’s hands. “You need to sign this at the bottom, and then on the next page.” She fished a pen from a pocket and handed it over. “Here.” Jenny made a mark where she was told, imitating the smears that the water made of newsprint. The hunter took the papers back without looking at them and dropped them onto one of her piles. She crossed to the metal trolley. “It’s a really simple process. You won’t feel a thing.” She turned, a wedge of cotton in her hand. “I’ll just clean up the site and then I’ll inject you.” Something cold dabbed at Jenny’s neck, just to one side of her spinal column. She fought not to flinch at the closeness of the hunter. Next, surely, would come the blood and then …
    Something darted into her neck, thin and bitter and burning hot. She tasted hunger and excitement and a violent sense of righteousness. Her eyes blurred: for an instant she was two Jennys, the one on the chair and another, an awkward earthy self filled with need and ambition. Images flashed by, men smirking as they passed, laughing behind their hands.
    And then there was only the darkness.
    The car engine woke Martin Jack, coughing to a halt scant feet from where he slept under a bench. He opened his eyes. It was maybe two hours before dawn: the orange street lamps still burned, but the windows of the houses were dark and silent. A door opened and closed with a slam, wafting that thick sense of wrongness towards him. He whimpered, pressed himself hard into the comfort of the ground beneath him. Wrong and wrong. Almost twelve hours since Jenny had gone on hermission and now this. He could smell the canal, thin and empty without the familiar green scent of her. His street people had come late and left early, huddling together over a bottle of ginger wine and half a pack of cheap cigarettes. He had wanted to follow them back into the center of the city and sleep curled against warm flesh.
    He had promised Jenny. He had promised to help. But Jenny had gone away and not come back and the waters held no trace of her. The footsteps grew louder. They were heavy and uneven, counterpointed by a thick low drag and the catch of ragged breathing. He pulled back into the darkest part of the shadows. Along the towpath came a scant figure, bent over and laboring, with something lumpy wallowing in its wake. The wrongness billowed out from it in rich waves. Martin Jack gagged, felt his body tremble. Too much belief, grown sour through frustration and need. He pulled his ears down and peered out. There was only him, now, to defend what was left.
    The figure came to a halt by the side of the canal, seven or eight feet away. Martin Jack fought back a whine that wanted to surge from his throat. The figure straightened, wriggling its shoulders and rubbing at its back, then bent again to pull at the lump at its feet. A waft of dampness rose, damping down the wrongness for a moment. Damp and green and familiar.
    Jenny?
    Slowly, unwillingly, Martin Jack began to creep forward toward the two shapes. The